09 Lion Adventure (4 page)

The lion got there first. Excited by Hal’s sudden movement, he struck out with his paw, knocking over the chair and spinning the revolver to the back of the tent.

Then he chose Roger, perhaps because he looked more tender than his tough older brother, or because he was in the full light of the torch while Hal was in the shadow.

There was plenty of action crowded into the next few seconds. The lion clawed at the covers. Roger locked them under his body so they could not be torn off. The lion’s jaws opened within indies of his face. The big black nose almost touched his own.

If the lion could bite, so could he. He sank his teeth into the lion’s nose. At the same instant, Hal was pulling the animal’s tail. This was a favourite Masai trick. The two tenderest parts of a lion are the nose and the tail.

Roger looked for some weapon. There was nothing -nothing but a few groceries on a shelf above his cot. Desperate, he grabbed a half-used box of pancake flour and dashed the contents into the lion’s eyes.

The animal looked like a comedian that has just been plastered with a custard pie. Roger would have laughed, if this had been a moment for laughing.

This lion had probably fought many battles but he had never before been attacked with pancake flour. Surprised and blinded, he roared his disapproval. He tore loose from the nose-hold and tail-hold and plunged but of the tent. He took with him what could have been Roger’s body but was actually only a fat pillow. It had the smell of a human, but when he tore it apart and found no flesh and bones he again roared in bitter disappointment.

Hal jumped for his gun. ‘That beast is going to kill somebody as soon as he gets the flour out of his eyes. He’s rarin’ mad.’

Hal found his revolver and tossed another to Roger. Revolvers were better than rifles for a close-range job like this one.

In pyjamas and bare feet, they burst out of the tent. The torch revealed the scattered fragments of the pillow. But there was no lion.

A scream came from the next tent. Hal turned his torch upon it in time to see the lion rush out dragging the struggling body of a man. His entire head was locked between the animal’s jaws.

Wrestling with his victim, the lion paid no attention to Hal and Roger. They fired. The light was poor. But they did see the lion fall.

Men who had been roused by the beast’s roars and the screams of his victim poured from the other tents.

Some carried torches, others waved pangas, the long heavy knives that are used to cut brush or kill enemies. They found Hal on the ground bending over the man’s bloody body with his ear against the chest. He rose slowly and spoke. Since the British had so long ruled Kenya these black workers knew enough English to understand Hal when he said simply, ‘He’s gone.’ They looked at the lion, its face still white. ‘You see,’ said one. ‘Ghost… devil… it pretends to be dead … these lions that kill us … you cannot kill them.’

Hal walked over to the lion and wiped some of the white from its face. ‘No ghost,’ he said. ‘Just a lion - and very dead.’ There was a job to be done - a body to be buried. He played bis torch over the ground, looking for the lion’s victim. It had disappeared. ‘Where is it?’ he demanded. A man answered, Tt all right - you no worry.’ ‘Did you bury it?’ ‘We take care. You never mind.’ ‘l want to know - are you going to dig a grave?’ ‘Grave too much hard work. We railway men. We

work much all day. No spend night digging grave’.’

‘Then what did you do?’

‘Him over there,’ pointing to some bushes.

‘Don’t you know that’s the worst thing you can do?’ Hal said.

He strode over to the bushes. An angry snarl greeted him. The body was half hidden under the head and shoulders of a large lioness. Beside the lioness was a little cub, its paws up on the dead man’s chest.

It was the same old story over again. The mother was giving her cub his first lesson in man-eating.

The lioness looked up, growled, and braced herself for a spring. She had two reasons to be annoyed. She had been disturbed before she could begin her dinner. And she feared for the safety of her cub.

The railway men, armed only with pangas, scattered like leaves before a storm and left Hal and Roger alone to face the queen of beasts.

What should they do? To kill a female with cubs was against all the rules of sportsmanship. And yet, if this old lady were not done away with no railway worker would be safe.

Hal did not have to decide. The lioness decided for him. Flexing her muscles to turn them into steel springs, she left the ground and the great bulk of her came flying through the air straight for Hal’s throat.

He dodged, tripped over a root, and fell flat in the bushes.

