THE WRONG TRAIL
“What’s it all about?” asked Mr. Duncan. “I don’t exactly understand,
sergeant. Is there to be a lion hunt here?”
“That’s about it, Mr. Duncan,” answered the former soldier. “That is,
not exactly here, but in this vicinity. These are some Masai warriors
out on a hunt. Probably their village is near here, and there may have
been trouble with lions. I’ll have a talk with them, and we’ll find
out. But if they stir up one of the beasts you will sure see some great
fighting, my word!” and he lapsed into his English idiom.
“But will they hunt the lion with just those spears?” asked C. C.
Piper, wonderingly. “No guns, no revolvers for work at close quarters?
I say, now. I think we ought to offer them the use of a gun or two.”
“They’d feel insulted if you did,” said Mr. Hotchkiss. “It is their
boast that they can kill lions with only their spears, with their
shields for defense. They would scorn to use a gun. But we’ll soon see
what’s up. Got your cameras ready, boys?”
“We will have, soon,” replied Blake.
“This doesn’t look much like lion country,” spoke Joe.
“You never can tell,” answered the sergeant.
By this time the advancing warriors, who wore only loin cloths, had
come to a halt at the sight of the safari. They were a bold and
savage-looking lot of men, and the absence of any women or children
betokened that they were bent on desperate business.
“Maybe they’re on the warpath,” suggested Mr. Duncan. “Can it be that
savages, such as these, have carried off my little daughter?”
“I hardly believe so,” answered the sergeant. “Certainly this
particular tribe did not, for they don’t do such things. It is more
likely some of the lower class African races. In fact, according to our
information, none of the Masai were involved in the kidnapping. But
they want a parley, I see.”
The lion hunters had halted, and one, seemingly the chief, now
advanced. There was nothing hostile in their actions, for doubtless the
sight of the native porters, and hearing the marching songs they sung,
told them that our friends were on a peaceful errand.
But, as one’s life in Africa depends on the attitude of not only
beasts, but savage men, it is best to take no chances. The chief of the
lion hunters came forward and began to talk in a deep, almost booming
voice. He used simple but effective gestures, and really seemed quite a
dignified savage.
“You forget that he hasn’t many clothes on, when you hear him talk,”
said Joe.
“That’s right,” agreed Blake; “I wonder what he is saying? Happy One
seems to understand him.”
This was so, and in a few moments the head porter and the chief lion
hunter were in a friendly conversation. Then Sergeant Hotchkiss took
part in it, as he understood some of the Masai language, and presently
the former soldier said:
“It’s just as I expected. They are out on the trail of a pair of lions
that have carried off several of their cattle, and have injured some of
their tribe. They invite us to go along, but they expressly stipulate
that no guns are to be used.”
“Not even if there is danger of the lion attacking them?” C. C. wanted
to know.
“Not even then,” insisted Mr. Hotchkiss. “They say they can take care
of the lion with their spears; and they can, too. My word! I’ve seen
’em. I have told them the boys want some moving pictures of it, and
they are willing. Now trail along. Of course, if you find yourselves
in danger from a lion, don’t hesitate to shoot, but don’t even to save
a native’s life--that is, one of the Masai natives--don’t fire. They
would never forgive you if you did.”
He said something to the Masai chief, who, in turn, addressed his men.
The latter called out what seemed to be a salute to the white men, and
the latter’s porters answered. Then they started off.
Leaving their property in charge of the native porters, one and all of
whom refused to come on the lion hunt, Joe and Blake, with the sergeant
and Mr. Piper, started after the warriors. Mr. Duncan elected to stay
with the baggage.
“Better take these with you,” said C. C., to the boys, as they started
off with their cameras, for each had one of the moving picture machines.
“What?” asked Blake.
“A heavy revolver. In case of the worst, if the lion comes at you, and
those fellows don’t stop him with their spears, you may need it.”
“That’s right,” agreed Joe.
They slipped the weapons into their pockets and started off, eager to
see what would happen. Their way soon lay across a plain of rather
high grass. The hunters were strung out in a long line, covering a wide
area, for the lion might be come upon at any time now.
After a few miles of this progress, during which there were several
false alarms, they came to a small valley. Tall rushes and grass grew
in the centre, with here and there thorn trees of no great height.
The head hunter called out something, and his men replied in a fierce
chorus.
“He says,” translated the sergeant, “that here, if anywhere, we’ll stir
up a lion.”
“Good!” cried Blake.
The line of warriors advanced. They were rather silent now, wary and
cautious, with their spears and shields in readiness. The boys were on
the alert.
Suddenly came another shout, and the blacks broke into a run.
“Simba! Simba!” was the cry.
“A lion!” shouted the sergeant.
And there, just ahead of them, sprang up a great tawny beast with a
shaggy mane--a yellow terror of the jungle--a full grown, male lion.
The hunters broke into a joyous shout, spreading out fanwise. The lion
leaped ahead, intent on escaping, for well he must have known the fate
in store for him.
