I was twisting a
wrench on a roto-tiller about ten
o’clock that morn, and Rob ran up
yelling, “Bing’s dead!" He had dutifully gone to check the water
bucket, and found a quite dead sheep with a big gut pile strewn about, and
the old fella had been partially consumed.
The sheep was
sort-of a pet, a left over from a county fair eight years before when one
of the older kids couldn’t bear to see him auctioned off. That’s the
bad thing about “bummer lambs” and kids – the darn kids get attached to
them. Now the sheep purists out there are ready to lecture me, but
no matter. We used that sheep to control brush and grass like there
was no tomorrow. If you want to use that goat’s milk, don’t put them
on fire fuel reduction duty. So the arrangement between that sheep
and the rest of us was actually equitable.
Rob and I headed to
the carcass, and though we had bears around everyday, I noted the telltale
neck wounds characteristic of a lion kill. I was licensed this time,
a “just in case because this happened before thing”, but still couldn’t
believe what I was seeing. He had to have been killed early, maybe
within thirty minutes of Robbie putting him out. The lion may have
watched him do it. We were all out and busy by 7:30. Twice in
nine months? Zero times in the thirteen previous years? Was
this because the wolves were driving the lions off their kills?
Regardless, I had a problem – again.
Around five o’clock
that evening, we ate dinner and then brought the dogs into the house.
I grabbed a 45-70 Marlin levergun, and headed up where I had a good look
at the kill. For you guys who love hunting stories, I was using 325
grain Hornady “LeverRevolution” ammunition. Remember, there were
bears about.
I sat down in the
high grass and waited about 100 feet off, knowing that this could not be
allowed to continue. The kill had happened less than one hundred
yards from the house, in fairly open territory. That old sheep had
to weigh close to three hundred pounds, and not a one of us had a chance
if this cat changed menu items. This had to end.
I waited and waited,
hoping the cat would show before it became to dark to see. But then,
funny thoughts run through your head when you sit around a kill done by a
major predator. “Is he behind me?” “Is the wind right?”
“I kind of wish I wasn’t alone, or at least had eyes in the back of my
head.” You are out there doing the macho thing, what must be done,
but there is that almost pre-battle uncertainty to the whole affair.
And he may not even show.
As the evening
progressed towards night, I was ready to give up and head to the house.
I figured legal shooting hours were about over, and we live in a creek
bottom surrounded by mountains, so light flees pretty fast anyway. I
was getting kind of cramped up from two hours of motionlessness anyway,
and took one more, close look before I was going to leave.
A ghost of a shadow
became dusk visible, without a solitary sound made as he appeared in front
of the carcass. My thoughts were racing as I ever so slowly raised
the barrel until I had him centered, and then squeezed off the round.
I heard a series of growls as he bolted towards the darkness and cover of
the creek fifteen yards away. He didn’t make it.
This will never
happen again. Mark my words.
