 CHAPTER XVII BUFFALO, BUSHFIRE AND WILD DOGS The summer slipped away, the full pulsed ratness of the year. Beauty and passion, sunshine and storm, Long spells of peace and gentleness, Of springing life and radiant glory, Short intervals of writless tempest And destructive storm. Among the messed Ibergreens of the woods, They stood out here and there, Brat spots of colour, The careless dabs from nature's artist hand, So and brown, orange and crimson, All vividly distinct, yet all in perfect harmony. The rivers, fed from the replenished mountain stalls, Ran full but clear, The days were bright, the nights were cold, The grass was rank and seeding, And it was time to go. Once more the bush felt beckoned us away. We picked a spot where grass and water were good, And waited for the rivers to fall. And it was while loitering there that a small hunting-party from the fields Making for the sabi came across us and camped for the night. In the morning two of our party joined them for a few days To try for something big. It was too early in the season for rarely good sport. The rank, tropical grass, six to eight feet high in most places, 12 to 14 in some, was too green to burn yet, And the start stems and heavy seed heads made walking as difficult As in a field of tangled sugarcane. For long stretches it was not possible to see five yards, And the dew in the early mornings was so heavy That after a hundred yards of such going, One was drenched to the skin. We were forced into the more open parts, The higher, stonier, more barren ground, Where just then the big game was by no means plentiful. On the third day two of us started out to try a new quarter In the hilly country rising towards the burg. My companion, Francis, was an experienced hunter, And his idea was that we should find the big game, Not on the hot, humid flats or the stony rises, But still higher up on the breezy hill-tops, Or in the cool shady Cliffs running towards the mountains. We passed a quantity of smaller game that morning, And several times heard the stampede of big animals, Fill the beer-sum water-buck, as we found by the spore, But it was absolutely impossible to see them. The dew was so heavy that even our hats were soaking wet, And times out of number we had to stop to wipe the water out of our eyes In order to see our way. A complete ducking would not have made the least difference. Jock fared better than we did, finding openings and game-tracks At his own level, which were of no use to us. He also knew better than we did what was going on ahead, And it was tantalizing in the extreme to see him slow down, And stand with his nose thrown up, giving quick, soft sniffs, And ranging his head from side to side, when he knew there was something quite close, And knew too that a few more toiling steps in that rank-gross Would be followed by a rush of something which we would never see. As we heard a foot-stamp, not twenty yards off, and stood for a couple of minutes on tip-toe, Trying to pierce the screen of grass in front, Absolutely certain that eyes and ears were turned on us in death-like silence, Waiting for the last little proof of the intruder that would satisfy their owners And start them off before we could get a glimpse. The silence must have made them suspicious. For at some signal unknown to us, the troop broke away, And we had the mortification to see something which we had ignored as a branch, Tilted slowly back and disappear. There was no mistaking in the kudu-bull's horns once they moved. After two hours of this we struck a stream, And there we made somewhat better pace, and less noise, Often taking to the bed of the creek for easier going. There too we found plenty of drinking-places, And plenty of fresh spore of the bigger game, And as the hills began to rise in view above the bush and trees, We found what Francis was looking for, Something caught his eye on the far side of the stream, And he waded in. I followed, and when halfway through, Saw the contented look on his face, and caught his words. Buffalo! I thought so! We sat down, then, to think it out. The spore told of a troop of a dozen to sixteen animals, Bulls, cows, and calves, Even in the soft moist ground at the stream's edge The water had not yet oozed into most of the prints. Fortunately, there was a light breeze from the hills, And as it seemed probable that in any case they would make that way for the hot part of the day, We decided to follow for some distance on the track, And then make for the likeliest put in the hills. The buffalo had come up from the low country in the night, On a course striking the creek diagonally in the drinking-place. Their departing spore went off at a slight tangent from the stream, The two trails making a very wide angle at the drinking-place, And confirming the idea that after their night's feed in the rich grass Lower down, they were making for the hills again in the morning, And had touched at the stream to drink. Jock seemed to gather from our whispered conversation and silent movements That there was work to hand, And his eyes moved from one face to the other as we talked, Much as a child watches the faces in a conversation it cannot quite follow. When we got up and began to move along the trail, He gave one of his little sideways balms, As if he half thought of throwing a somersault and restrained himself. And then with several approved waggings of his tail, Sittled down at once to business. Jock went in front. It was best so and quite safe, For whilst certain to spot anything long before we could, There was not the least risk of his rushing it or making any noise. The slightest whisper from me would have brought him to a breathless standstill at any moment. But even this was not likely to be needed, For he kept as close a watch on my face as I did on him. There was, of course, no difficulty whatever in following the spore. The animals were as big as cattle, And their trail through the ranked grass was as plain as a road. Hard difficulty was to get near enough to see them without being heard. Under the downtrodden grass there were plenty of dry sticks to step on, Any of which would have been as fatal to our chances as a pistol shot, And even the unavoidable rustle of the grass might betray us, While the buffalo themselves remained hidden. Thus our progress was very slow, A particularly troublesome impediment being the grass stems thrown down across the trail, By the animals crossing and re-crossing each other's spore, And stopping to crop a mouthful here and there or perhaps to play. The tumbuckey grass in these parts has a stem thicker than a lead pencil, More like a young bamboo than grass, And these stems thrown crossways by storms or game Make an entanglement through which the foot cannot be forced. It means high stepping all the time. We expected to follow the spore for several miles before coming on the buffalo, Probably right into the cloof towards which it appeared to lead, But were nevertheless quite prepared to drop onto them at any moment, Knowing well how game will loiter on their way when undisturbed, And vary their time and course, Instinctively avoiding the two regular habits which would make them an easy prey. Jock moved steadily along the trodden track, Sliding easily through the grass, Or jumping softly and noiselessly over impediments, And we followed, looking ahead as far as the winding course of the trail permitted. To the right and left of us stood the screen of tall grass, Bush and trees. Once Jock stopped, throwing up his nose, And stood for some seconds while we held our breath, But having satisfied himself that there was nothing of immediate consequence, He moved on again, rather more slowly as it appeared to us. I looked at Francis' face. It was pale and set like marble, And his watchful grey eyes were large and wide like an antelopes, As though opened up to take in everything, And those moments of intense interest and expectation Were the best part of a memorable day. There was something near. We felt it. Jock was going more carefully than ever with his head up most of the time, And the feeling of expectation grew stronger and stronger Until it amounted to absolute certainty. Then Jock stopped. Stopped in mid-stride, not with his nose up-ranging percent, But with head erect, ears cocked, and tail poised dead still. He was looking at something. We had reached the end of a grass where the bush and trees of the mountain slope had choked it out, And before us there was fairly thick bush mottled with black shadows And patches of bright sunlight in which it was most difficult to see anything. There we stood like statues, The dog in front with the two men abreast behind him all peering intently. Twice Jock slowly turned his head and looked into my eyes, And I felt keenly the sense of hopeless inferiority. There it is. What are you going to do? Was what the first look seemed to say, And the second, well, what are you waiting for? How long we stood