Part 3

Suddenly I saw a break in the lava nearly full of beautiful water. I pulled Mr. Buck’s arm, pointing to it, and mumbled, “Water.” Slowly he pulled off his coat and started to climb down the crack. It was about eight feet wide, narrowing to three. I leaned over the side, holding the canteen for Mr. Buck to fill. He went down a few feet, and then stopped. I motioned to him to fill the bottle, croaking, “Water.” He did not look around, but mumbled, “I see no water,” as if in a dream. Picking up a piece of lava, I tossed it down and cried hoarsely, “_There_ is the water.” But to my astonishment the pebble went down, down, down, out of sight, with no sound of a splash, into a fathomless abyss. The crevice was so deep that we could not see the bottom, and the shock of the discovery made me faint. How Sterns Buck managed to return he does not remember; it is a wonder he did not fall, to be mangled upon the sharp corners of lava.

I came to my senses dazed and almost bewildered, and Buck and I sat motionless for some time staring at each other. After a time we scrambled on again until we came upon the guide sitting upon the edge of a high crack, eating frozen snow, and tearing at it with his teeth like a hungry dog. We followed his example, not without pain, but the snow tasted good.

Some of the party who had previously returned met us near the summit with coffee. When they saw us coming they got things ready so as to make us as comfortable as possible. After washing our lacerated hands and feet we took a good sleep, and awoke much refreshed. The journey home was, comparatively speaking, easy, but the memory of that night amidst the lava will last me to my dying day.

BY THOMAS B. MARSHALL.

An exciting story told by a former official of the Gold Coast Government. With a friend and some natives he went out to shoot a marauding leopard. They accomplished their mission, but before the day was over one and all of the party had received a good deal more than they bargained for.

In 1899, while in the service of the Gold Coast Government, and stationed at Kumasi, I received orders “per bearer, who will accompany you,” to proceed to a point on Volta not far south of where it debouches from among the Saraga Hills. “The bearer,” a nice young fellow called Strange, was newly arrived in the colony, and his pleasant home gossip was not less welcome to me than my information about the country we were in was to him. Our rough forest journey, then, passed as pleasantly as such journeys can, and by the time we arrived at our destination we were the best of friends.

Akroful, a town of about seven hundred inhabitants, was the nearest place of any size to the spot where we pitched our camp, and we were soon on good terms with its headman, Otibu Daku, and his son, Dansani, both of whom put us in the way of some good shooting.

We had been in this place about a fortnight, when we began to be annoyed by the depredations of a marauding leopard, who took to visiting our live-stock pens, and at last we decided to lie in wait for him. I took the first watch until a snake crawled over my legs; then I went to bed. It was a harmless one, but it reminded me of the need of precaution, so next night found our lair surrounded by a very uninviting floor of cactus leaves.

The fourth night after our vigil commenced Strange succeeded in wounding our sell-invited guest, and we determined to track him down as soon as it was light. Otibu Daku and his son willingly agreed to help us; and I took, in addition, two of my own men who would, I knew, “stand fire”--Ashong Tawiah, an Accra man, and Nyato, my chief steward-boy, a Krooman.

The two Ashantis led the way, Otibu Daku carrying a “long Dane” gun; his son, a machete. Tawiah and Nyato also carried machetes, and the former, on leaving camp, had picked up a broad-bladed Hausa spear. Strange and I each had a repeating rifle and a revolver, for, as Nyato told me, “Dem headman, ’e say, plenty tiger lib dem part.”

The trail was easy to follow. There was not much blood, but the ground was soft from recent rain. It was rough going, however, and the machetes were constantly at work clearing a way. Up and down small watersheds, squelching through marshy bottoms, crossing streams on fallen trees, we frequently lost the track, but by some sort of instinct our guides always found it again.

At last, after descending a more than usually steep incline, we found ourselves in a valley of some size. The bush here was very thin, and we progressed without difficulty until we came in sight of the inevitable stream, the opposite bank of which, rising steeply, evidently formed the commencement of the next divide. I was about a dozen yards to Strange’s right; the ground was clear of bush between us and the stream; and on the nearer bank, his head overhanging the water, lay our quarry, clearly dying. But he was not alone. Stretched by his side, licking the wound that was letting out his life, lay a fine female leopard, evidently his consort. On seeing us she rose to her feet, snarling; she abandoned her ministrations and became militant--a defender-avenger. Strange fired hastily on sight, and a convulsive heave of the prostrate body showed where the bullet struck. With a light leap the leopardess cleared her mate, and with long, low springs raced down towards my friend. He fired again at thirty yards, wounding her, and she swerved slightly and came in my direction. We both fired together, whereupon she stopped suddenly, reared straight up, pawing the air--then fell backward, stone-dead.

