The lion, instead of charging straight and fast, was picking an
easy way.
We tore directly up hill as fast as we were able, leaping from rock to
rock, and thrusting recklessly through the tangle. About half-way up I
jumped to the top of a high, conical rock, and thence by good luck
caught sight of the lion's great yellow head advancing steadily about
eighty yards away. I took as good a sight as I could and pulled trigger.
The recoil knocked me clear off the boulder, but as I fell I saw his
tail go up and knew that I had hit. At once Clifford Hill and I jumped
up on the rock again, but the lion had moved out of sight. By this time,
however, the sound of the shots and the smell of blood had caused the
dogs to close in. They did not, of course, attempt to attack the lion,
nor even to get very near him, but their snarling and barking showed us
the beast's whereabouts. Even this much is bad judgment on their part,
as a number of them have been killed at it. The thicket burst into an
unholy row.
We all manoeuvred rapidly for position. Again luck was with me, for
again I saw his great head, the mane standing out all around it; and
for the second time I planted a heavy bullet square in his chest. This
stopped his advance; he lay down. His head was up and his eyes glared,
as he uttered the most reverberating and magnificent roars and growls.
The dogs leapt and barked around him.
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