WE have killed our first lion with the bow and arrow!
For the past week great herds of wildebeest have been swarming into the country and their migratory progression reminds one of the mighty multitude of bison that roamed the prairies of America fifty years ago.
The lions have followed these animals, making their kills. Every night we have heard the unmelodious blat of these awkward wildebeest, these gnu, with their large solemn heads, their long straight manes, their white beards, their bodies tapering abruptly to the tail, their stiff-legged though swift gallop, these comedy cows.
Restless and ever on the move, they had invaded our territory from some dry region, coming by tens of thousands, and attended by a horde of grewsome camp followers: lions, hyenas, jackals, and vultures.
It is a strange thing in this country of incessant murder, that there is not a carcass, a dried skin, not a hoof nor a bone left bleaching on the veldt. One never sees the sad remains; they simply don't remain.
On some of our hunts here, where we have left the skinned body of a beast, we have returned in half an hour to find nothing there. A slinking hyena and a hundred stupid gorged vultures hang about and have a satisfied look, that's all!
So with the coming of the wildebeest the lions have greatly increased in number, and we have taken advantage of the time to add to our experience in the hunting of these dangerous cats. We have had frustrated encounters with a number up to date and are gathering knowledge of their ways.
To give some idea of the nature of these great cats, let me digress a moment to relate our experience in photographing two other lions. One of these was a fretful female. We approached her within a distance of forty yards, when just as we snapped the camera, and with no further provocation, she instantly charged and came at us with stifled grunts and long bounding leaps. In the wink of an eye she was upon us and was only crumpled and stopped at the deafening explosion of two heavy rifles. Her quivering body lay five paces from us, her intent to kill in every twitching muscle.
The second specimen was a beautiful black-maned lion, at whom we shot a few unsuccessful arrows, one or two of which wounded him slightly, as he crouched at bay. We wished to take a picture of him.
He was a surly old lord of the jungle and had recently been defeated in a family fight. No sooner did we get him in photographic range than he let out a roar that shook the heavens and charged our group. As he came on he lunged and pounded the ground like a race horse, each impact of his massive feet accompanied by a sonorous cough. White and Simson opened fire on him as he galloped toward us, but failed to bring him down.
Straight for Simson he leaped. Two guns fired again and the slug from Simson's second barrel struck him in the face as he rose in air before us. He was knocked end over end, turned a full somersault and landed ten feet beyond our party as we dodged his mighty fall.
That's close enough! That's how they come!
The range necessary for photography, from forty to eighty yards, is practically the same as that used in archery.
It must be remembered that no man has hunted lions with the bow and arrow since the days of the Assyrian kings several thousand years ago, so we did not know what the outcome of such an adventure would be.