Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [184]
“I was fifteen when we joined the dance. Just missed all that fun.”
“Bully for you, as the limeys would say. You can shoot, I bet. Everybody here either has money or can shoot. Or both. No offense, but I don’t have you pegged for a man of means. Nah, you remind me of some of the boys in my crew. Hard-bitten. A hell-raiser.”
“I’ve done well enough, in fact.”
“He’s the real great white hunter,” Mr. Williams said. “One of those fellers who shoots lions and elephants on the Dark Continent. Fortunes to be won in the ivory trade. That right, Mr. Honey?”
“Yeah. I was over there for a while.”
“Huh, I suppose you have that look about you,” Mr. Briggs said. “You led safaris?”
“I worked for the Dutch.”
“Leave it be,” Mr. Williams said. “The man’s not a natural braggart.”
“Where did you learn to hunt?” Mr. McEvoy said.
“My cousins. They all lived in the hills in Utah. One of them was a sniper during the war.” Luke Honey spat tobacco into the leaves. “When my mother died, I went to live with my uncle and his family, and those folks have lots of kin in South Africa. After college I got a case of wanderlust. One thing led to another.”
“Damned peculiar upbringing. College even.”
“What kid doesn’t dream of stalking the savanna?” Mr. Briggs said. “You must have a hundred and one tales.”
“Surely, after that kind of experience, this trip must be rather tame,” Mr. McEvoy said.
“Hear, hear,” Mr. Briggs said. “Give up the ivory trade for a not-so-likely chance to bag some old stag in dull-as-dirt U.S.A.?”
“Ten thousand sterling silver buys a lot of wine and song, amigos,” Mr. Williams said. “Besides, who says the kid’s quit anything?”
“Well, sir, I am shut of the business.”
“Why is that?” Mr. Briggs said.
Luke Honey wiped his mouth. “One fine day I was standing on a plain with the hottest sun you can imagine beating down. Me and some other men had set up a cross fire and plugged maybe thirty elephants from this enormous herd. The skinners got to work with their machetes and axes. Meanwhile, I got roaring drunk with the rest of the men. A newspaper flew in a photographer on a biplane. The photographer posed us next to a pile of tusks. The tusks were stacked like cordwood and there was blood and flies everywhere. I threw up during one of the pictures. The heat and the whiskey, I thought. They put me in a tent for a couple of days while a fever fastened to me. I ranted and raved, and they had to lash me down. You see, I thought the devil was hiding under my cot, that he was waiting to claim my soul. I dreamt my dear dead mother came and stood at the entrance of the tent. She had soft, magnificent wings folded against her back. White light surrounded her. The light was brilliant. Her face was dark and her eyes were fiery. She spat on the ground and the tent flaps flew shut and I was left alone in utter darkness. The company got me to a village where there was a real doctor who gave me quinine and I didn’t quite die.”
“Are you saying you quit the safaris because your mother might disapprove from her cloud in heaven?” Mr. Briggs said.
“Nope. I’m more worried she might be disapproving from an ice floe in hell.”
IN THE AFTERNOON, Lord Bullard shot a medium buck that was cornered by Scobie’s mastiff pack. Luke Honey and Mr. Williams reined in at a remove from the action. The killing went swiftly. The buck had been severely mauled prior to their arrival. Mr. Wesley dismounted and cut the animal’s throat while the dogs sniffed around and pissed on the bushes.
“Not quite as glorious as ye olden days, eh?” Mr. Williams said. He took a manly gulp of whiskey from his flask and passed it to Luke Honey.
Luke Honey drank, relishing the dark fire coursing over his bloody teeth. “German nobles still use spears to hunt boars.”
“I wager more than one of those ol’ boys gets his manhood torn off on occasion.”
“It happens.” Luke Honey slapped his right thigh. “When I was younger and stupider, I was gored. Hit the bone. Luckily the boar was heart shot—stone dead when it stuck me so