thus it is not possible to say. Time is no measure of such things, And to me it seemed unending suspense. But we stood our ground scarcely breathing, Knowing that something was there, Because he saw it and told us so, And knowing that as soon as he moved it would be gone. Then close to the ground there was a movement. Something swung, And the full picture flashed upon us. It was a buffalo calf standing in the shade of a big bush, With its back towards us, And it was the swishing of the tail that had betrayed it. We dared not breathe a word or pass a look. A face turned might have caught some glint of light, And shown us up. So we stood like statues, Each knowing that the other was looking for the herd, And would fire when he got the chance At one of the full-grown animals. My eyes were strained and burning From the intensity of the effort to see. But except the calf, I could not make out a living thing. The glare of the yellow grass in which we stood, And the sun-splotched darkness beyond it beat me. At last, in the corner of my eye, I saw Francis' rifle rise As slowly, almost, as the mercury in a warmed thermometer. There was a long pause. And then came the shot and wild snorts of alarm and rage. A dozen huge black forms started into life for a second And as quickly vanished, Scattering and crashing through the jungle. The first clear impression was that of Jock, Who, after one swift run forward for a few yards, Stood ready to spring off in pursuit, Looking back at me and waiting for the word to go. But at the sign of my raised hand, Opened with palm towards him, He subsided slowly and lay down flat With his head resting on his paws. "'Did you see?' asked Francis. "'Not until you fired. I heard it strike. What was it?' "'Hanged if I know. I heard it too. It was one of the bigons, but bull or cow. I don't know.' "'Where did you get it?' "'Well, I couldn't make out more than the black patch And the bush. It moved once, but I couldn't see how it was standing, End on or across. It may be hit anywhere. I took for the middle of the patch and let drive. "'But risky, eh?' Seems like taking chances. "'Well, it was no use waiting. We came for this!' And then added with a careless laugh. They always clear from the first shot If you get them at close quarters. But the funnel begin now. Expect he'll lay for us in the track somewhere.' "'That is the way of the wounded buffalo. We all knew that. And old Rocky's advice came to mind With a good deal of point. Keep cool, and shoot straight, or stay right home.' And jock's expectant watchful look smirked me with another memory. It was my dog. A few yards from where the buffalo had stood We picked up the blood-spoor. There was not very much of it. But we saw from the marks on the bushes here and there, And more distinctly on some grass further on, That the wound was pretty high up and on the right side. Crossing a small stretch of more open bush, We reached the dense growth along the banks of the stream. And as this continued up into the cliff, It was clear we had a tough job before us. Animals went badly wounded, nearly always leave the herd, And very often go downwind, so as to be able to scent And avoid their pursuers. This fellow had followed the herd upwind, And that rather puzzled us. A wounded buffalo in thick bushes considered to be About as nasty a customer as anyone may desire to tackle, For its vindictive, indomitable courage and extraordinary cunning Are a very formidable combination, As a long list of fatalities bears witness. Its favourite device, so old hunters will tell you, Is to make off downwind when hit, And after going for some distance come back again In a semi-circle to intersect its own spore, And there, under good cover, lie in wait For those who may follow up. This makes the sport quite as interesting as need be, For the chances are more nearly even than they generally are in hunting. The buffalo chooses the ground that suits its purpose Of ambushing its enemy, and naturally selects a spot Where concealment is possible. But making every allowance for this, It seems little short of a miracle, That the huge black beast is able to hide itself so effectively That it can charge from a distance of a dozen yards Onto those who are searching for it. The secret of it seems to lie in two things, First absolute stillness, and second breaking up the colour. No wild animal, except those protected by a distance In open country, will stand against a background Of light or of uniform colour, nor will it as a rule Allow its own shape to form an unbroken patch Against its chosen background. They work on nature's lines. Look at the ostrich, the cock, black and handsome, So strikingly different from the commonplace grey hen. Considering that for periods of six weeks at a stretch They are anchored to one spot hatching the eggs, Turn and turn about, it seems that one or other Must be an easy victim for the beast of prey, Since the same background cannot possibly suit both. But they know that too, so the grey hen sits by day And the black cock by night. And the ostrich is not the fool that it's thought to be Bearing its head in the sand. Knowing how the long stem of a neck will catch the eye, It lays it flat on the ground, as other birds do When danger threatens the nest or brood, And concealment is better than flight. That tame chicks will do this in a bear paddock Is only a laughable assertion of instinct. Look at the zebra. There is nothing more striking, nothing that arrests The eye more sharply in the zoo, than this vivid contrast Of colour. Yet, in the bush the wavy stripes of black and white Are a protection, enabling him to hide at will. I have seen a vildobious effectually hidden By a single blighted branch. A kudubul by a few twisty sticks A crutching lion by a wisp of feathery Grass no higher than one's knee No bigger than a vase of flowers. Yet the marvel of it is always fresh. After a couple of hundred yards of that sort of going We changed our plan, taking to the creek again And making occasional cross-cuts to the trail To be sure he was still ahead. It was certain then that the buffalo was following the herd And making for the poot, and as he had not stopped Once on our account, we took to the creek after The fourth cross-cut and made what pace we could To reach the narrow gorge where we reckoned to pick up This bore again. There are, however, few short cuts and no certainties in hunting. When we reached the poot, there was no trace to be found Of the wounded buffalo. The rest of the herd had passed in, but we failed to find blood Or other trace of the wounded one, and jock was clearly as much At fault as we were. We had overshot the mark, and there was nothing for it But to hark back to the last blood-spoir, and by following It up, find out what had happened. This took over an hour, for we spoiled him then with the utmost caution, Being convinced that the buffalo, if not dead, was badly wounded And lying in wait for us. We came on his stand in a well-chosen spot, where the game path took a sharp turn Around some heavy bushes. The buffalo had stood not where one would naturally expect, In the dense cover which seemed just suited for his purpose, But among latter bush, on the opposite side, and about twenty yards Nearer to us. There was no room for doubt about his hostile intentions, and when We recalled how we had instantly picked up the thick bush on the Lift, to the exclusion of everything else, as the spot to be watched, His selection of more open ground on the other side, and nearer to Us seemed so fiendishly clever that it made one feel cold and Creepy. When hesitates to say it was deliberately planned, yet, plan, Instinct, or accident, there was the fact. The mocks showed us he was badly hit, that there was no broken limb, And no doubt he was good for some hours yet. We followed along the spore more cautiously than ever, and when We reached the sharp turn beyond the thick bush, we found that The path was only a few yards from the stream, so that on our Way up the bed of the creek we had passed within twenty yards Of where the buffalo was waiting for us. No doubt he had heard us as we walked past, and had winded us Later on when we got ahead of him into the put. What had he made of it? What had he done? Had he followed up to attack us? Was he waiting somewhere near, or had he broken away into the Bush on finding himself headed off? These were some of the questions we asked ourselves as we Cripped along. Well what he had done did not answer our question. On reaching the put again we found his spore, freshly made since We had been there, and he had walked right along through the Gorge without stopping again, and gone into the coof beyond. Whether he had followed us up when we got ahead of him, hoping to Stalk us from behind, or had gone ahead expecting to meet us Coming down when to look for him, or when he heard us Pass downstream again, and it may be thought we had given up Pursuit, had