Crack went a bone once more, as the noise of the piece died out, showing that the lion had ceased to pay attention to the report.
And now Dyke fired again, and backed right into the house, startled by the result, for this time his bullet had evidently told—the lion uttering a savage, snarling roar, which was followed by a crash, as if caused by the monster leaping against one of the fences in an effort to escape.
Then once more all was still. The tearing and rending had ceased, and though the boy listened patiently for quite an hour, no animal returned to the savage banquet.
At last, tired out, Dyke closed and secured the door, to sit down and wait for day, no disposition to sleep troubling him through the rest of the night. Once or twice he struck a match to hold it near his brother’s face, but only to find him lying sleeping peacefully, the reports of the gun having had no effect whatever; while as the light flashed up, Dyke caught a glimpse of the dog crouching at the door, with head low, watching and listening for the approach of a foe.
But no enemy came, and at the first flush of dawn Dyke opened the door cautiously, to look out and see one of the cows, all torn and bloody, lying half-a-dozen yards from its shed; and just within the first fence, where a gap had been broken through, crouched a full-grown lioness, apparently gathering itself up for a spring.
Chapter Twenty Three.
Daylight.
Dyke’s first movement was back into the house, and to put up the bar across the closed door, his heart beating violently; his next, to watch the little window, and stand there with his double gun, ready to send a couple of shots at the brute’s muzzle, when it tried to get in, as he felt sure that it would.