Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/742011
118 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S believed, would enable its followers to consort with hyenas, and witches were believed to ride on the backs of hyenas when out at night on their secret comings and goings. The WaMbugwe also had a tendency to spear foot-travelers passing through their territory at night. Apart from my contretemps with the rhino, everything seemed to be going splendidly. We collected another good buffalo, a 14- inch warthog, and our baits were working satisfactorily, except for the lack of a "super cat." All was going well until one midday when the Baron decided to shoot a hyena. At the time I had no particular feelings about shooting hyenas. I knew the Baron did not want the trophy, that he wanted to shoot it only for the sake of killing something. I hated to shoot the animal just to "let it lie," but I was overruled. I did everything in my power to let the hyena escape, but it simply would not run away. We walked up to within 50 yards; the Baron shot it, admired it briefly (from a distance), and we drove off, leaving the carcass to the reluctant vultures. Back in camp after a brief lunch, the Baron wanted to rest from the heat and humidity, so I went to check some baits. The first was a very dead warthog (he of the 14-inch tusks) hanging in a spreading acacia tree about a half-mile from camp. Lying next to the hog was a very sleepy leopard who moved only when we got out of the car 60 yards away to build a blind. Blinds were illegal in Tanganyika at the time (some archaic leftover of the "not-being-quite-cricket-to-shoot-from-a-blind" ethic, I suppose), so it was a pretty hurried and sketchy affair. I estimated the leopard at a shade over seven feet and 120 to 125 pounds—certainly no eight-footer, but a good, heavy cat for that area. Furthermore, we had only two or three days remaining on our hunt. So, it was back to camp to wake up the Baron and grab the 12 bore and buckshot, along with other armaments. In the half-hour that we had been away, the leopard had climbed back into the tree and fallen asleep. We had to drive past the tree to get to the blind, awakening the leopard, which dropped to the ground and was walking fast about 30 yards away, eyeing us sleepily. My lorry driver was at the wheel, and I was in the back seat behind my client so we could roll out into the blind, which was the practice in those days. The vehicle stopped, and before I realized what was going on, the Baron stepped out and let fly at the leopard. The cat jack-knifed about four feet into the air, let out a growl, and took off like a streak. I tumbled out of the lorry with my .470 and managed a despairing shot as the cat vanished into a donga about a hundred yards away. Later we would come to find that my bullet had gone through the cat's right hind pad—not a good shot under normal circumstances but pretty commendable in that situation. I had a feeling that something was dreadfully wrong, but I could not put my finger on it. The Baron was sitting in the front seat, looking smug and clutching his blasted Drilling. Suddenly I knew what had happened. When a leopard is hit in the body with even a light rifle, such as a 7mm or 8mm or a .30-06, it is usually, though not always, knocked over. This leopard, on the other hand, had taken off for the horizon like a scalded cat— literally! After inquiring as to why the Baron had not bothered to empty the other two barrels of his Drilling at the cat, I asked him to break the action. I was quite dismayed when my worst fears were confirmed: out came a 16-bore shotgun shell. Now I was really worried. Had the 16-bore slug connected solidly with the leopard's body, I would have bet my month's pay that the cat buffalo, lion, a two-and-a-half-meter (eight-foot) leopard, and other game. His "menu" would give one pause for thought at any time, but in January—as it was—we were very limited in our travel options. From Babati, we went around Ufiome Mountain to Galapo, a favorite hunting area of Bror Blixen's (one of his gunbearers, old Bakari, worked for me). We soon had leopard feeding at our baits, but nothing approaching the size we wanted. The Baron shot a good lion, kudu, buffalo, and several other animals. This area was wonderful in those days, as the game that concentrated along the Tarangire River (now a national park of that name) spread out into the acacia savanna and combretum woodlands of Galapo with the onset of the rains. For armament, the Baron carried a double rifle—I believe it was a 9.3x74—and a Drilling. The Drilling was a beautifully made and engraved weapon, with side-by-side 16-bore barrels over an 8mm rifled barrel. It was scope-mounted, and the various barrels were operated by a series of knobs and buttons that activated the complex cocking mechanisms and even raised the shallow, back V-sight. The whole thing was a curious contraption and, to my mind, was more suited to the forests of Europe, where game drives produce everything from hares to bloody great wild boars galloping by, giving the shooter a chance to fire any, or all, of the barrels. Though slow and deliberate, the Baron was an excellent shot with both rifles, and so my fears were somewhat allayed. He repeatedly talked about using his 16 bore, with slugs, on lion and leopard, which I sternly forbade, little realizing that once he raised the Drilling I had no control over which knob, lever, trigger, or button he activated. I had hoped that he would play the game and heed my warning. For his lion, the Baron used the 8mm barrel and killed it with one shot from 100 yards away. T he early rains bring great beauty in southern Kenya and northern Tanzania. The air is clear-washed of the dust and smoke from the dry season, with blue skies in the mornings and fantastic cloud buildups in the afternoon. Sometimes as many as five or six cloudbursts can be seen marching across the flat plains, with brilliant rays of sunshine flashing between them. We could not find the right sort of leopard at Galapo, so I decided to move to Lake Burungi, a soda lake in the Rift Valley. Burungi is separated from the south end of Lake Manyara by a strip of land a few miles wide, which also carries the Great North Road that runs from Kenya, through Tanganyika, and into Northern Rhodesia (now Zambia). I did not expect to find a big leopard at Burungi, either, but there were several reasons for the move: I had been in Galapo for a week, and I was bored; there were a lot of buffalo in Burungi; and last, but not least, it was close to the main road in case the rains increased. I did not fancy towing a heavily loaded, two-wheel-drive lorry over Ufiome Mountain in the mud. We made the move to Burungi in less than a day. It had rained the previous night, so all tracks were washed away, the grass was a brilliant green, and the wildflowers were blooming. I wish that I, or at least my camp staff, had paid more attention to the animal trail upon which they had pitched my tent. Later that night I had a rhino inside my tent, but that, as they say, is another story. Lake Burungi lies on the edge of the Mbugwe country and is dominated by three sharply pointed hills, aptly called the Pyramids, standing near the main road. The WaMbugwe were famous—or infamous—at that time as The Hyena People. Their cult, it was widely