simply walked on after the herd, were questions Never answered. A breeze had risen since morning, and as we approached the hills It grew stronger. In the put itself it was far too strong for our purpose the Wind coming through the narrow opening like a forced draft. The herd would not stand there, and it was not probable that The wounded animal would stop until he joined the others or Reached a more sheltered face. We were keen on the chase, and as he had about an hour's start Of us, and it was already midday, there was no time to waste. Inside the put, the coof opened out into a big valley away to Our left, our left being the right bank of the stream, and Bordering the valley on that side there were many miles of Timbered coofs and green slopes, with a few cappa-crawls Visible in the distance, but to the right the formation was Quite different and rather peculiar. The stream, known to the natives as slambagnati, or Buffalo's bathing-place, had in the course of time shortened Its course to the put by eating into the left bank, thus Leaving a high and in most places inaccessible terrace above It on the left side, and a wide stretch of flat alluvium on The right. This terrace was bounded on one side by the steep bank of The creek, and walled in on the other side by the precipitous Crances of the mountains. At the top end it opened out like a fan which died away in a Freight edge in the numberless small coofs and spurs, fringing The amphitheatre of the hills. The shape was in fact something like the human arm in hand with The fingers outspread. The elbow was the put, for arm the terrace, except that The terrace was irregularly curved, and the fingers the Small coofs in the mountains. No doubt the haunts of one of the buffalo were away in the Fingers, and we worked steadily along the spurs in that Direction. Game paths were numerous and very irregular, and the place was A perfect jungle of trees, bush, bramble, and the tallest Rankest grass. I have ridden in that valley many times since then, Through grass standing several feet above my head. It was desperately hard work, but we did want to get the Buffalo, and although the place was full of game, and we put Up kudu, buildebius, ritbuck, bushbuck, and daika, we held to The wounded buffalo's spurs, neglecting all else. Just before ascending the terrace we heard the curious, Far-travelling sound of caffers calling to each other from A distance, but except for a passing comment, paid no Heed to it and passed on. Later we heard it again and again, and at last, when We happened to pause in a more open portion of the bush after We had gone half-way along the terrace, the calling became so Frequent and came from so many quarters that we stopped to take Note. Francis, who spoke Zulu like one of themselves, at last made Out a word or two which gave the clue. They're after the wounded buffalo, he said. Come on, man, before they get their dogs, or we'll never See him again. Knowing then that the buffalo was a long way ahead, we Scrammeled on as fast as we could whilst holding to his track, But it was very hot and very rough, and, to add to our troubles, Smoke from a grass-fire came driving into our faces. Niggers burning the slopes can found them! Francis growled. They habitually fire the grass in patches during the Summer and Autumn, as soon as it is dry enough to burn, in Order to get young grass for the winter or the early spring, And although the smoke worried us, there did not seem to be Anything unusual about the fire. But ten minutes later we stopped again. The smoke was perceptibly thicker. Birds were flying past us down wind with numbers of locusts And other insects. Two or three times we heard buck and other animals break back, And all were going the same way. Then the same thought struck us both. It was stamped in our faces. This was no ordinary mountain grass-fire. It was the bush. Francis was a quiet fellow, one of the sorted as well not to Rouse. His grave is in the bush-field, where his unbeaten record Amongst intrepid lion-hunters was made, and where he fell in the Wall, leaving another and greater record to his name. The blood rose slowly to his face, until it was brooky red, And he looked an ugly customer, as he said. The brutes have fired the valley to burn him out! Come on, quick! We must get out of this, onto the slopes! We did not know, then, that there were no slopes, only a Precipitous face of rock with dense jungle to the foot of it, And after we had spent a quarter of an hour in that effort, We found our way blocked by the cramps and a tangle of Undergrowth much worse than that in the middle of the Terrace. The noise made by the wind in the trees and our Struggling through the grass and bush had prevented our Hearing the fire at first, but now its ever-growing Raw drowned all sounds. Ordinarily there would have been no real difficulty in avoiding A bush fire, but pinned in between the river and the Precipice, and with miles of dense bush behind us, it was Not at all pleasant. Had we turned back even then and made for the put, it Is possible we might have travelled faster than the fire, But it would have been rough work indeed, moreover it Would have been going back, and we did want to get the Buffalo, so we decided to make one more try towards the river This time. It was not much of a try, however, and we had gone no Further than the middle of the Terrace again when it became Alarmingly clear that this fire meant business. The wind increased greatly, as it always does once a Bush fire gets a start. The air was thick with smoke and full of flying things. In the bush and grass about us there was a constant Scurrying. The terror of Stampede was in the very atmosphere. A few words of consultation decided us, and we started to burn A patch for standing-room and protection. The hot sun and strong wind had long evaporated all the dew And moisture from the grass, but the sap was still up, and The fire, our fire, seemed cruelly long in catching on. With bundles of dry grass for brands, we started burns In twenty places over a length of a hundred yards, and Each little flame licked up, spread a little, and then Inhesitated or died out. It seemed as if ours would never take, while the other came on With roars and leaps, sweeping clouds of sparks and ash over us In the dense rolling mass of smoke. At last a fierce rush of wind struck down on us, and in a few Seconds each little flame became a living demon of destruction. Another minute and the stretch before us was a field of swaying flame. There was a sudden roar and quackle as of musketry, and the whole mass Seemed lifted into the air in one blazing sheet. It simply leapt into life, and swept everything before it. When we opened our scorch-eyes, the ground in front of us was all black, With only hair and there odd lights and torches dotted about it, Like tapers on a pole, and on ahead beyond the trellis-work of bare scorched trees, The wall of flame swept on. Then down on the wings of the wind came the other fire, and before it fled Every living thing. Heaven only knows what passed us in those few minutes when a broken stream Of terrified creatures dashed by, hardly swerving to avoid us. There was no coherent picture left of that scene, just a medley of Impressions linked up by flashes of unforgettable vividness. A herd of kudu came crashing by. I know there was a herd, but only the first and last will come to mind. The space between seems blurred. The clear impressions are of the kudu-bul in front, with nose-art thrust, Eyes shut against the bush, and great horns laid back upon the withers, As he swept along, opening the way for his herd. And then as they vanished, the big ears, ewe neck, and tilting Hind-quarters of the last cow, between them nothing but a mass of moving grey. The wildebeest went by an Indian foul, uniform in shape, colouring horns, and strangely uniform in their mechanical action, lowered heads, and fiercely determined rush. A writ-buck ram stopped close to us, looking back wide-eyed and anxious, and whistled shrilly, and then canted on, with head erect and white-tail flapping, but its mate neither answered nor came by. A terrified hare with its ears laid flat, scuttled past within a yard, of Francis and did not seem to see him. One of us, scared-bird-swipped, all fluttered down wind, while others again came up swirling and swinging about, darting boldly through the smoke to catch the insects driven before the fire. But what comes back with the suggestion of infinitely pathetic helplessness is the picture of a beetle. We stood on the edge of our burn, waiting for the ground to cool, and at my feet a pair of toki-beetles, hump-backed and bandy legs, came toiling slowly and earnestly along. They reached the edge of our burn, touched the warm ash, and turned patiently aside to walk round it. A school of chattering monkeys raced out into the black and flat, and screamed shrilly with terror as the hot earthen cinders burnt their