As we went from one of these a
war-horn, such as the Basutos use, was blown. Although I heard
it, oddly enough, I paid no attention to it at the time, being
utterly intent upon the business in hand.
Following a wounded buffalo bull up a tree-clad and stony kloof
is no game for children, as these beasts have a habit of
returning on their tracks and then rushing out to gore you. So I
went on with every sense alert, keeping Anscombe well behind me.
As it happened our bull had either been knocked silly or
inherited no guile from his parents. When he found he could go
no further he stopped, waited behind a bush, and when he saw us
he charged in a simple and primitive fashion. I let Anscombe
fire, as I wished him to have the credit of killing it all to
himself, but somehow or other he managed to miss both barrels.
Then, trouble being imminent, I let drive as the beast lowered
its head, and was lucky enough to break its spine (to shoot at
the head of a buffalo is useless), so that it rolled over quite
dead at our feet.
"You have got a magnificent pair of horns," I said, contemplating
the fallen giant.
"Yes," answered Anscombe, with a twinkle of his humorous eyes,
"and if it hadn't been for you I think that I should have got
them in more senses than one."
As the words passed his lips some missile, from its peculiar
sound I judged it was the leg off an iron pot, hurtled past my
head, fired evidently from a smoothbore gun with a large charge
of bad powder.
Pages:
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58