THE LION HUNT
Crowding around Mr. Piper they all tried at once to look at what he
had picked up. It was something covered with dust and ashes--something
swollen with the rains that had fallen--a strange, misshapen thing,
that seemed to be a book, and yet which might have been almost anything.
“What is it?” cried Joe.
“Is it any message from my daughter?” demanded the former sailor, as
with trembling hands he reached for it.
“It’s a small Bible,” said C. C., as he examined it. “But there is some
writing on the first page.”
Blake, feeling that this was too sacred a moment for him to intrude,
held back, as did Sergeant Hotchkiss. Joe and his father took the
little book, which had almost lost semblance to itself.
“It is a Bible,” spoke Joe, softly.
“And here is Jessie’s name in it,” went on Mr. Duncan, as he scanned
the writing on the first page. “It is a gift from Mr. and Mrs. Brown.
Oh, how glad I am that I have this memento of my little girl. If
only----”
“There’s more writing there, Dad!” exclaimed Joe, as he looked over his
father’s shoulder. “And it’s in a different hand from the other. Could
Jessie have written that?”
Anxiously Mr. Duncan scanned it. Then he cried out:
“I never saw her writing, but this seems to be hers. She appears to
have written a message. Blake, your eyes are better than mine. See if
you can make anything of this,” and he handed over the book. No wonder
his eyes were dim--the tears made them so.
Eagerly Blake scanned the title page of the little Bible, blackened by
fire and smoke and soaked with rain. He could trace some lines, but
they were so faint----
“Try this!” exclaimed C. C., holding out a pocket reading glass. “It
will magnify the lines.”
Once more Blake looked.
“It is a message,” he said. “It seems to have been written in a hurry,
and not with ink. It looks more like ashes and water mixed.”
“I have it!” interrupted Joe. “My sister was surprised, as were the
others, by the raid. She only had time to leave a hasty message, and,
there being no ink, she dipped a sharp stick in a mixture of water and
ashes, and left her message that way.”
“It does seem so,” admitted Sergeant Hotchkiss. “Can you read it,
Blake?”
Slowly Blake spelled out the scrawled words:
“‘To--any----’” he began, “‘to any who come--after. We have--been
carried away by the natives--to the----’ It looks like ‘south,’” said
Blake. “It’s so blurred.”
“That’s ‘south,’” was Joe’s opinion, as he looked over his chum’s
shoulder. “They took ’em south.”
“‘We have been carried off to the south,’” read Blake. “‘Help us if you
can. I think they mean to hold us for ransom.’”
“Thank the dear Lord for that!” breathed Mr. Duncan. “Now let’s start
at once. Off to the south, to rescue my daughter! Sergeant, ask these
natives what they know of the tribes south. Are they friendly? Will
they give up Jessie? I’ll spend my last dollar for her recovery!”
The sergeant paused a moment.
“We must go slow,” he said. “I must think about this. I will have a
talk with Happy One. He is a wise old native.”
Mr. Duncan was all for starting off at once, but the others persuaded
him to wait and so make a better and more detailed plan. Accordingly
camp was made near the burned missionary station.
It was evident that the friendly natives at the little village, and the
missionaries, had been surprised by the warlike Africans. Whether any
had been killed could only be guessed at. Certainly the station had
been pillaged, and some of the inmates, if not all, had been carried
off. The Bible hastily written in and tossed aside by Jessie, in the
hope that someone would find it, was evidence enough.
And the trail seemingly led south, according to her clue, though when
Happy One was appealed to he declared that only friendly natives dwelt
there--natives who were inclined to Christianity, and who would never
think of raiding a mission.
“But some of the more warlike ones may have come from there,” insisted
Mr. Duncan. “I think we should search to the south.”
And so, the next morning, in spite of the advice of Happy One, they
trekked south. It was useless to look for clues, but there seemed to be
a sort of rough trail leading from the station to the southward, and
this was taken.