feet. Porcupine, antbear, meerkat. They are vague, so vague that nothing is left but the shadow of their passing, but there is one other thing seen in a flash as brief as the others, for a second or two only but never to be forgotten. Out of the yellow grass, high up in the waving tops, came sailing down on us the swaying head and glittering eyes of a black mamba, swiftest, most vicious, most deadly of snakes. Francis and I were not five yards apart, and it passed between us, giving a quick, chilly, beady look at us, pitiless and hateful, and one hiss as the slithering tongue shot out, and that was all, and it sailed past with strange, effortless movement. How much of the body was on the ground propelling it, I cannot even guess, but we had to look upwards to see the head as the snake passed between us. The scorching breath of the fire drove us before it onto the baked ground, inches deep in ashes and glowing cinders, where we kept marking time to ease our blistering feet. Our hats were pulled down to screen our necks as we stood with our backs to the coming flames. Our flannel shirts were so hot that we kept shifting our shoulders for relief. Jock, who had no screen, and whose feet had no protection, was in my arms, and we strove to shield ourselves from the furnace blast with the branches we had used to beat out the fire round the big tree, which was our main shelter. The heat was awful. Live brands were flying past all the time, and some struck us. Myriads of sparks fell around and on us, burning numberless small holes in our clothing, and dotting blisters on our backs. Great sheets of flame leaping out from the driving glare, and attached by many yards from their source, were visible for quite a space in front of us. Then, just at its maddest and fiercest, there came a gosp and sob. And the firedevil died behind us as it reached the black bare ground. Our burn divided it as an island splits the flood, and it swept along our flanks in two great walls of living, leaping, roaring flame. 200 yards away there was a bare yellow place in a world of inky black, and to that haven we ran. It was strange to look about and see the naked country all round us, where but a few minutes earlier the tall grass had shut us in. But the big bear and heap was untouched, and there we flung ourselves down, utterly done. Faint from heat and exhaustion, scorched and blistered, face and arms, back and feet, wary and foot sore, and with boots burnt through, we reached camp long after dark, glad to be alive. We had forgotten the wounded buffalo. He seemed part of another life. There was no more hunting for us. Our feet had gone in, and we were well content to sleep and rest. The burnt, stubbly ends of the grass had pierced the bake leather of our boots many times, and jock too had suffered badly, and could hardly bear to sit foot to the ground the next day. The best we could hope for was to be sound enough to return to our wagons in two or three days' time. The camp was under a very large wild fig tree whose dense canopy gave us shade all through the day. We had burnt the grass for some twenty or thirty yards round as a protection against bushfires, and as the trees and scrub were not thick just there it was possible to see in various directions, rather further than one usually can in the bushfield. The big tree was a good fair landmark by day, and at night we made a good fire, which owing to the position of the camp one could see from a considerable distance. These precautions were for the benefit of strayed or belated members of the party, but I mention them because the position of the camp and the fire brought us a strange visit to the last night of our stay there. There were, I think, seven white men, and the moving spirit of the party, old Teddy Blacklow of Ballarat, was one of the old alluvial diggers, a warm-hearted, impulsive, ever-young old boy, and a rare good sportsman. That was Teddy, the man in muddy moleskins, who stretched off the hand of friendship when the boy was down and said, You come along a me, one of God's sort. Teddy's spirits were always up. His presence breathed a cherry optimism on the blankest day. His humour lighted everything. His stories kept us going, and his language was a joy for ever. In a community in which such things savoured of eccentricity, Teddy was an abstainer, and never swore. But if actual profanity was avoided, the dear old boy all unconsciously afforded strong support to those who hold that a man must find relief in vigorous expression. To do this without violating his principles he invented words and phrases, meaningless in themselves but in general outline, so to say, resembling the worst in vogue, and the effect produced by them upon their sensitive was simply horrifying. Teddy himself was blissfully unconscious of this, for his language, being scrupulously innocent, was deemed by him to be suited to all circumstances and to every company. The inevitable consequence was that the first impression produced by him on the few women he had ever met was that of an abandoned old reprobate whose scant veil of disguise only made the outrage of his language more marked. Poor old Teddy. Most and gentlest and dearest of souls. How he would have stared at this, speechless with surprise, and how we used to laugh at what someone called his glittering profanities. Pity it is that they too must go, for one dare not reproduce the best of them. It was between eight and nine o'clock on the last day of our stay. Francis and I were fit again, and jocks feet, thanks to care and washing, and plenty of costar oil, no longer troubled him. We were examining our boots, resold now with raw hide in the rough but effective felt fashion. Teddy was holding forth about the day's chase whilst he cut away the pith of a kurru's horns and scraped the skull. Others were busy on their trophies too, and the caffers round their own fire were keeping up the simultaneous gavel characteristic of hunting boys after a good day and with plenty of meat in camp. I was sitting on a small camp stool, critically examining a boot, and wondering if the dried hide would grip well enough to permit of the top lacing's being removed. And jock was lying in front of me, carefully licking the last sore spot on one forepaw, when I saw his head switch up suddenly, and his whole body set hard in a study of intense listening. Then he got up and trotted bristly off some ten or fifteen yards, and stood, a bright spot picked out by the glare of the campfire, with his back towards me and his uneven ears topping him off. I walked out to him, and silence fell on the camp, all watched and listened. At first we heard nothing. But soon the call of a wild dog explained jock's movements. The sound, however, did not come from the direction in which he was looking, but a good deal to the right, and as he instantly looked to this new quarter I concluded that this was not the dog he had previously heard, or else it must have moved rapidly. There was another wet, and then there followed calls from other quarters. There was nothing unusual in the presence of wild dogs. Mayenas, jackals, wild dogs, and all the smaller beasts of prey were heard nightly. What attracted attention in this case was the regular calling from different points. The boys said the wild dogs were hunting something, and calling to each other to indicate the direction of the hunt, so that those in front might turn the buck, and by keeping it in a circle enable fresh or rested dogs to jump in from time to time, and so, eventually, wear the poor hunted creature down. This, according to the natives, is the system of the wild pack. When they cannot find easy prey in the young, weak or wounded, and are forced by hunger to hunt hard, they first scatter widely over the chosen area where game is located, and then one buck is chosen, the easiest victim, a you with young for choice, and cutting it from the herd they follow that one, and that alone with remorseless invincible persistency. They begin the hunt knowing that it will last for hours, knowing too that in speed they have no chance against the buck, and when the intended victim is cut out from the herd, one or two of the dogs, so the natives say, take up the chase, and with long easy gullip keep it going, giving no moments rest for breath. From time to time they give their word peculiar call, and others of the pack, posted afar, head the buck off to turn it back again. The fresh ones then take up the chase, and the first pair drop out to rest and wait, or follow slowly until their chance and turn come round again. There is something so hateful in the calculated pitiless method, that one feels at a duty to kill the cruel brutes whenever a chance occurs. The hunt went on round us, sometimes near enough to hear the dog's ego cries quite clearly, sometimes so far away that for a while nothing could be heard, and jock moved from point to point in the uttermost circle of the campfire's