Meanwhile we hid behind a rock, with our guns in position.
We had not long to wait. First there was a ripple on the pool, then a monster brownish-yellow head was protruded, with paws near it paddling lightly as if for support. The face was whiskered, and the eyes looked extremely fierce. The beast looked cautiously round first, then it eyed the shivering lamb, and at once made for the bank.
When near its intended victim, it stopped as if about to spring, moving its long moustache rapidly fore and aft, as a cat does.
Three rifles rang out sharp and clear in the wintry air. Next moment the huge beast had turned on its back, and its death struggle was a brief one.
This was Jeeka’s Gol de Rio. He certainly merited the title; a more repulsive specimen of river otter I have never seen, before nor since.
We dragged him home with a lasso, and the Indian women and children ran screaming to their toldos when they saw him.
I was told afterwards that this river-lion had more than once seized children who were playing on the banks of the stream, and I can easily believe it.
Do horses, I have often wondered, possess any instinct to warn them of coming danger? The following adventure would seem to prove that they do.
One bright clear morning, Jill and I made up our minds to ride over to the lake in the plains and bring home, if possible, some birds. We took with us Ossian and Bruce. There was not a cloud in the sky when we set out, and all the surface of the ground was covered with hard dry snow. Unlike Patagonian Indians, white men cannot go very long without food; so Jill and I took a good solid luncheon in our bags, quite enough for ourselves and the dogs also. We had a snack behind our saddles also, so that I might say no huntsmen ever started in quest of sport under happier auspices.