The lioness was on him in a flash, tearing at his pyjamas.

Roger danced around, trying to get in a shot, but fearing he would hit his brother-instead of the beast. He tore off his pyjama coat and clamped it against the animal’s eyes. The lioness backed up to free herself of the blindfold, then turned her attention to Roger. Her sledgehammer paw struck him on the hip, spilling him into the grass, but in the split second before he fell his bullet caught her between the eyes.

Hearing the shot, some men came running and saw a spectacle that amused them no end. The two bold hunters were both on the ground, one on top of the other, and on top of both was a dead lioness.

They helped disentangle the heap of hunters and hunted and got the boys on their feet. Now there were more scratches to be attended to, deeper ones than before. The boys wobbled towards their tent. Hal turned his flashlight on the spot where Black Mane had fallen. There was no lion - only some blood and pancake flour on the grass. Hunters had told Hal that it sometimes takes a dozen shots to kill a lion. He began to believe it.

The hunters collapsed on their cots. Hal reached to the shelf above him and got the sulphonamide powder. He rose wearily and rubbed the powder deep into his brother’s cuts. Roger did the same for him, and in doing so he stumbled over an object on the ground. He turned the light on it. It was the cub.

The little beast, too young to know a friend from an enemy, had left its dead protector to follow the living. It miaowed in quite cat-like fashion when Roger’s foot touched it. Roger took it up in his arms.

‘Poor little brat,’ he said. ‘Sorry we had to bop off your mama.’

‘Don’t start getting sentimental over that thing,’ Hal warned. ‘We may have to knock him off.’

‘You wouldn’t do that.’

‘Oh yes I would - if he’s had enough lessons so he’s on his way to becoming a man-eater.’

‘Can’t we test him? You have a nice bloody hand -put it under his nose and see what he does about it.’

The cub stretched his head forward, sniffed at the hand and seemed about to lick the blood. Then he turned his head away and miaowed again.

‘You see?’ Roger said triumphantly. ‘He’s no man-eater. He’d rather have milk.’

‘He’s not starving,’ Hal said. ‘His mother probably gave him a drink a little while ago. Tie him up and leave him here for a spell. We have a job to do.’

They came out into the first light of dawn.

Most of the men had retired to their tents. A few still stood around, pangas in hand, discussing the exciting events of the night and warily watching for another man-eater.

‘Do any of you know,’ Hal said, ‘where the man came from - the man who was killed?’

‘Yes,’ said one. ‘From Gula.’

‘Is it far?’

‘No. Only ten minutes.’

‘Then why hasn’t anyone gone to tell his family?’

The men stared at Hal as if he had said something ridiculous. Then they laughed. The roar of a lion came from the woods. ‘That’s why,’ someone said.

Hal had to admit it was a good reason. Who could be expected to go walking down a forest trail at the risk of meeting a man-eater around any turn?

He spoke to the man who knew the way to Gula. ‘We have guns - we will go with you.’

The man reluctantly agreed. They set out for the village of Gula. It was still dark in the woods and Hal played his torch on the path.

Occasionally they heard the voice of a lion - but it was an after-dinner roar - not the before-dinner grunt of a hungry lion.

‘Sounds as if they’ve already eaten,’ Hal said. ‘We’re safe enough.’

Roger hoped so, but he kept a nervous look-out. It was a relief when the path left the woods and climbed a low hill to a dozen mud-and-thatch huts.

A woman was out gathering firewood. Hal’s guide asked her, ‘Where is the home of Basa?’

‘Over yonder. Why! Is there bad news?’

‘Basa has been killed by a lion.’

The woman dropped her wood, ran screaming to the hut of Basa and beat on the door.

The door opened to reveal a tall, powerful-looking young African of about Hal’s own age. In a corner a woman bent over a fire burning on the earthen floor. Two small children stopped their play and stared at the strangers.

You could tell when a young man had been to school. This one had. Hal addressed him in English.

‘You are the son of Basa?’

‘I am.’

‘We have very sad news for you. Your father has been attacked by a lion.’

‘You mean - he is dead?’

‘He is dead. You will come?’