Hardly had the double report died away when our attention was attracted to a movement on the other side of the stream. Tawiah pointed.

“Oolah! tiger him piccin!” (“Master, the leopard’s cubs”), he cried. Slinking away downstream, with long, stealthy strides, their muzzles to the ground and tails trailing low, were two half-grown leopards, the head of one level with the other’s haunch.

“Tally-ho!” cried Strange, and let fly at them. His one fault as a sportsman was a too great eagerness to get the first shot in. The white splinters flew from the buttress of a great cotton-wood, and the nearer cub, startled as never before, leapt a man’s height from the ground, and, coming down, raced away downstream after its companion.

“Come on! We’ll bag the whole family,” said Strange, jumping into the stream. Otibu Daku was already across and I was about to follow, when I noticed, fluttering up the farther slope, one of those beautiful insects called the “dead leaf” butterfly. You will see one fluttering along like a fugitive piece of rainbow--then suddenly it will alight on a withered branch or heap of dead herbage and disappear, the underside of the wings being in shape, colour, and even veining an exact imitation of a withered leaf.

I was an enthusiastic collector, and never went out without a folding net that could be fixed to any fairly straight stick. Bidding Tawiah remain with me, then, I let the others go on after the cubs, and in a couple of minutes was in pursuit of my own particular quarry. The slope was nearly bare of bush, and I did not have much difficulty in making the capture. Placing it in a flat box containing some poison-wax, I took my rifle from Tawiah and went on up the hill, leaving him tying up a scratch on his leg.

I was not quite easy in my mind. We had been too hasty in concluding that the cubs we had seen belonged to the leopards we had shot. They had been driven away too easily, and most likely were heading straight for their own den, where, at that time of day, the old ones would certainly be at home.

I hurried on in the hope of getting some indication of my friend’s whereabouts. At the top of the ascent a soft breeze met me, it was pleasant and refreshing, but it brought that with it that made me drop flat behind a bush and throw my rifle forward. There is no mistaking the odour given off by the larger carnivora, and the strength of the smell that assailed my nostrils was such as to convince me that my first hasty thought--that I had headed off the cubs--was wrong. Such an effluvium could come only from a den, and an occupied one at that.

There were three possibilities. It might be the home of the dead leopards, of the strange cubs we had seen, or the lair of yet a third family. I looked back. Tawiah was not in sight, but I knew he would follow. In front, for a hundred yards, the level crest of the ridge was covered by a sparse, wand-like growth that was no impediment to the view. Beyond the ground fell away again, and just on the edge, and rather to my right, stood two enormous cotton-woods, the space between them being a labyrinth of roots standing thigh-high from the ground.

To this point, with what speed and silence I could command, I made my way. Midway I stopped abruptly to listen. A deep snarling, worrying sound filled the air, coming from straight ahead. Reaching the nearest root, I looked over. The rapidly falling ground beyond was hidden by a far-sweeping buttress from the tree on my left, which, running parallel with the one I stood against, made a passage about four feet wide and two high. Stealing away to the left, where the nearer root sank below the surface, I entered the passage, and, on all fours, reached a point midway between the two trees. The noise I had before heard was now very distinct, and, blending with it, yet dominating it, came a continuous buzzing sound like the far-away roll of a drum. I knew it for the purring of a full-grown leopard.

Looking back, I was glad enough to see Tawiah reaching the level. I raised a warning hand, and, waiting only to see that he observed me, turned, and very cautiously looked over the root in front. From where I crouched the ground fell away very steeply and was bare and stony. Then began a gentler slope covered with a low scrub and running down into a valley similar to, but larger than, the one we had just left. Down the centre flowed a stream, the same on whose banks, higher up, we had left the dead leopards. I was on a kind of spur, round which the stream made a bend away to my right. To my left it lost itself in an expanse of shallow water covered with great water-lilies, which merged in its turn into the stream of the Volta, half a mile away.

Just where the change of slope began was a great outcrop of rock. About a foot above the base, and facing me, was a ragged opening, and in this, with both paws hanging over the edge, lounged a fine she-leopard. The air hummed with her complacent purr, as, with blinking eyes, she watched the rough play of two well-grown cubs. Presently she rolled over on her back, and, with downward-hanging head, struck idly with a mighty paw at a white butterfly flitting above her. She was the personification of soft and sinuous strength.

