TREKKING THROUGH THE THIRST 167 
loped at a smart pace parallel with the line of trees, hoping 
to see her in the open. But, as it turned out, as soon as 
she saw us pass, she crouched in the bed of the donga; we 
had gone by her a quarter of a mile when a shout from one 
of our followers announced that he had seen her, and back 
we galloped, threw ourselves from our horses, and walked 
toward where the man was pointing. Tarlton took his big 
double-barrel and advised me to take mine, as the sun 
had just set and it was likely to be close work; but I shook 
my head, for the Winchester 405 is, at least for me per¬ 
sonally, the ‘‘medicine gun'’ for lions. In another mo¬ 
ment up she jumped, and galloped slowly down the other 
side of the donga, switching her tail and growling; I scram¬ 
bled across the donga, and just before she went round a 
dump of trees, eighty yards off, I fired. The bullet hit 
her fair, and going forward injured her spine. Over she 
rolled, growling savagely, and dragged herself into the 
watercourse; and running forward I finished her with two 
bullets behind the shoulder. She was a big, fat lioness, 
very old, with two cubs inside her; her lower canines were 
much worn and injured. She was very heavy, and prob¬ 
ably weighed considerably over three hundred pounds. 
The light was growing dim, and camp was eight or ten 
miles away. The porters—they are always much excited 
over the death of a lion—wished to carry the body whole to 
camp, and I let them try. While they were lashing it to a 
pole another lion began to moan hungrily half a mile away. 
Then we started; there was no moon, but the night was 
clear and we could guide ourselves by the stars. The por¬ 
ters staggered under their heavy load, and we made slow 
progress; most of the time Tarlton and I walked, with 