light nearest to the chase. When at last hunters and hunted completed their wide circuit around the camp, and passed again the point where we had first heard them, the end seemed near, for there were no longer single calls widely separated, but the voices of the pack in hot, close chase. They seemed to be passing half a mile away from us, but in the stillness of the night sounds travel far, and one can only guess. Again a little while, and the cries sounded nearer as if coming from one quarter, not moving round us as before, in a few minutes more, and it was certain they were still nearer, and coming straight towards us. We took our guns then, and I called jock back to where we stood, under the tree with our backs to the fire. The growing sounds came on out of the night where all was hidden, with the weird crescendo effect of a coming flood. We could pick them out then, the loud ahasha cries, the crashing through the bush, the rush in the grass, the sobbing gasps in front, and the hungry panting after. The hunt came at us like a cyclone out of the stillness, and in the forefront of it they are burst into the circle of light and impala you, with mouth open and haunting, hunted, desperate eyes and wide-spread ears, and the last staggering strides bought her in amongst us, tumbling at our feet. A katha jumped out with an asagaya loft, but Teddy, with a spring of a tiger and a yield of rage, swung his rifle round and down on asagaya arm and head, and dropped the boy in his tracks. Gosh! Duh! Krimini! What the heck are you up to? And the fiery, soft-hearted old boy was down to his knees in a second, panting with anger and excitement and threw his arms about the buck. The foremost of the pack followed hot foot close behind the buck, oblivious of fire and men, seeing nothing but the quarry and at a distance of five yards a mixed volley of bullets and asagais tumbled it over. Another followed, and again another, both fell where they had stopped a dozen yards away, puzzled by the fire and the shooting, and still more and more came on, but, warned by the unexpected check in front, they stopped at the clearing's edge, until over twenty pairs of eyes reflecting the fire's light shone out at us in a rough semicircle. The shotguns came in better then, and more than half the pack went under that night before the others cleared off. Perhaps they did not realise that the shots and flashes were not part of the campfire from which they seemed to come, perhaps their system of never relinquishing a chase had not been tried against the white man before. One of the wild dogs, wounded by a shot, seemed to go mad with agony and raced straight into the clearing towards the fire, uttering the strangest maniac-like yaps. Jock all along had been straining to go for them, from where I had jammed him between my feet as I sat unfired, and the charge of this dog was more than he could bear. He shot out like a rocket, and the collision sent the two flying apart, but he was on to the wild dog again, and had it by the throat before it could recover. Instantly the row of lights went out, as if switched off. They were no longer looking at us. There was a rustle and a sound of padded feet, and dim grey-looking forms gathered at the edge of the clearing, nearest where Jock and the wounded dog fought. I shouted to Jock to come back, and several of us ran out to help, just as another of the pack made a dash in. It seemed certain that Jock, gripping and worrying his enemy's throat, had neither time nor thought for anything else. Yet as the fresh dog came at him, he let go his grip of the other, and jumped to meet the newcomer. In mid-spring, Jock caught the other by the ear, and the two spun completely round, their positions being reversed. Then with another wrench as he landed, he flung the attacker behind him, and jumped back at the wounded one, which had already turned to go. It looked like the clean and easy movement of a finished gymnast. It was an affair of a few seconds only, for of course the instant we got a chance at the dogs without the risk to Jock, both were shot, and he, struggling to get at the others, was hailed back to the tree. While this was going on, the impaler stood with wide-spread legs, dazed and helpless, between Teddy's feet, just as he had placed it. Its breath came in broken, choking sobs, the look of terror and despair had not yet faded from the staring-eyes, the head swayed from side to side, the mouth hung open, and the tongue lolled out, all told beyond the power of words, the tale of desperate struggle and exhaustion. It drank greedily from the dish that Teddy held for it, emptied it, and five minutes later drank it again, and then lay down. For half an hour it lay there, slowly recovering, sometimes for spells of a few minutes it appeared to breathe normally once more. Then the heavy, open-mouthed panting would return again, and all the time Teddy kept on stroking or patting it gently, and talking to it, as if he were comforting a child, and every now and then bursting out with sudden, gusty execrations in his own peculiar style of wild dogs and caffers. At last it rose briskly, and standing between his knees looked about, taking no notice of Teddy's hands laid on either side and gently patting it. No one moved or spoke. Jock, at my feet, appeared most interested of all, but I'm afraid his views differed considerably from ours on that occasion, and he must have been greatly puzzled. He remained watching intently, with his head laid on his paws, his ears cocked, and his brown eyes fixed unblinkingly, and at each movement on the buck's part something stirred in him, drawing every muscle tense and ready for the spring, internal grips which were reflected in the twitching and stiffening of his head and back, but each time as I laid a hand on him, he slackened out again and subsided. We sat like statues as the impala walked out from its stall between Teddy's knees, and stood looking about wanderingly at the white faces and black, at the strange figures and at the fire. It stepped out quite quietly, much as it might have moved about here and there any peaceful morning in its usual haunts. The head swung about briskly, but unalarmed, and ears and eyes were turned this way and that in easy confidence and mild curiosity. With a few more steps, it threaded its way close to one sitting figure and round the bucket, stepped dently over Teddy's rifle, and passed the kudu's head unnoticed. It seemed to us, even to us and at the moment, like a scene in fairyland in which some spell held us, while the beautiful wild thing strolled about, unfrightened. A few yards away it stopped for perhaps a couple of minutes, its back was towards us in the fire, the silence was absolute, and it stood thus with eyes and ears for the bush alone. There was a warning whisk of the white tail, and it started off again, this time at a brisk trot, and we thought it had gone. But at the edge of the clearing it once more stood and listened, now and again the ears flickered and the head turned slightly one way or another, but no sound came from the bush. The arthrust nose was raised with gentle tosses, but no tent reached it on the gentle breeze. All was well. It looked slowly round, giving one long full gaze back at us which seemed to be good-bye and thank you. And canter-dart into the dark. End of Chapter 17. CHAPTER 18 OF JOCK OF THE BUSCHBELT This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. CHAPTER 18 SNOWBALL AND TZETZI Snowball was an old soldier. I say it with all respect. He had been through the wars. That is to say he had seen the ups and downs of life, and had learnt the equine equivalent of God helps those who help themselves, for Snowball was a horse. He was also an old soldier, but he was what you might call a gentleman-old soldier, with a sense of duty, and in his case the discipline and honour of his calling were not garments for occasion but part of himself. Snowball was no gentleman. He was selfish and unscrupulous, a confirmed choker, often absent without leave, and upon occasion a rank deserter, for which he last once narrowly escaped being shot. TZETZI belonged to my friend Hall, but Snowball was mine. What I know about him was learnt with mortification of the spirit and flesh, and what he could not teach in this way was over the head of the most indurated old dodger that ever lived. TZETZI had his peculiarities and prejudices. Like many old soldiers he was a stickler for etiquette, and did not like departures from habit and routine. For instance he would not under any circumstances permit mounting on the wrong side, a most preposterous stand for an old salted shooting-horse to take, and the cause of much inconvenience at times. On the mountains it often happened that the path was too narrow and the slope too steep to permit one to mount on the left side, whereas the sharp rise of the ground made it very easy on the right. But TZETZI made no lances for this, and