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Updated: May 22, 2025
"I'd better wait till the Colonel comes along," he explained. "The Colonel don't carry any weapons." Loveless stopped with him, and, as Ulyate was somewhere behind with the ox-wagons and porters, this left Kearton, Gobbet, and myself to ride on by ourselves.
"Colonel's watchin' him. Loveless stopped halfway here, about three miles off. Colonel sent me to bring the rest of you and get the heavy rope." "Is that right, Means?" Kearton asked sharply. "Sure." "Come on, then."
But a lioness's neck is short and thick, and with a quick, catlike twist she slipped the noose over her ears. "Why can't they wait?" complained Kearton. "Somebody tell them to wait till I fix this. It's jammed. It must have got knocked on a rock somewhere. It never acted this way before." And all the while he talked his fingers were busy ripping out the jammed piece of film and loading up afresh.
When, after a while, it became evident that we should never agree in the matter, the conversation altered to a sort of spasmodic affair. "I thought this district was so full of big game that you couldn't sleep at night for the lions roaring around you," Gobbet remarked lazily. "Wait till you get among them," said Kearton. "Sais, keep that horse farther away; he'll be walking on us next."
So the beast, whatever it was, had come to have a look at us in the night. For the first time then, as they swung back for the rocks, we faintly heard a hound give tongue. It was the only sound in the stillness. Kearton began tearing up the dry grass that grew in the cracks between the rocks, and piled it in a heap. "Not yet," said Ulyate; "wait till we're sure."
For a mile or more the road lifted and dipped with monotonous regularity, and the burnt land was still on either hand, without a sign of life anywhere to be seen. So when the sun really began to decline toward the west, Gobbet, who had once been assistant manager of the Alhambra Music Hall in Brighton, told the story of Harry Lauder and the liquid air biscuits, and it seemed to do Kearton good.
Instinct did it all. My own observation of the wild creatures has revealed nothing so near to human thought and reflection as is seen in the cases of the collie and pointer dogs above referred to. The nearest to them of anything I can now recall is an incident related by an English writer, Mr. Kearton. In one of his books, Mr.
But little by little it became apparent that the rhino's continual charging was beginning to produce an effect. In the meanwhile the rest of the chase was coming up. In the distance we could see them hurrying down the valley horsemen and porters considerably scattered, as if each one followed a route of his own choosing Kearton led on his big chestnut.
Finally he was brought to a standstill, his feet spread apart as before, and for a while the two stood facing each other the cowboy and the towering giraffe, with the rope from the saddle horn leading up at a considerable angle to the shoulders of the prize. The rest of the hunt soon gathered about them. Although the light was rapidly failing, Kearton finished what was left of his roll of film.
On the plateau the ground was covered with rugged lava blocks, and the scrub and creepers were so dense that when Kearton shouted Ulyate's name the white hunter answered from not more than ten yards away. "It's a lioness," said Ulyate. "The dogs have got her bayed. Look out! She's just on the other side of that bush.
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