"_Nyama Yangu! Nyama Yangu!_" he murmured. That was Simba's name for the
light rifle that did most of the shooting. The words meant simply "my
meat." Simba had a name for everything from the sheath knife of his office
to the white man himself. Indeed Culbertson in the Central countries was
Culbertson to none. Should you inquire for news of him by that name news
you could not obtain; but of Bwana Kingozi you might learn from many
tribes and peoples.

But now the safari, topping the hill, swept down with a rapid fire of
safari sticks against the loads and a chorus whose single word was
"_n'yama!_"

Simba was already at the carcass, _Kisu M'kubwa_, his thin-bladed knife,
in his hand. The men eased their loads to the ground, and stood about with
eagerly gleaming eyes, as would well-trained dogs in like circumstances.
Simba briefly indicated the three nearest to act as his assistants. The
wildebeeste was rapidly skinned and as rapidly dismembered, the meat laid
aside. Only once did the white man speak or manifest the slightest
interest.

"_Sarrara indani yangu_--the tenderloin is mine."

The wizened little headman with the umbrella and the _kiboko_, who
answered to the name of Cazi Moto, stepped forward and took charge of the
indicated delicacy. Soon all was ready for a resumption of the march.
Nothing was left of the wildebeeste save the head and the veriest offal.
The stomach and intestines, even, had been emptied of their contents and
packed away in the hide.