West with the Night by Beryl Markham

had been crowded with grantii, impala, kongoni, eland, water-buck, and a dozen kinds of smaller animals. But it was empty today. It was like a marketplace whose flow and bustle of life you had witnessed ninety-nine times, but, on your hundredth visit, was vacant and still without even an urchin to tell you why.
    I put my hand on Arab Maina’s arm. ‘What are you thinking, Maina? Why is there no game today?’
    ‘Be quiet, Lakweit, and do not move.’
    I dropped the butt of my spear on the earth and watched the two Murani stand still as trees, their nostrils distended, their ears alert to all things. Arab Kosky’s hand was tight on his spear like the claw of an eagle clasping a branch.
    ‘It is an odd sign,’ murmured Arab Maina, ‘when the salt-lick is without company!’
    I had forgotten Buller, but the dog had not forgotten us. He had not forgotten that, with all the knowledge of the two Murani, he still knew better about such things. He thrust his body roughly between Arab Maina and myself, holding his black wet nose close to the ground. And the hairs along his spine stiffened. His hackles rose and he trembled.
    We might have spoken, but we didn’t. In his way Buller was more eloquent. Without a sound, he said, as clearly as it could be said — ‘Lion.’
    ‘Do not move, Lakweit.’ Arab Kosky stepped closer to me.
    ‘Steady, Buller,’ I whispered to the dog, trying to soothe his rising belligerence.
    Our eyes followed the direction of Arab Maina’s eyes. He was staring into a small grass-curtained donga a few yards from the edge of the salt-lick.
    The lion that stood in the donga was not intimidated by Arab Maina’s stare. He was not concerned with our number. He swung his tail in easy arcs, stared back through the wispy grass, and his manner said, ‘I am within my rights. If you seek a battle, what are we waiting for?’
    He moved slowly forward, increasing the momentum of his tail, flaunting his thick black mane.
    ‘Ach! This is bad! He is angry — he wants to attack!’ Arab Maina spoke in an undertone.
    No animal, however fast, has greater speed than a charging lion over a distance of a few yards. It is a speed faster than thought — faster always than escape.
    Under my restraining hand I felt the muscles of Buller knot and relax, in a surging flow of mounting fury. Buller’s mind had reached its blind spot. Uncontrolled, he would throw himself in gallant suicide straight at the lion. I dug my fingers into the dog’s coat and held tight.
    Arab Maina’s appearance was transformed. His face had taken on a sullen, arrogant expression, his square, bold jaw jutted forward. His eyes dimmed almost dreamily and sank behind high, shiny cheekbones. I watched the muscles on his neck swell like those on the neck of an angry snake, and saw flecks of white froth appear in the corners of his mouth Passive and rigid he stared back at the lion.
    He raised his shield at last, as if to make sure it was still in his hand, and let his spear arm drop to his side to preserve all of its power for whatever might come.
    He knew that if the lion attacked, his own skill and Arab Kosky’s would, in the end, prove sufficient — but not before at least one of us had been killed or badly mauled. Arab Maina was more than a Murani; he was a leader of Murani, and as such he must be able to think as well as to fight. He must be capable of strategy.
    Watching him still, as he in turn watched the lion, I knew that he had a plan of action.
    Observe his eyes,’ he said; ‘he thinks very hard of many things. He believes that we also think of those same things. We must show him that we are fearless as he himself is fearless, but that his desires are not our desires. We must walk straight past him firmly and with courage, and we must shame his anger by laughter and loud talk.’
    Arab Kosky’s brow was dotted with small bubbles of sweat. A slight flicker of a smile crept over his face.
    ‘Yes, true enough! The lion thinks of many