The Land of Footprints | Page 9

possession of their own skins, and other
equally convincing facts. It must be a lion or nothing; so naturally we
had to make a try.
There are several ways of getting lions, only one of which is at all
likely to afford a steady pot shot to a very small person trying to
manipulate an over-size gun. That is to lay out a kill. The idea is to
catch the lion at it in the early morning before he has departed for home.
The best kill is a zebra: first, because lions like zebra; second, because
zebra are fairly large; third, because zebra are very numerous.
Accordingly, after we had pitched camp just within a fringe of mimosa
trees and of red-flowering aloes near the river; had eaten lunch, smoked
a pipe and issued necessary orders to the men, C. and I set about the
serious work of getting an appropriate bait in an appropriate place.
The plains stretched straight away from the river bank to some
indefinite and unknown distance to the south. A low range of
mountains lay blue to the left; and a mantle of scrub thornbush closed
the view to the right. This did not imply that we could see far straight
ahead, for the surface of the plain rose slowly to the top of a swell
about two miles away. Beyond it reared a single butte peak at four or
five times that distance.
We stepped from the fringe of red aloes and squinted through the
dancing heat shimmer. Near the limit of vision showed a very faint
glimmering whitish streak. A newcomer to Africa would not have
looked at it twice: nevertheless, it could be nothing but zebra. These
gaudily marked beasts take queer aspects even on an open plain. Most
often they show pure white; sometimes a jet black; only when within a
few hundred yards does one distinguish the stripes. Almost always they

are very easily made out. Only when very distant and in heat shimmer,
or in certain half lights of evening, does their so-called "protective
colouration" seem to be in working order, and even then they are
always quite visible to the least expert hunter's scrutiny.
It is not difficult to kill a zebra, though sometimes it has to be done at a
fairly long range. If all you want is meat for the porters, the matter is
simple enough. But when you require bait for a lion, that; is another
affair entirely. In the first place, you must be able to stalk within a
hundred yards of your kill without being seen; in the second place, you
must provide two or three good lying-down places for your prospective
trophy within fifteen yards of the carcass-and no more than two or three;
in the third place, you must judge the direction of the probable morning
wind, and must be able to approach from leeward. It is evidently pretty
good luck to find an accommodating zebra in just such a spot. It is a
matter of still greater nicety to drop him absolutely in his tracks. In a
case of porters' meat it does not make any particular difference if he
runs a hundred yards before he dies. With lion bait even fifty yards
makes all the difference in the world.
C. and I talked it over and resolved to press Scallywattamus into
service. Scallywattamus is a small white mule who is firmly convinced
that each and every bush in Africa conceals a mule-eating rhinoceros,
and who does not intend to be one of the number so eaten. But we had
noticed that at times zebra would be so struck with the strange sight of
Scallywattamus carrying a man, that they would let us get quite close.
C. was to ride Scallywattamus while I trudged along under his lee
ready to shoot.
We set out through the heat shimmer, gradually rising as the plain
slanted. Imperceptibly the camp and the trees marking the river's course
fell below us and into the heat haze. In the distance, close to the stream,
we made out a blurred, brown-red solid mass which we knew for Masai
cattle. Various little Thompson's gazelles skipped away to the left
waggling their tails vigorously and continuously as Nature long since
commanded "Tommies" to do. The heat haze steadied around the dim
white line, so we could make out the individual animals. There were
plenty of them, dozing in the sun. A single tiny treelet broke the plain
just at the skyline of the rise. C. and I talked low-voiced as we went
along. We agreed that the tree was an excellent landmark to come to,

that the little rise afforded proper cover, and that in the morning the
wind would in all likelihood blow toward the river. There were perhaps