It was a big, male
lion, with a black and yellow mane. They chased him on horseback
for about two miles. Then he stopped and hid behind a bush. A shot
wounded him slightly and, Mr. Tarlton, Roosevelt's companion, an
experienced lion-hunter, told him that the lion was sure to
charge.
Again I knelt and fired; but the mass of hair on the lion made me
think he was nearer than he was, and I undershot, inflicting a
flesh wound that was neither crippling nor fatal. He was already
grunting savagely and tossing his tail erect, with his head held
low; and at the shot the great sinewy beast came toward us with
the speed of a greyhound. Tarlton then very properly fired, for
lion hunting is no child's play, and it is not good to run risks.
Ordinarily it is a very mean thing to experience joy at a friend's
miss, but this was not an ordinary case, and I felt keen delight
when the bullet from the badly sighted rifle missed, striking the
ground many yards short. I was sighting carefully from my knee,
and I knew I had the lion all right; for though he galloped at a
great pace he came on steadily--ears laid back, and uttering
terrific coughing grunts--and there was now no question of making
allowance for distance, nor, as he was out in the open, for the
fact that he had not before been distinctly visible. The bead of
my foresight was exactly on the center of his chest as I pressed
the trigger, and the bullet went as true as if the place had been
plotted with dividers.
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