"To him, Nero! To him, Nelson! Push him up, Ponto!" cried Mr. Blakeney, in his strong, clear voice. The dogs, encouraged at the sound, renewed their attack.
"Push him out, boys!" again cried their master heartily. "Have at him, Nero!"
Nero, a huge, brindled cross-bred, half mastiff, half greyhound, with a touch of bull--a true Boer mongrel, picked up in the Transvaal--plunges into the fray again, well backed by the rest of the pack. The lion can stand the baiting no longer, and, creeping noiselessly through the covert, suddenly appears within thirty paces of where Mr. Blakeney stands ready for him. Seeing his adversary, the brute, his mouth and face still darkly smeared with the blood of his victim, bares his teeth, puts his head down, growls savagely, and, lashing his tail a few times from side to side, takes two or three stealthy strides right out into the open. Then suddenly he elevates his tail, straight and rigid as a poker. Mr. Blakeney knows the danger signal well; his nerves are like iron; he is as steady as if he were shooting at a francolin. Already he is down on one knee, the better to get his shot. Tom stands staunchly at his flank, ready with the second rifle. Taking swift aim, Mr. Blakeney pulls the trigger; the heavy .500 bullet strikes the man-eater full in the chest, and, raking the body and tearing through heart and lungs, instantly finishes its career. The brute falls to the shot, and after a convulsive struggle or two rolls over dead. Never again will he slay the shuddering Berg Damaras, or murder a harmless boy.
Tom's hat went flying up into the air.
"Hurrah!" he cried, in his high, cheery voice. "Well shot, pater! We've killed the brute, and avenged poor Peter. Hurrah!"
Guy came bursting round the corner of the covert, and, seeing the triumph, added two more "hurrahs" to Tom's exultant shouts.
There, in truth, lay the murderous brute, and the poor, innocent wild boy was avenged. He was a huge, dark-maned lion, fat and in high condition, and in the very prime of his strength. Poeskop and Jan now came running up, full of joy and congratulations.
"Ah, baas! that is a great lion," said the Bushman. "I never saw a bigger or a heavier. Look at his forepaws. Why, he could kill an ox as easily as I could kill a chicken. The Berg Damaras up yonder may well be glad. Two lions killed last night, and this old mannetje this morning. They will sleep in peace for a long time to come."
While Jan Kokerboom set to work to skin the lion, Poeskop, by Mr. Blakeney's directions, made his way into the thicket to see if he could discover any further remains of the unfortunate Peter. Meanwhile, a number of the Berg Damaras, guided by the rifle shot, had made their way down to the spot. Their delight on discovering, not only that the man-eater had been slain that morning, but that a lion and lioness had also been killed during the night, was very great. Something of their load of depression seemed lifted from their spirits. They even began to smile, a thing none of the English party had observed during the previous day. As to the death of their kinsman, the unfortunate Peter, they seemed not in the least affected; but, as Mr. Blakeney pointed out to the boys, wandering tribesfolk, such as Bushmen and Berg Damaras and the like, lead such precarious lives, and are so often confronted by death, danger, and starvation, that they become callous and indifferent to suffering, whether it affects themselves or others.
Poeskop presently returned. Beyond a few bones and a piece or two of flesh, he had found no further traces of the boy. The lion had devoured him. They returned to camp, leaving the Berg Damaras to deal as they pleased with the now flayed carcass of the dead lion. With this and the flesh of the other two lions the poor wretches seemed highly delighted. The hearts of these beasts, the headman explained, when they had eaten them, would give them courage, and the rest of the flesh and fat would be useful to them. Returning up the valley, Guy shot a fine waterbuck bull. After taking the horns and skin, this also was handed over to the tribes-people, who were now well provided with meat. The flesh of the waterbuck is coarse and unpleasant, and not at all palatable to Europeans; and as the hunters had plenty of meat at their camp, the Berg Damaras were welcome to this fresh food supply. On reaching camp Tom took a spade, and, with Guy, went out to bury the poor remains of Peter, the wild boy--the head and the severed arm. Tom returned from his task sorrowful enough, and was depressed and quiet for the rest of the day.