‘I thought lions never ate carrion,’ said Kermit.

‘Don’t you believe it. They’re as lazy as domestic tabbies. They’ll eat a hand-out for preference, never mind how stinking rotten it may be. They only go to the trouble of making their own kills when all else fails.’

Two hours after midnight the old lion had stopped roaring, and the darkness was still.

‘Now he’s found a bait for himself,’ Manyoro observed. ‘We’ll have them both tomorrow.’

‘How many lions am I allowed on my licence?’ Kermit asked.

‘Enough to satisfy even you,’ Leon told him. ‘Lions are vermin in British East Africa. You may shoot all you wish.’

‘Good! I want both these big guys. I want to take them home to show my father.’

‘So do I,’ Leon agreed fervently. ‘So do I.’

As soon as it was light enough for the trackers to read the sign, they started back along the chain of bait. Leon and Kermit wore heavy jackets, for the morning was chilly, and perfumed like a fine Chablis.

The first three baits they visited were untouched, although the vultures brooded dark, hunch-backed and morose as undertakers in the treetops around them. When they came to the fourth, Leon halted a few hundred yards from it and, with the binoculars, carefully glassed the pile of branches that covered it.

‘You’re wasting time, pal. There ain’t nothing there,’ Kermit told him.

‘On the contrary,’ Leon said softly, without lowering the glasses.

‘What do you mean?’ Kermit’s interest quickened.

‘I mean there’s a big male lion right there.’

‘No!’ Kermit protested. ‘I don’t see a damned thing.’

‘Here.’ Leon handed him the glasses. ‘Use these.’

Kermit focused the lenses and stared through them for a minute. ‘I still don’t see a lion.’

‘Look where the branches have been pulled open. You can see the striped haunches of the zebra in the gap . . .’

‘Yeah! I’ve got that.’

‘Now look just over the top of the zebra. Do you see two small dark lumps on the far side?’

‘Yup, but that’s not a lion.’

‘Those are the tops of his ears. He’s lying flat behind the zebra watching us.’

‘My God! You’re right! I saw an ear flick,’ he exclaimed. ‘Which lion is it? The young or the old one?’

Leon conferred quickly with Manyoro, Loikot interjecting his own learned opinions every few sentences. At last he turned back to Kermit. ‘Take a deep breath, chum. I have news for you. It’s the big one. Manyoro calls him the lion of all lions.’

‘What do we do now? Do we ride him down?’

‘No, we walk him up.’ Leon was already swinging down from the saddle and drawing the big Holland from its boot. He opened the action, drew the brass cartridges from the breeches and exchanged them for a fresh pair from his bandolier. Kermit followed his example with the little Lee-Enfield. The syces came forward and took the reins of their mounts and led them to the rear, then laid down their waterbags, and squatted to take a little snuff. Soon they jumped up, hefted their lion spears and stabbed the air with bloodthirsty grunts, prancing high with each thrust of the long bright blades, priming themselves for battle.

As soon as all the hunters were ready, Leon gave Kermit his instructions. ‘You’ll take the lead. I’ll be three paces behind you so I don’t block your field of fire. Walk slowly and steadily, but not directly towards him. Make it seem that you’re going to pass about twenty paces on his right. Don’t look directly at him. Keep your eyes on the ground ahead of you. If you stare at him you’ll spook him into running or charging prematurely. At about fifty paces he’ll give you a warning growl. You’ll see his tail start to thrash. Don’t stop and don’t hurry. Keep walking. At about thirty paces he’ll stand up and confront you head-on. At this point an average lion will either run or charge. This one is different. Sparring with the young pretender has put him in a belligerent, reckless mood. His blood is up. He’ll charge. He’ll give you three or four seconds, then come. You must hit him before he starts to move or before you can blink he’ll be doing forty miles an hour straight at you. When I call the shot, take him just under the chin in the centre of his chest. These cats are soft. Even the .303 will put him down. However, you must keep shooting as long as he’s on his feet.’

‘You’re not going to fire, are you?’

‘Not until he starts chewing your head off, chummy. Now, walk!’ They moved out in open order, Kermit leading, Leon a few paces back and the two Masai coming up behind him, marching shoulder to shoulder with their assegais presented.

‘Excellent,’ Leon encouraged Kermit softly. ‘Keep up that speed and direction. You’re doing fine.’ Within another fifty paces Leon saw the lion lift his head a few inches. The dome of his skull was now visible and he raised his mane in a threatening gesture. It was like a small haystack, dense and black as Hades. Kermit hesitated in mid-stride.

‘Steady, steady. Keep moving!’ Leon cautioned him. They walked on, and now they could see the lion’s eyes under the great bush of the mane. They were cold, yellow and inexorable. Another ten slow paces and the lion growled. It was a low, deep, infinitely menacing sound, like distant summer thunder. It stopped Kermit in his tracks and he turned to face the beast head-on, at the same time starting to bring up the long rifle. That movement, and Kermit’s direct stare, triggered the lion.

‘Look out! He’s going to come,’ Leon said sharply, but the lion was already in full charge, rushing at Kermit, grunting in short staccato bursts like the steam pistons on a speeding locomotive, black mane fully erect with rage, long tail swinging from side to side. He was enormous, and growing bigger as he closed the gap between them with every stride.

‘Shoot him!’ Leon’s voice was lost in the sharp crack of the .303. The bullet, hastily aimed, flew over the lion’s back, and kicked up a spurt of dust two hundred yards behind him. Kermit was quick on the reload. His next shot was low and struck the ground between the beast’s forelegs. The lion kept boring straight in, a yellow blur of speed, grunting with heart-stopping fury, kicking up dust and slashing his tail.

Sweet Christ! Leon thought. It’s going to get him down! He swung up the Holland focusing all his mental and physical powers on the great maned head and the open grunting jaws. He was only barely conscious of his forefinger tightening on the front trigger. The instant before the lion crashed his full 550-pound body weight into Kermit’s chest at forty miles an hour, Kermit fired his third shot.

The muzzle of the .303 Lee-Enfield was almost touching the shiny black button of the lion’s nose. The light bullet struck the very tip of the snout and lanced through into the brain. The tan body turned slack and flabby as a sack of chaff. Kermit hurled himself aside at the last instant and the lion piled up in a heap on the spot where he had been standing. He stared down at it, his hands shaking, breath sobbing in his throat. Sweat trickled into his eyes.

‘Shoot him again,’ Leon shouted, but Kermit’s legs gave way under him and he sat down. Leon ran up and stood over the lion. At point-blank range he shot him through the heart. Then he turned back to where Kermit was sitting with his head between his knees. ‘Are you okay, chum?’ he asked, with deep concern.

Slowly Kermit raised his head and stared at him as though he was a stranger. He shook his head in confusion. Leon sat beside him and put a muscular arm around his shoulders. ‘Easy does it, chum. You did a great job. You stood to the charge. You never broke. You stood there and shot him down like a hero. If your daddy had been here he would have been proud of you.’

Kermit’s eyes cleared. He took a deep breath and then he said huskily, ‘Do you think so?’

‘I damn well know so,’ Leon said, with utter conviction.