The following morning Hennie behaved as though the conversation had not taken place. After they had breakfasted on coffee and the remains of the cold tongue, they climbed into the heavily laden trucks. The trackers and skinners sat on the bloody buffalo joints. Kermit cajoled Leon into letting him drive one truck and Hennie followed in the second.
Once again Kermit’s mood was gay and carefree. Leon found him a pleasant companion. They had so much in common. They were both passionate about horses, motor-cars and hunting and had much to talk about. Although Kermit did not elaborate, he hinted that he had a father who was rich and powerful and dominated his life.
‘My father was just the same,’ Leon told him.
‘So what did you do?’
‘I said, “I respect you, Dad, but I cannot live under your rules.” Then I left home and joined the army. That was four years ago. I haven’t been back since.’
‘Son of a gun! That must have taken some guts. I often wish I could do that, but I know I never will.’
Leon found that the better he came to know Kermit the more he liked him. What the hell? he thought. He shoots like a crazy maniac, but no one’s perfect. During the conversation he discovered that Kermit was a keen naturalist and ornithologist. He would be if he’s at the Smithsonian, Leon reasoned, and told Kermit to stop the truck whenever he spotted some interesting insect, bird or small animal to show him. Hennie kept going and disappeared into the distance ahead.
They were not far from the spot where Kermit had left his horse the previous day, only a few miles from the presidential camp, when suddenly and unexpectedly two white men stepped out of the bush into the track in front of them. They were dressed in safari clothing but neither carried a rifle. However, one was armed with a large camera and tripod.
‘Damn it to hell! The gentlemen of the fourth estate,’ Kermit muttered. ‘Just can’t get away from them.’ He braked to a halt. ‘I guess we just have to be nice and polite to them or they’ll cook our goose for us.’
The tallest of the two strangers hurried to the driver’s side. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he smiled ingratiatingly. ‘May I trespass on your good nature and ask you a few questions? Are you connected to President Roosevelt’s safari, by any chance?’
‘Mr Andrew Fagan of the Associated Press, I presume, to paraphrase the deathless words of Dr David Livingstone.’ Kermit pushed his hat back and returned his smile.
The journalist recoiled in astonishment, then peered more closely at him. ‘Mr Roosevelt Junior!’ he exclaimed. ‘Please forgive me. I didn’t recognize you in that get-up.’ He was staring at Kermit’s filthy, blood-stained clothing.
‘Mr Who Junior?’ Leon demanded.
Kermit looked embarrassed, but Fagan hastened to reply. ‘Don’t you know who you’re riding with? This is Mr Kermit Roosevelt, the son of the President of the United States.’
Leon turned accusingly to his new friend. ‘You didn’t tell me!’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘You might have mentioned it,’ Leon insisted.
‘It would have changed things between us. It always does.’
‘Who is this young friend of yours, Mr Roosevelt?’ Andrew Fagan asked, and whipped his notepad out of his back pocket.
‘This is my hunter, Mr Leon Courtney.’
‘He looks very young,’ Fagan observed dubiously.
‘You don’t have to grow a long grey beard to be one of the greatest hunters in Africa,’ Kermit told him.
‘. . . greatest hunters in Africa!’ Fagan scribbled shorthand on his pad. ‘How do you spell your name, Mr Courtney? With one e or two?’
‘Just one.’ Leon felt uncomfortable and glared at Kermit. ‘Now see what you’ve got me into.’
‘I guess you’ve been out hunting.’ Fagan pointed at the head of the bull buffalo in the back of the truck. ‘Who shot that creature?’
‘Mr Roosevelt did.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a Cape buffalo, Syncerus caffer.’
‘My God, it’s huge! Can we have some photographs, please, Mr Roosevelt?’
‘Only if you give us a couple of copies. One for Leon and one for me.’
‘Of course. Bring your guns. Let’s have one of you on each side of the horns.’ The photographer set up his tripod and arranged the pose. Kermit looked composed and debonair, Leon as though he was facing a firing squad. The flash powder exploded in a cloud of smoke, much to the consternation of the skinners and camp staff.
‘Okay! Great! Now can we have that tribesman in the red robe in the picture? Tell him to hold his spear higher. Like this. What is he? Some kind of chief?’
‘He’s the king of the Masai.’
‘No kidding! Tell him to look fierce.’
‘This mad fool thinks you’re dressed like a woman,’ Leon told Manyoro in Maa, and he scowled murderously at the photographer.
‘Great! God, that’s so great!’
It was another half an hour before they were able to drive on.
‘Does that happen all the time?’ Leon asked.
‘You get used to it. You have to be nice to them or they write all sorts of garbage about you.’
‘I still think you should have told me that your father was the ruddy President.’
‘Can we hunt together again? They’ve given me an old fellow called Mellow as my hunter. He lectures me as though I’m a schoolboy, and tries to stop me shooting.’
Leon thought about it. ‘In two days’ time the main camp is moving on up to the Ewaso Ng’iro river. I have to ferry the tents and heavy equipment up there ahead of it. But I’d like to hunt again with you if my boss gives me a chance. You’re not a bad fellow, despite your lowly antecedents.’
‘Who’s your boss?’
‘An old gentleman called Percy Phillips, though you’d better not call him old to his face.’
‘I know him. He often dines with my father and Mr Selous. I’ll do what I can. I don’t think I can take much more of Mr Mellow.’