They were three days on the march--days fraught with danger and
discomfort, for part of the way lay through a swamp which was too large
to go around. Once some of the porters sank to their hips, and only
prompt work saved them and their precious loads. For the expedition was
now getting far from all sources of supplies, and everything they had
with them was of vital necessity.
Again they stirred up a herd of buffalo, which were on the point of
charging, and only a fusillade of shots drove them away.
On this occasion Blake and Joe tried for some moving pictures, but,
though they got out their cameras as soon as the herd was turned aside,
it was too late, and only some unsatisfactory films were obtained.
Another time, at dusk, they disturbed a couple of the prehensile-lip
rhinoceroses, who blindly charged, though our friends had no intention
of harming them.
C. C. Piper had to do some quick shooting then. He killed one of the
queer beasts and wounded another, and the slain one made the natives
happy, for they were short of meat.
But on one occasion the boys did get a series of fine pictures. This
was at a water hole, in the midst of a plain surrounded by a growth
of timber which gave them a screen. They ascended a tree with their
camera, and after a long wait they succeeded in filming a number of
baboons as they came to drink. Then came a couple of giraffes, which
spread their tall front legs in ungainly fashion in order to bring
their heads close enough to sip the water in the low pool.
Afterward came a family of elephants, one a little one, and they drank
their fill, the baboons retiring a safe distance, being the weaker
animals, though this species is dangerous in the extreme. With their
terrible teeth and their claws they are, in small droves, a match for
many animals--but not the elephant.
“A good day’s work!” exclaimed Joe, when they came away from the water
hole.
“Some dandy films!” was Blake’s opinion. “And, best of all, we didn’t
have to go out of our way to get them,” for they were still traveling
south on the trail of the kidnapped missionaries.
There had been some indications of the passage of a body of natives in
that direction. Whether or not they had with them Jessie and the other
white captives was a matter of conjecture. Still Joe and his father had
hopes. They would not give up until the last.
The march was resumed after the stop at the water hole, where enough
game was killed to last for several days. They came to a stream of
water, where a number of antelopes were seen, and Joe and Blake were
fortunate enough to get a very rare picture--a view of two noble Koodoo
bucks having a battle royal. So interested were the animals themselves
in the outcome that they never noticed the moving picture boys, who
stood in plain view, in a clearing, making films. Nor did the others in
the herd take the alarm until the fight was over and one of the bucks
vanquished.
Then some movement on the part of Blake or Joe startled them, and they
were off at a gallop, leaving the injured buck on the ground. But his
flesh made good food for the black porters.
The journey was ever onward, and several days after the finding of the
Bible, Happy One, who was in the lead, suddenly threw down his bundle,
readjusted his hyena headdress, and began brandishing his spear.
“What is it?” asked Blake in some alarm.
“Simba! Simba!” cried Happy One.
“He says lion,” interpreted the sergeant.
“A lion!” cried C. C. “If that’s the case----” and he made a quick
motion toward his gun.
“Oh, there’s no lion about to charge,” said Mr. Hotchkiss, hastily.
“Probably Happy One has sighted a party of African hunters after a
lion. There is no beast the blacks fear so much as the simba, or lion,
and they always rejoice when one is about to be killed. I think you’ll
find that to be the case.”
There was a confused shouting up front. Many of the porters got rid of
their loads, and began dancing about. The whites pushed forward and
beheld a curious sight.
Marching toward them was a band of African hunters, each one carrying a
big spear with a head several feet long, of soft iron, sharpened to a
razor-like edge. The butt of the spears, too, was partly of iron, only
the middle being of wood, and the natives all carried ox-hide shields.
They were tall and straight, these savages, fierce and fearless-looking;
true lion hunters. And, as they advanced, they broke into a chant.
“That’s it!” cried the sergeant. “It’s a lion hunt, all right.
Boys, you’re in luck! Get your cameras ready, and you’ll see a rare
sight--lions hunted by means of spears and shields!”
“Good!” cried Blake, while Joe hurried back toward the mule that
carried the moving picture outfits.