Suddenly, away to the right, a shot rang out. The purring ceased, and instantly the great cat was couched, rigid as a bronze casting. Except for the tip of her tail, not a muscle moved. Presently the tense expression relaxed, and with a guttural sort of sigh her head dropped on to her paws. But only for an instant. The stealthy rustling of something approaching reached her ears, and she resumed her alert attitude. Then her eyes half closed again, and she seemed to go smooth all over. A suave, fawning expression came into her face; her purring redoubled; she rolled softly on to her side and gazed intently in the direction of the sound. The noise came nearer, and presently, as I expected, her mate appeared. He paused for an instant to look back, and at that moment Strange’s rifle spoke again, and the leopard sank down, biting savagely at his hind-quarters. With one movement as it seemed, and with a sort of deep-throated cough, his consort was by his side, and then began an awful duet of snarls and growls, rumblings and snufflings, with the cubs for chorus.

It was high time for me to take action; a wounded leopard and a leopardess with young can make themselves pretty awkward. I aimed at the female as being the more dangerous, and was about to pull the trigger, when a movement in the valley attracted my attention. One of the cubs we had first seen was tearing across the open, making for the stream. Some distance behind followed the other, evidently wounded. Close upon him ran Dansani, machete in hand. As I looked the cub turned and Dansani struck. Nyato was close behind, and level with him, but farther out, Otibu Daku stole swiftly with long, bent-kneed strides, his “long Dane” gun held across his body. Strange was not in sight.

The foremost cub was nearly at the stream when he raised a howl of fear or of warning, I do not know which. On the instant, from a clump of bushes on the farther side, there leapt two greyish-white forms. Clearing the stream, they charged straight down on the young Ashanti.

All this was photographed on my brain while my finger was on the trigger. The scene was blotted out as I fired, and from that moment I had enough on my hands to occupy my undivided attention. The leopardess was killed outright. The next instant I fired at the male, but one of the cubs gave a jump and received the bullet meant for his sire. How the brute did it I do not know--for he had a broken thigh-bone--but next moment the old leopard was tearing up the slope towards me, and very business-like he looked. I fired again and clipped his ear; then his claws were hooked on to the root in front of me, and all I could do was to smash the butt, pile-driver fashion, down upon his head. He seized it in his jaws, and the hard wood cracked like pitch-pine, while the wrench nearly tore the weapon from my grasp. He gave me no time to reverse it for another shot, or to draw my revolver. Four times did he struggle to draw himself up, and but for his broken leg I could not have prevented him. Four times, luckily for me, he allowed his fury to vent itself on the rifle-butt. The struggle only lasted seconds, but it seemed hours, and already the fury of it made my breath come short.

And then the cub decided to take a hand! It had been pacing to and fro, snuffing the blood and growling; it then suddenly turned, and dashed straight to the scene of combat. A leopard cub by itself is not more than a man can manage, but as a reinforcement to an infuriated parent it is a serious matter. I heard Tawiah behind me.

“Take the piccin,” I yelled, and put all my strength into an effort to thrust my foe back. Instinctively he tried to use his injured leg, and this time he lost grip altogether, and his claws scraped down the root, making great furrows in the wood. I let him have the gun, and seized my revolver in time to plant a couple of bullets in his head as he came up again.

Meanwhile Tawiah had accounted for the cub, but he was badly clawed down the leg. To my surprise--for I did not remember the brute using his claws at all except to hold on by--my coat was ripped, and I had several nasty, but not severe, scratches down chest and arms.

Our attention was now diverted to the scene below, and what we saw sent us both down the slope as fast as we could race--Tawiah ahead. One cub lay dead--Dansani’s victim--and a few paces from it stood the young Ashanti, preparing to dodge the foremost of the parent leopards I had seen break cover. He sprang aside as it reached him, but the brute wheeled as if on a pivot and reared. Then came the crashing report of the “long Dane,” a fearful yell, and Dansani reeled away with his hands to his head, and fell. The leopard, roaring horribly, rolled over and over, apparently broken in two. Its mate, swerving at the report, turned and raced straight for Tawiah, who had just reached the level ground. I shouted to him to come back to me, thinking that revolver and spear together would match the furious brute, but apparently he did not understand, for, waving me to follow, he tore off to where, midway between him and the advancing leopard, stood a small Dequa palm. His object, I learnt afterwards, was to hold the leopard at bay there till help arrived. It was a mad idea, for the savage brute was covering three yards to one of his.

Just at that moment I caught sight of Strange--hobbling along, supported by his rifle, five hundred yards away; there was no help to be expected from him. Nyato was rushing on to settle with the remaining cub, that, screaming, was alternately dashing towards its wounded dam and back to the stream. Otibu Daku was carrying Dansani to the water, and the female leopard, her hind quarters straddling like those of a frog, with the small of her back blown away and reared on her front legs, was rending the air with the most awful yells.