if the attempt were made he would stand quite still until the rider was off the ground but not yet in the saddle, and then buck continuously until the offender shot overhead and went skidding down the slope. To one encumbered with a rifle in hand, and a kettle, and perhaps a couple of legs of buck slung on the saddle, TZETZI's protest was usually irresistible. Snowball had no unpractical prejudices. He objected to work. That was all. He was a pure white horse, goodness knows how old, with enormously long teeth. Every vestige of grey or other tinge had faded out of him, and his eyes had an aged and resigned look. One warmed to him at sight as a dear old pet of Dobbin, who ought to be passing his last years, grazing contentedly in a meadow, and giving bareback rides to little children. The reproach of his venerable look nearly put me off taking him. It seemed such a shame to make a dear old fellow work, but I hardened my heart, and, feeling rather abrupt, bought him because he was salted, and would live in the bush felt. Besides that, all other considerations were trivial. Of course, he was said to be a shooting horse, and he certainly took no notice of a gun fired under his nose or from his back, which was all the test I could apply at the time. And then his legs were quite sound, his feet were excellent, he had lost no teeth yet, and he was in tip-top condition. What more could one want? He looks rather a fool of a horse, I had remarked dubiously to Joey the Smith, who was willing to let him go, and I can recall now the peculiar glint in Joey's eye, and the way he sort of steadied himself with a little cough before he answered feelingly, he's no fool, sonny, you won't get a cleverer horse as long as you live. And no more I did, as we used to say. Snowball had one disfigurement, consisting of a large, black swelling as big as a small orange behind his left eye, which must have annoyed him greatly. It could easily have been removed, and many suggestions were made on the subject, but all of them were firmly declined. Without that lump, I should have no chance against him. It was the weak spot in his defence. It was the only cover under which it was possible to stalk him, when he made one of his determined attempts to dodge or desert, for he could see nothing that came up behind him on the left side without turning his head completely round. Hence one part of the country was always hidden from him. And of course it was from this quarter that we invariably made our approaches to attack. So well did Snowball realise this, that when the old villain intended giving trouble, he would start off with his head swung away to the right, and went far enough away to graze in security, a hundred yards or so was enough, would turn right about and face towards the wagon or camp or wherever the danger quarter was. Then, keeping us well in view, he would either graze off sideways or from time to time walk briskly off to occupy a new place, with the right eye swung round on us like a searchlight. Against all this, however, it was only fair to admit that there were times when for days and even weeks at a stretch he would behave admirably, giving no more trouble than jocked it. Moreover, he had qualities which were not to be despised. He was as sound as a bell, very clever on his feet, never lost his condition, and although not fast, could last forever at his own pace. Experience taught me to take no chances with snowball. After a hard day, he was apt to think that enough was as good as a feast, and then trouble might be expected. But there really was no safe rule with him. He seemed to have moods. To get out of bed on the wrong side on certain days, and for no reason in the world, behaved with a calculated hostility that was simply maddening. Hunting horses live almost entirely by grazing, as it is seldom possible to carry any grain or other foods for them, and never possible to carry enough. And salted horses have therefore a particular value in that they can be turned out to graze at night, or in the morning and evening Jews, when animals not immunized will contract horse sickness. Thus they feed during the hours when hunting is not possible and keep their condition, when an unsalted horse would fall away from sheer want of food. According to their training, disposition and knowledge of good and evil, horses are differently treated when off-saddled. Some may be trusted without even a halter, and can be caught and saddled when and where required. Others are knee-halted. Others are hobbled by a strap coupling either both forefeet, or one forefoot and one hindfoot, with enough slack to allow walking, but not enough for the greater reach of a trot or gallop. Whilst some incorrigibles are both knee-halted and hobbles, and in this gallery Snowball figured upon occasion a mournful and injured innocent if appearances went for anything. It was not as a rule at the outspan where many hands were available that Snowball gave trouble, but out-hunting when I was alone or with only one companion. A trained shooting horse should stop as soon as his rider lays hand on Maine to dismount, and should remain where he has left for any length of time until his master returns. Some horses require the reins to be dropped over their heads to remind them of their duty, but many can safely be left to themselves and will be found grazing quietly where left. Snowball knew well what to do, but he pleased himself about doing it. Sometimes he would stand, sometimes move off a little way and keep moving just out of reach, holding his head well on one side so that he should not tread on the training reins or the long-waited three-peas which were attached to his bit for the purpose of hindering and catching him, sometimes with a troop of buck moving on a head or perhaps a wounded one to follow. This old sinner would write about face and simply walk off, only a few yards separating us with his ears laid back, his tail tucked down ominously, and occasional little liftings of his hind quarters to let me know what to expect, and his right eye on me all the while, and if I ran to head him off, he would break into a trot and leave me a little worse off than before, and sometimes in familiar country he would make straight away for the wagons without more ado. It was demoralizing in the extreme to be expecting a jerk when in the act of aiming, and Snowball, who cared no more for shooting than a deaf gunner, would plunge like a two-year-old when he was play-acting, and it was little better while creeping forward for a shot to hear your horse strolling off behind and realize that you have to hunt for him and perhaps walk many miles back to camp without means of carrying anything you may shoot. The result of experience was that I had to choose between two alternatives, either to hook him up to a tree or bush each time or hobble him with his reins, and so lose many good chances of quick shots when coming unexpectedly on game, or to slip an arm through the reins and take chance of being plucked off my aim or jerked violently backwards if I fired. But it was at the off-saddles on long journeys across country or during a rest in the day's hunt that trouble was most to be feared. And although hobbling is dangerous in a country so full of holes, stumps, and all sorts of grass-hidden obstacles, there were times when consideration for Snowball seemed mighty like pure foolishness, and it would have been no grief to me if he had broken his neck. To the credit of Snowball stands certain things, however, and it is but justice to say that when once in the ranks he played his part well, and it is due to him to say that during one hard season a camp of wagons with their complement of men had to be kept in meat. And it was Snowball who carried for short and long distances through dry, rough country at all times of day and night, hot, thirsty, and tired, and without a breakdown or a day's sickness, a bag that totaled many thousands of pounds in weight and the man who made the bag. That war-eyed brute of yours was launched at me in bitterness of spirits on many occasions when Snowball led the normally well-behaved ones astray, and it is curious to note how strength of character or clear purpose will establish leadership among animals as among men. Roy Lunt the Restless, when dissatisfied with the grass or in want of water, would cast about upwind for a few minutes and then with his hot eyeballs staring and nostrils well distended, choose his line, going resolutely along and only pausing from time to time to give a low moan for signal and allow the straggling string of unquestioning followers to catch up. When Roy Lunt had trick fever, there was no rest for herd boys, so too with old Snowball. He led the well-behaved astray and they followed him blindly. Had Snowball been a schoolboy, a wise headmaster would have expelled him for the general good and discipline of the school. On one long horseback journey through Swaziland to