would get a shot.

"And if she does go down the donga," whispered Hill, "the dogs will
locate her."

Sitting still while things approach is always exciting. This is true of
ducks; but when you multiply ducks by lions it is still more true. We
all crouched very low in the grass. She leapt without hesitation into
the ravine--and did not emerge.

This was a disappointment. We concluded she must have entered the stream
bottom, and were just about to move when Memba Sasa snapped his fingers.
His sharp eyes had discovered her sneaking along, belly to the ground,
like the cat she was. The explanation of this change in her gait was
simple. Our companions had rounded the corner of the hill and were
galloping in plain view a half-mile away. The lioness had caught sight
of them.

She was gliding by, dimly visible, through thick brush seventy yards
distant. Now I could make out a tawny patch that faded while I looked;
now I could merely guess at a melting shadow.

"Stir her up," whispered Hill. "Never mind whether you hit. She'll sneak
away."

At the shot she leaped fully out into the open with a snarl. Promptly I
planted a Springfield bullet in her ribs. She answered slightly to the
hit, but did not shift position. Her head up, her tail thrashing from
side to side, her ears laid back, she stood there looking the landscape
over carefully point by point. She was searching for us, but as yet