The male passed the tree, and only about forty yards separated him from my faithful follower. I ran on. Trusting to luck, I fired two chambers, but without success. The distance between them decreased rapidly, and Tawiah, seeing the hopelessness of his position, grounded his spear, and, gripping it by the middle, backed up the butt with his knee in the hope that the brute would impale himself. Then I saw that Strange was kneeling, taking aim. He could never hit a running leopard at that range, I told myself; it would appear no bigger than a cat to him.

I was twenty yards behind Tawiah, and barely ten separated him from the leopard, when a ball of smoke floated away from Strange’s rifle. I dared not hope, and Tawiah remained like a rock. Then, suddenly, the leopard halted, and--for all the world like a kitten chasing its own tail--spun round and round till we could hardly tell one end from the other. I sent two bullets as near the centre as I could, and Tawiah, charging in, drove his spear in at one side and out at the other. The battle was over.

We found that Strange’s bullet had pierced the skin of the neck just where it joins the head, and had half stunned the animal. But what a glorious shot! I paced the distance to him; it was four hundred and sixty odd yards! He had made just a little too much allowance for speed, but what of that?

Strange, it appeared, had stepped on a loose stone and strained his ankle badly. Poor Dansani was horribly mauled. The beast had clawed him from the crown of his head to the knee in one awful sweep. Half the scalp overhung his face, one eye was destroyed, the muscle of the upper arm was in ribbons, and the stroke, glancing from the elbow, had laid open his thigh to the knee. A revolver-shot finished his assailant. We did what we could for Dansani on the spot, and Nyato and his father carried him home on a hastily-constructed litter. Later he recovered, but was terribly disfigured.

Tawiah and I took it in turns to help Strange along, and when we reached the spot where our first victims lay we found their young ones mewling over them. They slunk away, and we did not molest them. The cub Nyato had chased allowed self-preservation to triumph over filial affection, and got away also. My rifle was utterly ruined. And so ended our leopard hunt.

TURTLE-FARMING.

BY H. J. SHEPSTONE.

An interesting description of the way in which turtles are “farmed” in various parts of the world. The most up-to-date and scientifically-conducted of these curious establishments is that of Mr. Hattori, in Japan, where the snapping-turtle, the most vicious of his species, is bred and reared.

That strange creature, the turtle, is now receiving the attention of the farmer, and is being scientifically bred and reared in various parts of the world. Indeed, turtle-farming on a large scale is now carried on both in Japan and in America, while the great palisade enclosures on the shores in the West Indies, where turtles are confined until wanted for the London market, may well come under the same designation.

Curiously enough, the species of turtle favoured respectively by the Japanese, Americans, and by English people are totally different. For instance, the Japanese farmer gives his attention to the propagation of the snapping-turtle and American to the diamond-backed terrapin, while the turtle soup so much prized by the wealthy and sought after by the sick in this country is made from the green turtle of the West Indies.

The terrapin is quite a small creature, rather flat-backed and rounded in outline, its scales being marked by independent black patterns composed of many geometric figures placed one within another. At one time it was found in large quantities in the shallow bays and salt marshes along the Atlantic coast from Massachusetts to Texas. The discovery that its flesh made a delicious stew and an ideal soup, however, resulted in the creature being hunted so vigorously that to-day it is exceedingly scarce. Indeed, whereas a terrapin, seven inches in length, could be picked up a few years ago for a few cents, it would be difficult to secure one to-day for a five-pound note. It was this scarcity of the terrapin, and the big demand for it among the hotels and restaurants, that have led not a few enterprising men to establish farms, where these much-sought-after creatures are bred and reared for the market in large numbers.

The terrapin being small, perfectly harmless, and requiring but a little pond of salt water to dwell in, there is nothing particularly exciting in farming it. Indeed, a terrapin “farm” consists merely of a number of small ponds or basins in which the creatures are confined according to their age and size. Thus, in the smaller ponds, we discover those just hatched from the eggs--curious little things not much bigger than a billiard ball. As they breed well, and it is not necessary to keep the creature long before it is ready for the _chef_, terrapin farming may be described as a fairly remunerative business.

Decidedly more up-to-date are the snapping-turtle farms of Mr. Hattori, situated just outside Tokio, the capital of Japan. The Japanese people will proudly tell you that they are the only turtle farms in the world, but, as I have already shown, this is hardly correct. These farms were established some few years ago now, and are, without question, a great success. On an average, Mr. Hattori supplies to the hotels and restaurants of Japan over sixteen thousand turtles a year, while another five thousand are shipped to China. So far as the farm itself is concerned, it consists of a number of rectangular ponds, large and small, the larger ones having an area of fifteen to twenty thousand square feet.