the coast, where few white men and no horses had yet been seen, we learned to know Snowball and said see well and found out what a horse can do when put up to it. It was a curious experience on that trip to see whole villages flee in terror at the first sight of these new strange animals, one brown and one white, and some places not even the grown men would approach, but too proud to show fear, they stood their ground with bronze faces blanching visibly and setting hard as we rode up. The woman fled with half stifled cries of alarm, and once when we came unexpectedly upon a party of naked urchins playing on the banks of a stream, the whole pack set a full cry for the water and jumping in like a school of alarmed frogs disappeared. Infinitely amused by the stampede, we rode up to see what had become of them, but the silence was absolute. For a while they seemed to have vanished altogether. Then a telltale ripple gave the clue, and under the banks among the ferns and exposed roots, we picked out little black faces half submerged and pairs of frightened eyes staring at us from all sides. They were not to be reassured either. The only effect produced by our laughing comments and friendly overtures being that the head which deemed itself pointedly addressed would disappear completely and remain so long out of sight as to make us feel quite smotherly and criminally responsible. It is in the rivers that a man feels the importance of a good horse with the start heart and his dependence on it. There were no roads and not even known tracks there, and when we reached the black ombaloozie, we picked a place where there was little current and apparently an easy way out on the opposite side. It was much deeper than it looked. However, we were prepared, and 30 yards of swimming did not trouble us. Yet it certainly was a surprise to us when the horses swam right up to the other bank without finding bottom and turning aside, began to swim upstream. Looking down into the clear depths, we saw that there was a sheer wall of rock two within a few inches of the surface. Now a horse with a man on his back swims low, only the head and half the neck showing above the water. And by what instinctal means the horse realizes the position, I do not know. But with little hesitation and apparently of one accord, they got back a yard or two from the ledge and raising first one forefoot and then the other, literally climbed out, exactly as a man or a dog does out of a swimming bath, hoisting their riders out with them without apparent difficulty. This was something which we had not thought possible, and to satisfy ourselves we dismounted and tried the depth, but the 10 foot reeds failed to reach the bottom. When it came to crossing the Crocodile River, we chose the widest spot in the hope that it would be shallow and free of rocks. We fired some shots into the river to scare the crocodiles and started to cross. But to our surprise, Zetsi, the strong, nerved and reliable, who always had the post of honor in front, absolutely refused to enter. The water of the crocodile is at its best of amber clearness, and we could not see the bottom. But the sloping grassy bank promised well enough and no hint reached us of what the horses knew quite well. All we had was on our horses, food, blankets, billy, rifles and ammunition. We were off on a long trip and, to vary or supplement the game diet, carried a small packet of tea, a little sugar, flour and salt and some beads with which to trade for native fowls and thick milk. The guns had to do the rest. Thus there were certain things we could not afford to wait, and these were used to wrap up in a Macintosh and carry high when it came to swimming. But this crossing looked so easy that it seemed sufficient to raise the packs instead of carrying part of them. Zetsi, who in his ordinary way, regarded the spur as part of the accepted discipline, promptly resented it when they seemed to him to be sufficient reason. And when Hall, astonished at Zetsi's unexpected obscenity, gave him both heels, the old horse considerably swung round away from the river and with a couple of neatly executed bucks, shot his encumbered rider off the raised pack, yards away on the soft grass, water bottle, rifle, bandolier and man, landing in a lovely tangle. I then put old Snowball to it, fully expecting trouble, but the old soldier was quite at home. He walked quietly to the edge, sat down comfortably and slid into the water, launching himself with scarce a ripple, just like an old hippo. That gave us the explanation to Zetsi's tantrum. The water came up to the seat of my saddle, and walking was only just possible. I stopped at once, waiting for Zetsi to follow, and Hall, prepared for another refusal, sat back and again used his spurs. No doubt Zetsi, once he knew the depth, was quite satisfied and meant to go in quietly, and the prick of the spur must have been unexpected, for he gave a plunge forward, landing with his forefeet in deep water and his hind-quarters still on the bank, and Hall shot out overhead, landing half across old Snowball's back. There was a moment of ludicrous but agonised suspense. Hall's legs were firmly gripping Zetsi behind the ear, while he sprawled on his stomach on Snowball's crapper, with the rain still in one hand and the rifle in the other. Doubled up with suppressed laughter, I grabbed a fistful of shirt and held on, every moment expecting Zetsi to hoist his head or pull back and complete the disaster, while Hall was spluttering out directions and entreaties and implications, but good old Zetsi never moved, and Hall, handing me the rifle, managed to swarm backwards onto Zetsi's withers and scramble onto the pack again. Then, saddled deep in the river, ducklings and crocodiles forgotten, we sat looking at each other and laughed till we egged. The river was about 300 yards wide there, with a good sandy bottom and of uniform depth, but to our disappointment, we found that the other bank, which had appeared to slope gently to the water edge, was in fact to sheer wall, standing up several feet above the river level. The beautiful slope which we had seen consisted of water grass and reed tops. The bank itself was of firm, moist clay, and the river bottom close under it was soft mud. We tried little way up and down, but found deeper water, more mud and reeds and no break in the bank. There was not even a luggavine slide, a game path or a drinking place. There seemed to be nothing for it, but to go back again and try some way else. Hall was bad to beat when he started on anything. He did not know how to give in, but when he looked at the bank and said, we'll have to have a shot at this, I thought at first he was joking. Later, to my remark that no horse ever born would face that, he answered that, anyway we could try, it would be just as good as hunting for more places of the same sort. I did not know the height of the bank as we were not thinking of records at that time, but there are certain facts which enable one to guess fairly closely. Tetsi was ranged up besides the bank and Hall standing in the saddle through his rifle and bandolier up and scrambled out himself. I then loosened Tetsi's girths from my seat on snowball and handed up the packed saddle, Hall lying down on the bank to take it from me. And we did the same with Snowball's load, including my own clothes, for, as it was already sundown, a ducking was not desirable. I loosened one sides of Tetsi's reins and after attaching one of mine in order to give the necessary length to them, threw the end up to Hall and he cut and handed me a long supple rod for a whip to stir Tetsi to the best of his endeavours. The water there was rather more than half a subtle flap high. I know that because it just left me a good expanse of hind quarters to aim at when the moment came. Now yelled Hall, up, Tetsi, up! And whack went the stick. Tetsi reared up right on end. He could not reach the top, but struck his forefeet into the moist bank near the top and with a mighty plunge that sourced Snowball and me went out. The tug on the leading rein on which Hall had thrown all his weight when Tetsi used its lever himself up had jerked Hall flat on his face but he was up in a minute and releasing Tetsi threw back the rein to get Snowball to face it while the example was fresh. Then for the first time we thought of crocodiles and the river was full of them but Snowball without someone behind him with a stick would never face that jump and there was nothing for it but to fire some scaring shots and slip into the water and get the job over as quickly as possible. Snarly I was with us. I had left jock at the wagons fearing that we would get into fly country on the Umbalousy and the back was too high and too steep for him. He huddled up against it half supported by reeds and whined plaintively. To our relief, Snowball faced the jump quite readily. Indeed the old sinner did it with much less effort and splash