Tom turned with horror from these sad relics.
"Pater," he said, "if I were not so mad with the brute that did this, I think I should be sick. If you and Guy don't kill the monster, I will."
"We'll kill him, my boy," said his father grimly, "even if we have to follow him all day."
They moved on in silence, and, after going three hundred yards farther, spoored the lion and its prey to a dense, triangular piece of bush lying close to the little stream that ran through the valley. Poeskop quickly ran round this piece of bush, and made certain that the murderous brute had gone no farther. Mr. Blakeney now disposed his little force so as to command each side of the triangle. Poeskop and Guy crossed the stream, and guarded that side. Jan Kokerboom kept watch at the point where the lion had entered, well in sight of Mr. Blakeney, who, with Tom carrying a spare rifle, took the angle on the extreme right. Then the dogs, which had followed hot upon the trail, were cheered into the thicket. They were a plucky lot of curs, well used to this kind of work, and they did their duty well. Plunging into the bush and undergrowth, they quickly told that the game was afoot.
"To him, Nero! To him, Nelson! Push him up, Ponto!" cried Mr. Blakeney, in his strong, clear voice. The dogs, encouraged at the sound, renewed their attack.
"Push him out, boys!" again cried their master heartily. "Have at him, Nero!"
Nero, a huge, brindled cross-bred, half mastiff, half greyhound, with a touch of bull--a true Boer mongrel, picked up in the Transvaal--plunges into the fray again, well backed by the rest of the pack. The lion can stand the baiting no longer, and, creeping noiselessly through the covert, suddenly appears within thirty paces of where Mr. Blakeney stands ready for him. Seeing his adversary, the brute, his mouth and face still darkly smeared with the blood of his victim, bares his teeth, puts his head down, growls savagely, and, lashing his tail a few times from side to side, takes two or three stealthy strides right out into the open. Then suddenly he elevates his tail, straight and rigid as a poker. Mr. Blakeney knows the danger signal well; his nerves are like iron; he is as steady as if he were shooting at a francolin. Already he is down on one knee, the better to get his shot. Tom stands staunchly at his flank, ready with the second rifle. Taking swift aim, Mr. Blakeney pulls the trigger; the heavy .500 bullet strikes the man-eater full in the chest, and, raking the body and tearing through heart and lungs, instantly finishes its career. The brute falls to the shot, and after a convulsive struggle or two rolls over dead. Never again will he slay the shuddering Berg Damaras, or murder a harmless boy.