OH, SHOOT! 



the going was steep and treacherous, and we 

 made more noise than three wooden-legged 

 painters on a piazza roof. Probably the furi- 

 ous barking of the dogs drowned the sounds of 

 our approach, for the lioness held her stand. 



She was in a thick, low-spreading cedar, and 

 three of the dogs were in the tree with her. 

 It would have made a good picture, but here 

 again it would have taken an X-ray to pene- 

 trate the cover. Governor, a wicked, white- 

 eyed Siberian wolfhound, had worked his way 

 up to where he could almost nip the cougar's 

 feet, while Tub and Fanny, a young matron 

 who had left a family of nursing children in 

 camp, urged him to be game and do so. 



"You got to kill her cold, the first shot, or 

 she'll get every dog in the pack," Ambrose 

 whispered. 



It was pretty close work, for the animal's 

 neck was hidden, and I could only make out a 

 part of one tawny shoulder. 



At the crack of the gun, the lioness was 

 gone, and so was Ambrose. There came a 

 savage chorus of yelps, growls, howls, and ex- 

 clamations from the dogs, then a furious 

 crashing in the undergrowth. As I ran past 

 the cedar, Tub was yelling murder at the top 



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