Free Echoes From a Distant Land by Frank Coates Page A

and raked it across Sam’s chest.
    He heard Ira screaming, ‘ Ali! Shoot it! Shoot it! ’
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    When Ira saw the charging lioness in the viewfinder, it took a moment to register that this was not a movie, but reality. He had no sooner taken his eyes from behind the camera when the lioness struck him.
    As the animal tore at his arm, he felt no pain. It was a surreal experience. How could a mechanical engineer from the Bronx have a lioness biting on his arm? And then it was gone and he was in thedust while Sam had amazingly taken his place, wrestling the huge beast — an animal twice his size.
    Ira frantically searched for something to strike the lioness with and he saw Ali, standing a short distance away, gun at his side.
    â€˜ Ali! ’ he screamed at him. ‘ Shoot it! Shoot it! ’
    But Ali made no move. He was like a spectator at a boxing match: interested, but not involved.
    Ira scrambled to his feet and lunged for Ali’s rifle. He pointed it at the lioness, but she squirmed around in her frantic attempt to free herself of Sam’s grasp. For a moment he had Sam in the sights instead.
    Again the lioness turned and Ira took his chance. He squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened!
    He fumbled for the safety catch. He couldn’t find it.
    Suddenly there was a sharp crack!
    Hungerford stood over the lioness; there was a hole the size of his fist where once she’d had an ear.
    Sam climbed slowly to his feet, bloodied and shaken. He lifted the tripod high and plunged the three pointed feet into the dead lion’s chest.

CHAPTER 7
    With his right arm trussed in a sling, Ira had difficulty opening the water bottle, but eventually managed to pour Sam a tumblerful, and took it to him where he lay on the camp stretcher set up in his tent.
    Sam took it and lifted himself awkwardly onto his elbows. ‘Ira, please. I cannot drink when I am in bed,’ he pleaded. ‘May I sit for a while?’
    â€˜Very well, but just for a moment,’ Ira said, throwing the tent flaps back to let the warm afternoon breeze ruffle the mosquito netting draped across the entrance. Ira dragged two folding canvas chairs to the opening.
    Ira’s wound was relatively minor — the clean puncture marks of the lioness’s fangs were easily treated — but he was worried about Sam. The four deep claw marks carved into his chest were at great risk of becoming infected. According to Hungerford, lions had grooves running down the back of their claws that often retained small pieces of putrefying flesh from previous kills. He said claw wounds often became infected as a result and, although Ira had thoroughly cleaned them with permanganate of potash, it would take three days before they would know if Sam had blood poisoning.
    Hungerford suggested they make haste to Nairobi as a precaution.
    â€˜What happens if he gets blood poisoning out here?’ Ira had asked.
    Hungerford shook his head. ‘It depends on how strong he is. In the end there’s nothing we can do but wait. Or, if you’re so inclined, pray.’
    Ira regretted asking the question. It had been two days since the attack, and although they were still four days’ trek from Nairobi, he was confident all would be well, but was taking no chances. He arranged for Sam to ride with him on one of the wagons and, as soon as the men pitched his tent, he insisted that Sam take to his bed for a rest.
    Ira pulled a small panatela from his shirt pocket and snipped the end. He enjoyed the whole cigar ritual. It postponed and therefore heightened the enjoyment. He ran his tongue around the end and applied the flame. The aromatic blue smoke played in the mosquito netting before it was whisked away on the breeze.
    Ira puffed contentedly on the cigar; it was his fourth in two days. Although an irregular cigar smoker, Ira found they helped him to relax and to put the trauma of the lion attack behind him.
    â€˜Do you know what you did the