The Friend Charged
Toward Us Until We Began To Think He Meant Battle, Stopped,
Thought A Moment, And Then, Followed By His Companion, Trotted
Slowly Across Our Bows About Eighty Yards Away, While We
Continued Our Long Range Practice At The Lions Over Their Backs.
In this we were not winning many cigars.
F. had a 280-calibre
rifle shooting the Ross cartridge through the much advertised
grooveless oval bore. It was little accurate beyond a hundred
yards. Memba Sasa had thrust the 405 into my hand, knowing it for
the "lion gun," and kept just out of reach with the long-range
Springfield. I had no time to argue the matter with him. The 405
has a trajectory like a rainbow at that distance, and I was
guessing at it, and not making very good guesses either. B. had
his Springfield and made closer practice, finally hitting a leg
of one of the beasts. We saw him lift his paw and shake it, but
he did not move lamely afterward, so the damage was probably
confined to a simple scrape. It was a good shot anyway. Then they
disappeared over the top of the hill.
We walked forward, regretting rhinos. Thirty yards ahead of me
came a thunderous and roaring growl, and a magnificent old lion
reared his head from a low bush. He evidently intended mischief,
for I could see his tail switching. However, B. had killed only
one lion and I wanted very much to give him the shot.
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