The son of Basa turned and spoke to his mother in the tribal language. She slowly rose to her feet and stood looking at him as if paralysed. She said nothing.

The men left the hut. They were halfway down the hill before they heard the wailing cry of the widow of Basa. It was not a pleasant sound and they hurried on.

As they went, Hal introduced himself and his brother. He got no friendly response from young Basa.

‘I know who you are,’ said the young African. ‘You were brought here to stop the killing of men. You have not stopped it. You allowed my father to be killed.’

Hal tried to explain. ‘We did what we could. The lion came first into our tent.’

‘So you had a chance to shoot it. Why didn’t you shoot it?’

‘It knocked our revolver out of reach.’

Young Basa snorted. ‘That is a poor excuse. Your gun should be always with you.’

‘You are right,’ admitted Hal. He was beginning to feel very guilty about the whole thing.

‘Then what?’ demanded Basa.

‘The lion attacked my brother. He blinded it with flour.’

‘And you—’ said Basa. ‘Why weren’t you getting your gun while this was going on?’

Hal didn’t like being quizzed by this angry young man, but he kept his temper.

‘It all happened so fast. The lion grabbed a pillow and ran out.’

‘So you had a good chance to get your guns.’

‘We got them and jumped out. The lion was already dragging your father out of the next tent.’

‘I have heard you,’ snapped Basa. ‘It is as if you had murdered him. I should kill you now. But that must wait until my father is in his grave.’

Poor fellow, thought Hal, he’s upset. That’s what makes him so unreasonable.

But while he tried to put the blame on young Basa. he was painfully aware that he and his brother had bungled this thing very badly. Great hunters, they were! Couldn’t even pot a cat when it walked in and asked to be killed. He felt a burning sense of shame.

And a certain fear, for he knew Basa’s words were not just words. It was a tradition of this land that a son must not rest until he had avenged the death of his father.

Hal seemed to be collecting enemies instead of friends. Now he had to watch four ways. He needed eyes on four sides of his head - a pair to look for man-eaters, another pair for King Ku who appeared to have some sort of grudge against him, a pair for Tanga who was under Ku’s orders, and a pair that really should be focused night and day on angry young Basa.

No, not four pairs, but five. There must be one more enemy. Who had loosened the flaps of the tent so the lion could enter? He was sure they had been firmly tied before they went to bed.

The flaps of the next tent were also loose - but that was because the lion’s roars had brought a man from that tent to join the rest who came out to see what all the roaring was about. Then the lion had plunged in to seize Basa’s father.

But that didn’t explain why Hal’s tent flaps were open. A lion could not untie knots - then who had done this, and why?

Young Basa strode into the camp of the railway men and stood looking down upon his father.

His black face seemed to become even blacker with grief and anger.

Then he picked up the body, slung it over his powerful young shoulders, and, without a word to anyone, went off up the trail to his village.

The men were having their breakfast around open-air fires. Soon they would be going to work on the tracks. Hal’s eye wandered over them and he wondered sadly which one of them would be taken today.

Then, far down the campground beyond all the black workers he thought he saw a white face. Who could that be? Hal decided he would go down and say hello. He liked the Africans well enough but it would be pleasant to talk with someone of his own kind.

He looked around for Roger but that young man had gone to the tent to take care of his cub.

Hal strolled down through the campground. The stranger saw him coming and walked off rapidly along the tracks.

Hal stopped short. It was plain that the fellow didn’t want to see him.

Now Hal’s curiosity was really aroused. Perhaps the station master could tell him about the new arrival.

In the station he found Tanga already at his desk, a cup of tea at his elbow.

‘I see we have a white visitor/ Hal said. ‘Caught a glimpse of him in the camp.’

‘Yes,’ said Tanga. ‘He came in yesterday on the afternoon train.’

‘Who is he?’

‘A white hunter. His name is Dugan.’

‘What does he want here?’

Tanga shifted in his chair. ‘I don’t think that concerns you.’

‘But I think it does. If a man won’t stand and talk to me, that concerns me. What does he have against me?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, Mr Hunt … you took his job.’

‘How in the world did I do that? I don’t even know the fellow. I never saw him before in my life.’