We found that actually we had just missed
stepping on her tail!
The cub we caught a glimpse of. He was about the size of a setter
dog. We tried hard to find him, but failed. The lioness was an
unusually large one, probably about as big as the female ever
grows, measuring nine feet six inches in length, and three feet
eight inches tail at the shoulder.
Billy had her funny times housekeeping. The kitchen department
never quite ceased marvelling at her. Whenever she went to the
cook-camp to deliver her orders she was surrounded by an
attentive and respectful audience. One day, after holding forth
for some time in Swahili, she found that she had been standing
hobnailed on one of the boy's feet.
"Why, Mahomet!" she cried. "That must hurt you! Why didn't you
tell me?"
"Memsahib," he smiled politely, "I think perhaps you move some
time!"
On another occasion she was trying to tell the cook, through
Mahomet as interpreter, that she wanted a tough old buffalo steak
pounded, boarding-house style. This evidently puzzled all hands.
They turned to in an earnest discussion of what it was all about,
anyway. Billy understood Swahili well enough at that time to
gather that they could not understand the Memsahib's wanting the
meat "kibokoed"-FLOGGED. Was it a religious rite, or a piece of
revenge? They gave it up.
"All right," said Mahomet patiently at last. "He say he do it.
WHICH ONE IS IT?"
Part of our supplies comprised tins of dehydrated fruit. One
evening Billy decided to have a grand celebration, so she passed
out a tin marked "rhubarb" and some cornstarch, together with
suitable instructions for a fruit pudding. In a little while the
cook returned.
"Nataka m'tund-I want fruit," said he.
Billy pointed out, severely, that he already had fruit. He went
away shaking his head. Evening and the pudding came. It looked
good, and we congratulated Billy on her culinary enterprise.
Being hungry, we took big mouthfuls. There followed splutterings
and investigations. The rhubarb can proved to be an old one
containing heavy gun grease!
When finally we parted with our faithful cook we bought him a
really wonderful many bladed knife as a present. On seeing it he
slumped to the ground-six feet of lofty dignity-and began to
weep violently, rocking back and forth in an excess of grief.
"Why, what is it?" we inquired, alarmed.
"Oh, Memsahib!" he wailed, the tears coursing down his cheeks, "I
wanted a watch!"
One morning about nine o'clock we were riding along at the edge of
a grass-grown savannah, with a low hill to our right and another
about four hundred yards ahead. Suddenly two rhinoceroses came to
their feet some fifty yards to our left out in the high grass,
and stood looking uncertainly in our direction.
"Look out! Rhinos!" I warned instantly.
"Why-why!" gasped Billy in an astonished tone of voice, "they
have manes!"
In some concern for her sanity I glanced in her direction. She
was staring, not to her left, but straight ahead. I followed the
direction of her gaze, to see three lions moving across the face
of the hill.
Instantly we dropped off our horses. We wanted a shot at those
lions very much indeed, but were hampered in our efforts by the
two rhinoceroses, now stamping, snorting, and moving slowly in
our direction. The language we muttered was racy, but we dropped
to a kneeling position and opened fire on the disappearing lions.
It was most distinctly a case of divided attention, one eye on
those menacing rhinos, and one trying to attend to the always
delicate operation of aligning sights and signalling from a
rather distracted brain just when to pull the trigger. Our
faithful gunbearers crouched by us, the heavy guns ready.
One rhino seemed either peaceable or stupid. He showed no
inclination either to attack or to depart, but was willing to
back whatever play his friend might decide on. 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. Therefore,
I held the front sight on the middle of his chest, and uttered a
fervent wish to myself that B. would hurry up. In about ten
seconds the muzzle of his rifle poked over my shoulder, so I
resigned the job.
At B.'s shot the lion fell over, but was immediately up and
trying to get at us.