“We can never get a moving picture if he’s going to run away!”
exclaimed Blake.
“They’ll stop him soon,” said Mr. Hotchkiss. “Come on.”
On they ran, and they had not gone far before the lion was brought to
bay. Snarling and growling, he stood in the midst of a large circle of
the spearmen. Their leader shouted.
“He’s calling us to come up with our picture machines,” explained the
sergeant. “Come on.”
The boys ran forward. The lion was not in sight now, but the grinning
chief of the hunters pointed to a clump of thorn bushes which moved now
and then. And there was no wind to stir them.
“Simba!” exclaimed the chief.
“The lion is there,” explained the sergeant. “Put your cameras on that
little mound, and you’ll have a good view of the whole thing.”
Blake and Joe planted their machines, taking different positions, so
that if the view of one was obscured the other would have a good chance
to get a film.
“Ready!” called the sergeant, and the hunters began closing in. Slowly
the circle narrowed. Stealthily the blacks advanced. Joe and Blake
took picture after picture. It was a tense moment.
With a terrific roar the lion leaped from his cover and stood in the
open, lashing his sides with his tail. The very ground seemed to
vibrate with his rumblings.
“I hope he doesn’t break through that line and come for us,” spoke
Blake.
“Same here,” echoed Joe, grinding away at his machine.
Nearer and nearer came the warriors. The lion wheeled about seeking an
opening. There was none in that circle of bristling spears.
But, seeing a place that the beast evidently thought was weak, he made
for it. The chief called out something, and the men braced with their
spears, ready for the shock.
“There he goes!” cried Joe. “I can’t get a good view! The men are in my
way!”
“I’ll film it!” shouted Blake.
With a roar the lion leaped into the air, and at one of the men, who
rose from a crouching position to receive it. While the beast was yet
in midair the black man threw his spear. Like a shaft of light it
struck the lion, and passed completely through him, the head appearing
on the other side.
In spite of this wound the lion did not falter. On he launched
himself, straight at the man, who caught him on his shield. But the
lion, reaching over the top, clawed and bit the native on his shoulder.
The brave Masai never faltered, however, and began jabbing the lion
with another spear passed to him by a fellow hunter.
With shouts the other warriors closed in on either flank of the beast
that was bearing down their comrade. Scores of spears flashed in the
light. No living creature was proof against them.
“He’s done for!” cried Blake, who was busy with the machine.
“And so is the man, I guess,” said Joe.
The warrior had been borne to earth, but his shield partly protected
him. The lion was now hidden by the blacks surrounding him, and
stabbing him with their spears. There came a last rumbling roar, and
the fight was over.
With shouts the men dragged the big body, twitching in death, from
their comrade. The lion fight was over.
“And, oh! what a film I’ve got!” cried Blake.
“I got most of it, too,” said Joe.
There was much loud talking and ringing laughter among the hunters,
while some applied rude but effective treatment to the wounded man. He
was not as badly hurt as at first supposed, the ox-hide shield having
protected him.
“And they’re used to being clawed,” explained the sergeant. He talked
with the head hunter, who explained that the lion was the very one that
had been devastating their village. They recognized him by a spear
wound in his flank, given by a native the beast had attacked.
There was further rejoicing among the blacks, as they carried off
the body of the lion, as well as the form of their comrade, on their
shields, Joe and Blake filming the triumphant march and the dance of
rejoicing around the fallen foe.
Then, returning to where they had left their porters, our friends
once more started on the trail they hoped would lead to the captive
missionaries and Jessie Duncan.
For three days they traveled on, sometimes easily and again under
hardships. The trail seemed to become more and more plain as they
advanced, and there were indications of foraging and hunting parties
having made trips into the jungle.
“We’ll soon be up to them,” said the sergeant, one afternoon.
“And what will happen?” asked Mr. Duncan.
“It’s hard to say,” was the answer, “but we must prepare for the worst.”
“Or the--best!” exclaimed C. C., in hearty tones.
Just as dusk was settling down they came to the outlying huts of an
African village. The expedition closed up, and the porters grasped
their spears. The whites got out their guns.
“According to all signs this is where the trail ends,” said the
sergeant. “We will ask them what we want to know, and if they have the
captives here----”
“We’ll make them give ’em up!” cried Joe, fiercely.
Nearer they came to the village. Men and women and children ran out.
There were excited shouts and cries, and then, to the astonishment
of all, the porters began to sing and dance. They rushed forward and
clasped hands with the villagers.
“What does that mean?” asked Joe, bewildered.
“They don’t seem very hostile,” said Blake.
Sergeant Hotchkiss talked rapidly in the native dialect. Then, turning
to the whites, he said:
“We’ve made a mistake. We’ve been on the wrong trail all the time!”
“The wrong trail?” asked Joe. “Weren’t these the natives who were at
the burned mission station?”
“Yes, but not until after it was burned. They came from there, and it
is their trail we have been following. But the other savages were there
before them, and did the damage. We have followed the wrong trail!”