Judging by the way in which the birds were acting, coming near, and then retiring, and taking into consideration the fact that they had not ventured to the kill, it was likely that the lion was now lying close to the meat, watching it, until the internal arrangements permitted of eating some more. This is a very usual thing with the big cats. Was it nice to be in this durr grass with a lion, even a fed-up one?
We decided to hurry back to camp and try and get out some of the men before the light gave in, to build us a “machan” over the dead antelope, in which we should keep watch and ward all night in the hope of bagging the lion as he returned to his kill. Our first idea was that one of us—to be decided by tossing up—should remain in the jungly place to see that time was not taken by the forelock by his majesty. But, debating the point, we thought it was going to be a trifle lonely for the one left behind, with night, and possibly a lion, coming on.
We made our way out as quickly as possible, and careering back to camp as though all the fiends were after us, brought Clarence and four of the hunters with axes and hangols to the place where the koodoo had been. Had been! For there it was not when we returned. The dragging of the bushes and the crushed grass showed us the way. There at some two hundred yards off was all that now remained of the lesser koodoo.
A flash of sinuous yellow. A cry of “Libbah! Libbah!” from the left-hand hunter. The durr grass waved, and a fine lioness bounded high and sank again. Crack! from Cecily’s rifle. She must have been in better place than I was for a shot. I should have annihilated one of the men had I blazed away. Crack! again. And then I saw what the redoubtable Cecily was firing at. Another animal altogether! A massive lion, with an almost black mane and more cumbersome in the front than any other of his genus I had ever seen. All lions fall away very much behind, but I really think this one must have been malformed. However, we never saw him again, so the point had, perforce, to remain unsettled. As the lion streaked off, evidently not inconvenienced by Cecily’s bombardment, his mate made a successful effort to follow his lead. Flat, and low to earth, snake-like, she crossed the only bare patch of clearing to the right of me. Still my line of fire was blocked by a hunter who put himself in my way every time as if by design, and had not the sense to drop and give me a chance. Still, there was Clarence on the extreme right, armed with a 12-bore. The lioness would have to run the gauntlet of his fire. “Mâro! Mâro!” (Shoot! Shoot!) I cried to him in an agony of nervous Hindostanee.
The imperturbable Clarence did nothing, and let the yellow one pass him. Cecily was not now so placed that she could get in a successful shot. Two lions, and both gone! No koodoo left to attract anything save hyaenas and jackals. When I asked our shikari why on earth he had let slip so wonderful a chance he was quite calm and said: “Mem-sahib shoot dar lion. I no shoot dar lion.” Evidently he meant to be very magnanimous and refrain from poaching on our preserves in the laudable desire to see we got our money’s worth.
It was now getting dusk, and ominous dark corners told us night had cast her mantle athwart the trees. I ordered a hunter to cut off the head of the maltreated lesser koodoo, for the sake of the horns, a very easily acquired trophy, but one very well worth having. The head was not eaten at all, for as I have explained it is the habit of lions to begin at the other end.
Then we tried to get out of the place. We took some tosses over thorn and bramble, and disturbed the guinea fowl as they settled to roost in rows on the branches. I upset the equilibrium of a hornbill and his wife, who flapped and croaked their annoyance at me. Before we were clear of the oasis, night had settled down in inky blackness, and then Clarence led us by the hand. I believe he saw in the dark like a cat. He brought us safe and sound to the sandy waste that rimmed the green garden, and once there camp was easily reached.