They rode on down the river, and into the area where the lions had been roaring during the night. Every mile or two Leon shot whatever large mammal offered itself: giraffe, rhino or buffalo. By sunset they had laid down, over a stretch of ten miles, a string of highly attractive lion bait.
That night they were again deprived of a full night’s sleep by the roaring and counter-roaring of the two antagonists. At one time the older lion was so close to where they lay that the ground trembled under their blanket rolls with the imperious power of his voice, but this time there was no answer from his challenger.
‘The young lion has found one of our baits.’ Manyoro interpreted his silence. ‘He is feeding on it.’
‘I thought lions never ate carrion,’ said Kermit.
‘Don’t you believe it. They’re as lazy as domestic tabbies. They’ll eat a hand-out for preference, never mind how stinking rotten it may be. They only go to the trouble of making their own kills when all else fails.’
Two hours after midnight the old lion had stopped roaring, and the darkness was still.
‘Now he’s found a bait for himself,’ Manyoro observed. ‘We’ll have them both tomorrow.’
‘How many lions am I allowed on my licence?’ Kermit asked.
‘Enough to satisfy even you,’ Leon told him. ‘Lions are vermin in British East Africa. You may shoot all you wish.’
‘Good! I want both these big guys. I want to take them home to show my father.’
‘So do I,’ Leon agreed fervently. ‘So do I.’
As soon as it was light enough for the trackers to read the sign, they started back along the chain of bait. Leon and Kermit wore heavy jackets, for the morning was chilly, and perfumed like a fine Chablis.
The first three baits they visited were untouched, although the vultures brooded dark, hunch-backed and morose as undertakers in the treetops around them. When they came to the fourth, Leon halted a few hundred yards from it and, with the binoculars, carefully glassed the pile of branches that covered it.
‘You’re wasting time, pal. There ain’t nothing there,’ Kermit told him.
‘On the contrary,’ Leon said softly, without lowering the glasses.
‘What do you mean?’ Kermit’s interest quickened.
‘I mean there’s a big male lion right there.’
‘No!’ Kermit protested. ‘I don’t see a damned thing.’
‘Here.’ Leon handed him the glasses. ‘Use these.’
Kermit focused the lenses and stared through them for a minute. ‘I still don’t see a lion.’
‘Look where the branches have been pulled open. You can see the striped haunches of the zebra in the gap . . .’
‘Yeah! I’ve got that.’
‘Now look just over the top of the zebra. Do you see two small dark lumps on the far side?’
‘Yup, but that’s not a lion.’
‘Those are the tops of his ears. He’s lying flat behind the zebra watching us.’
‘My God! You’re right! I saw an ear flick,’ he exclaimed. ‘Which lion is it? The young or the old one?’
Leon conferred quickly with Manyoro, Loikot interjecting his own learned opinions every few sentences. At last he turned back to Kermit. ‘Take a deep breath, chum. I have news for you. It’s the big one. Manyoro calls him the lion of all lions.’
‘What do we do now? Do we ride him down?’
‘No, we walk him up.’ Leon was already swinging down from the saddle and drawing the big Holland from its boot. He opened the action, drew the brass cartridges from the breeches and exchanged them for a fresh pair from his bandolier. Kermit followed his example with the little Lee-Enfield. The syces came forward and took the reins of their mounts and led them to the rear, then laid down their waterbags, and squatted to take a little snuff. Soon they jumped up, hefted their lion spears and stabbed the air with bloodthirsty grunts, prancing high with each thrust of the long bright blades, priming themselves for battle.
As soon as all the hunters were ready, Leon gave Kermit his instructions. ‘You’ll take the lead. I’ll be three paces behind you so I don’t block your field of fire. Walk slowly and steadily, but not directly towards him. Make it seem that you’re going to pass about twenty paces on his right. Don’t look directly at him. Keep your eyes on the ground ahead of you. If you stare at him you’ll spook him into running or charging prematurely. At about fifty paces he’ll give you a warning growl. You’ll see his tail start to thrash. Don’t stop and don’t hurry. Keep walking. At about thirty paces he’ll stand up and confront you head-on. At this point an average lion will either run or charge. This one is different. Sparring with the young pretender has put him in a belligerent, reckless mood. His blood is up. He’ll charge. He’ll give you three or four seconds, then come. You must hit him before he starts to move or before you can blink he’ll be doing forty miles an hour straight at you. When I call the shot, take him just under the chin in the centre of his chest. These cats are soft. Even the .303 will put him down. However, you must keep shooting as long as he’s on his feet.’
‘You’re not going to fire, are you?’
