knew he was never in danger from me. D’you know that the Rifle Brigade are made to hold targets for one another to shoot at? You can be sure that a man who refused to stand target in his turn, as they say, would be dismissed the regiment as a lily-livered coward. At four hundred yards I have put four out of six bullets within eighteen inches of the same bulls-eye with no one holding it. I could find no one who would dare to at that range, not even in the Brigade. I myself have stood target twice at such a range because I knew my man with the gun. I did it for a bet. Which I am happy to say I won.”
He paused, raised the long-barrelled weapon to his shoulder, lining up the front and rear sights. Even then, when most men would have given all their attention to their aim, he kept up his running commentary.
“This is nothing. I have often driven a nail into timber with a single shot at this range. There’s no trick to it. Try it, some of you young fellows. Watch me. Raise the gun to the shoulder, hold it level. Do not grip it. View your target between the sights. You young men, imagine the V-shape rear sight as a pair of young lady’s legs, open and waiting.”
There was a snigger from one of the top-hatted men beside him as he continued.
“Now, keep the elbow level and as straight as you can. Just touch the trigger with the forefinger alone or else have nothing to do with such a weapon. A pop-gun and a cork would suit you better. Use only sufficient force to discharge the rifle. Do not grip it or grab it. Treat it as you would a woman. Let it be your coy mistress.”
Before they could laugh obediently again, he had fired. I caught the metallic impact of the bullet hitting the bull’s-eye above the painted castle gate. There was an excited outbreak of clapping from several of the watching men and women. It died away as he turned to them. I could see him well enough now, through a gap between the canvas and the timber of the booth’s frame.
“Nimrod the mighty Hunter,” called out a female admirer beside him, clapping excitedly.
He gestured at his chosen prize, a cheap brass ring, and the barker put it on the counter for him. He looked at the woman who had clapped.
“Hunting, my lady, is a serious matter about which I know a thing or two. Beware of it. You cannot always kill your beast with the first shot, however good your aim. Not if the creature is one of great strength. To hunt the elephant, let us say, is a supreme experience and a test of nerve.”
Someone asked a question which I did not quite catch but Moran replied.
“Indeed I have, sir, times without number. Most memorably a fine bull elephant, in Africa with a Dickson rifle. These mammoths are slow to move but powerful and dangerous to anyone who does not know what he is doing. Use the dogs at first to rush past them and distract their attention. I fired from the saddle on one occasion and got a big bull elephant behind his shoulder. At first, he did not seem to realise what had happened.”
There was an obsequious giggling from one or two of the others and Moran continued.
“Oddly enough, it seemed to lame him. He made no attempt to draw away but walked rather awkwardly into the trees. Then he turned to face me. Just looking at me. He had a fine big head. So I unsaddled and fired several times at his massive skull, while he just stood and looked at me, d’you see? The shots seemed to make no impact except that each time a bullet hit him in the head, he bowed it just like a ‘salaam’ and then tried to touch his wound with his trunk. Then he turned away, unsteady but not falling. I let him have six shots behind the shoulder and still he stood there. In the end it took a Dutch six-pounder to knock him over.”
I listened with revulsion to this man’s account of his coldblooded murder of a noble creature. But he had not yet finished. He imitated a curious voice, a whining lamentation in mockery of the creature he had put to death.
“As he stood there, large tears formed in his eyes, which he