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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S • 121 visited me in the hospital, and thence drove to camp. The next day they went to look for the leopard in the same patch of grass and palmettos. They found my .470, and, not far off, Theo spotted the leopard crouched under a bush. As he raised the shotgun to shoot, the cat charged and Theo missed completely. His second barrel, at very close quarters, hit it in the front of the shoulder. It stopped the leopard momentarily, but it came on, using only three legs. Imagine the pandemonium: lots of growling, two fast shots, gunbearers yelling to distract the leopard, Theo whacking the cat over the head with the shotgun and yelling. It was all too much for the Baron, who started running off. Mutia ran after him and managed to drag him back to finish off the poor beast. T he Baron came to see me in the hospital and informed me that it was my own fault that I got chewed up. After all, going into the long grass after a leopard was dangerous, and I should have known better. I was so incensed at this remark that, on my return to Nairobi, I went to see old Zimmerman, the taxidermist, who cut the dew claws out of the skin for me. I had them mounted for my wife as a memento. John Dugmore, now in Botswana with Safari South, bought my shotgun, and since that time he has had two leopard maulings while using the same gun, which still has the dents in the barrels put in by Theo. Bill York, a Kenya hunter, bought my old Harrison & Hussey .470 and had it converted to a .458. My wounds were not too bad. I spent ten days in the hospital, and my arms turned a particularly repulsive shade of greenish- black—rather like a rotten avocado—for a day or so. It was then a matter of slow healing. On the day I was released from the hospital in Arusha, my daughter, Dawn, was born in Nairobi. Oh, yes! I have never, ever allowed a client to shoot a hyena since, WaMbugwe or not. You see, I feel that it's very bad luck. A hyena and the hospital on the same day was just too much of a coincidence. n Editor's Note: This story, which first appeared in the November/ December 1994 issue of Sporting Classics, is a shortened version of David Ommanney's story, which appeared in the book, Hunting the African Leopard—perhaps the most comprehensive anthology ever done on hunting the African leopard. waiting I asked the Baron why he had not come to my aid. He told me that he did not come "because wounded leopards can be dangerous." When the car arrived Salim told me that he would go back with Mutia later to get the leopard, which he was certain was either dead or dying. I ordered him not to go back; that as for being dead or dying, the cat was only scratched and thoroughly aroused. Salim had used his skinning knife—good for removing a hide but hopeless in a rough-and-tumble with a leopard. At this stage I was rather selfishly interested in my own welfare, as the warthog bait, owing to the heat and humidity, was completely rotten, and the danger of serious infection was very real. I went back to camp to clean myself up and have the driver take me to Arusha Hospital about 75 miles away. Oddly enough, we saw two leopards crossing the road en route to the hospital, in broad daylight. Against my orders, Salim and Mutia took my .470 and .30-06 and walked back to search for the leopard. They had hardly taken half a dozen steps into the grass when the leopard was all over Salim. It bit him through the shoulder and scratched him over his eye. While this was going on Mutia fired the .30-06 at the whole squirming mass, missing Salim and the cat's body but shooting off the last 12 inches of the leopard's tail—enough to make it let go of Salim and vanish once again. Mutia helped Salim back to camp, though they left behind my .470. Now let's recap the poor beast's wounds: a six-inch slice along its left ribs from the 16-bore slug, a hole in its hind foot from my .470, some grazes across its head from the buckshot when it came for me, two scratches on its right side from Salim's knife that did not go into the rib cage, and now 12 inches of its tail shot off. These injuries were hardly enough to worry the leopard any more than the scratches it might incur in scragging an impala or in a bout with a lady friend, but now he was angry and must have lost a lot of his natural fear of man. The poor Baron was in his tent crying and sobbing and drinking brandy to console himself over my fate when he looked up and saw two bedraggled, tattered, and bloody figures limping up to his tent. It gave the poor fellow quite a nasty shock and must have nearly sent him out of his mind. He rallied, however, and managed to get the lorry started and drive Salim to the hospital. Once in Arusha, I called Colonel Armstrong and told him of my predicament: that I had a client in camp, a wounded leopard in the bush, and I was in the hospital. Theo Potgieter, who worked for Selby & Holmberg Safaris, was free, so he drove down to Arusha, illustration by bob kuhn