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"A shenzi has killed Mavrouki with a spear," the man answered her question. She stood for some time watching the torches. Then she saw Kingozi himself take his place by the pile of loads. "Fall in!" he commanded sharply. She returned to her tent. "Here!" she addressed the crouching Nubian. "It is as I said. You have been a fool. You have killed a porter by mistake.
We sent Kongoni into camp for help, and ourselves proceeded to build up the usual fire for signal and for protection against wild beasts. Then we sat down to enjoy the evening, while Mavrouki skinned the kudu. We looked abroad over a wide stretch of country.
He waited a full minute. "Mavrouki wore a khaki coat. He and I were the only people of all the safari who had khaki coats. That is why in the darkness you mistook Mavrouki for me. That is why you killed Mavrouki." He said this in a firm voice, as though making an indisputable statement. The buzz of low-voiced comment increased. This time he did not pause.
Mavrouki, a rifle in each hand, came worming his way toward me through the grass with incredible quickness and agility. A moment later he thrust the 405 Winchester into my hand. This weapon, powerful and accurate as it is, the best of the lot for lions, was altogether too small for the tremendous brute before me.
Memba Sasa and Mavrouki were to go in one direction, while C., Kongoni and I took the other. Before we started I remarked that I was offering two rupees for the capture of a roan. We had not gone ten minutes when Kongoni turned his head cautiously and grinned back at us. "My rupees," said he. A fine buck roan stood motionless beneath a tree in the valley below us.
In this manner I shortly determined that chances were small here, and made up my mind to move down to the edge of the bench where the Narossara makes its plunge. Before doing so, however, I hunted for and killed a very large eland bull reported by Mavrouki. This beast was not only one of the largest I ever saw, but was in especially fine coat.
Once I suggested that as the work was dangerous, they could quit if they wanted to. "Hapana!" they both refused indignantly. We had proceeded thus for half a mile when to our relief, right ahead of us, sounded the commanding, rumbling half-roar, half-growl of the lion at bay. Instantly Memba Sasa and Mavrouki dropped back to me. We all peered ahead.
All we found were two rhino, some sing-sing, a heard of impalla, and a tremendous thirst. In the meantime, Mavrouki had, under orders, scouted the foothills of the mountain range at the back. He reported none but old tracks of kudu, but said he had seen eight lions not far from our encounter of the day before.
The only method is to sift constantly, and trust to luck. One cannot catch fish with the fly in the book, but one has at least a chance if one keeps it on the water. Mavrouki was the only one among us who had the living faith that comes from having seen the animal in the flesh. That is a curious bit of hunter psychology.
But by this time we had talked things over thoroughly. The lure of the greater kudu was regaining the strength it had lost by a long series of disappointments. We had not time left for both a thorough investigation of the forests and a raid in the dry hills of the west after kudu. Mavrouki said he knew of a place where that animal ranged. So we had come to a decision.
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