than the bigger Tetsi but then came an extremely unpleasant spell. Snowball got a scare because Hall in his anxiety to get me out rushed up to him on the warty side to get the reins off and the old ruffian waltzed around dragging Hall through the thorns while Snarly Yao and I waited in the water for help. At that moment I had a poorer opinion of Snowball and Snarly than at any other I can remember. I wished Snarly dead 20 times in 20 seconds. Crocodiles love dogs and it seemed to me a million to one that a pair of green eyes and a black snot must slide out of the water any moment drawn to us by those advertising whines. And the worst of it was I was outside Snarly with my white legs gleaming in the open water while his cringing form was tucked away half hidden by the reeds. What an age it seemed! How each reed shaken by the river breeze caught the eye giving me goose flesh and sending waves of cold shudders creeping over me. How the cold smooth touch of a reed against my legs made me want to jump and get out without with one huge plunge as the horses had done. And even when I had passed the struggling Yarlings Snarly up the few remaining seconds seemed painfully long. Hall had to lie flat and reach his furthest to grip my hand and I nearly pulled him in scrambling up the bank like a chased cat up a tree. When one comes to think it out the bank must have been nine feet high it was mighty unpleasant but it taught us what a horse can do when he puts his back into it. End of chapter 18 Chapter 19 of Jock of the Bushfield This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Read by Sally McConnell in Betteys Bay, South Africa in February 2010 Jock of the Bushfield by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick Chapter 19 Jocks Mistake Halfway between the Crocodile and Camarty Rivers a few miles south of the old road there are half a dozen or more small copies between which lie broad richly grassed depressions too wide and flat to be called valleys if the rich, lourmy soil has been washed out in places into dongers of considerable depth there is no running water there in winter but there are a few big pools long, narrow, irregularly shaped bits of water with shady trees around them. I came upon the place by accident one day and thereafter we kept it dark as our own preserves for it was full of game and a most delightful spot. It was there that Snolly Yard twice cleaned out the hunter's pot. Apart from the discovery of this preserve the day was memorable for the reason that it was my first experience of a big mixed herd and I learnt that day how difficult the work may be when several kinds of game run together. After a dry and warm morning the sight of the big pool had prompted an off saddle. Snowball was tethered in a patch of good grass and Jock and I were lying in the shade. When he began to sniff and walk upwind I took the rifle and followed and only a little way off we came into dry flay ground where there were few trees and the grass stood about waist high. Some 200 yards away where the ground grows slightly and the bush became thicker there was a fair-sized troop of impala perhaps a hundred or more and just behind and mostly to one side of them were between 20 and 30 Cessipi. We saw them clearly and in time to avoid exposing ourselves. They were neither feeding nor resting but simply standing about and individual animals were moving unconcernedly from time to time with an air of idle loitering. I tried to pick out a good Cessipi ram but the impala were in the way and it was necessary to crawl for some distance to reach certain cover away on the right. Crawling is hard work and very rough on both hands and knees in the bushfield. Frequent rests being necessary and in one of the pauses I heard a curious sound of soft padded feet jumping behind me and looking quickly about caught Jock in the act of taking his observations. The grass was too high for him to see over even when he stood up on his hind legs and he was giving jumps of slowly increasing strength to get the height which would enable him to see what was on. I shall never forget that first view of Jock's ballooning observations. It became a regular practice afterwards and I grew accustomed to seeing him stand on his hind legs or jump when his view was shut out. Indeed, sometimes when we were having a slow time I used to draw him by pretending to stalk something but it is that first view that remains a picture of him. I turned at the instant when he was at the top of his jump. His legs were all bunched up. His eyes staring eagerly and his ears had flapped out giving him a look of comic astonishment. It was at most surprisingly unreal sight. He looked like a caricature of Jock shot into the air by a galvanic shock. A sign with my hand brought him flat on the ground looking distinctly guilty and we moved on again but I was shaking with silent laughter. At the next stop I had a look back to see how he was behaving and to my surprise although he was carefully following close behind me he was looking steadily away to my immediate right. I subsided gently onto my left side to see what it was that interested him and to my delight saw a troop of 20 to 25 blue Vildobies. They too were standing anyway and evidently had not seen us. I worked myself cautiously round to face them so as to be able to pick my shot and take it kneeling thus clearing the tops of the grass but whilst doing this another surprising development took place. Looking hard and carefully at the Vildobies 200 yards away I became conscious of something else in between us and only half the distance of looking at me. It had the effect of a shock the disagreeable effect produced by having a book or picture suddenly thrust close to the face the feeling of wanting to get further away from it to refocus one's sight. What I saw was simply a dozen quacha all exactly alike all standing alike all looking at me all full faced to me they're four feet together their ears cocked and their heads quite motionless all gazing steadily at me alive with interest and curiosity. There was something quite ludicrous about it and something perplexing also. When I looked at the quacha the Vildobies seemed to get out of focus and were lost to me. When I looked at the Vildobies the quacha blurred and faded out of sight. The difference in distance perhaps as much as the very marked difference in the distinctive colourings threw me out and the effect of being watched also told. Of course I wanted to get a Vildobies but I was conscious of the watching quacha all the time and for the life of me could not help constantly looking at them to see if they were going to start off and stampede the others. Whilst trying to pick out the best of the Vildobies a movement away on the left made me look that way. The impala jumped off like one animal scaring the cissop into a scattering rot. The quacha switched round and thundered off like a stampede of horses and the Vildobies simply vanished. One signal in one troop had sent the whole lot off. Jock and I were left alone still crouching looking from side to side staring at the slowly drifting dust and listening to the distant dying sound of galloping feet. It was a great disappointment but the conviction that we had found a really good spot made some amends and snowball was left undisturbed to feed and rest for another two hours. We made for the wagons along another route taking in some of the newly discovered country in the home sweep and the promise of the morning was fulfilled. We had not been more than a few minutes on the way when a fine writbuck ran jumped up within a dozen yards of snowball's nose. Old Rocky had taught me to imitate the writbuck's shrill whistle and this one fell to the first shot. He was a fine big fellow and a snowball put on airs and pretended to be nervous when it came to packing the meat. I had to blindfold him and after hoisting the buck up to a horizontal branch lowered it onto his back. Snowball was villainously slow and bad to lead. He knew that whilst being led neither whip nor spur could touch him and when loaded up with meat he dragged along at a miserable walk one had to haul him. Once but only once I had tried driving him before me trusting to about 400 pound weight of kudu meat to keep him steady. But no sooner had I stepped behind with the switch than he went off with a cumbreous plunge and bucked like a frantic mule until he rid himself of the load saddle and all. The fact is one person could not manage him on foot. It needed one at each end of him and he knew it. Thus it worked out at a compromise. He carried my load and I went his pace. We were laboring along in this fashion when we came on the builder-bears again. A white man on foot seems to be recognised as an enemy but if accompanied by other animals either on horseback, driving in a vehicle, leading a horse or walking among cattle he may pass unnoticed for a long while. Attention seems to be fixed on the animals rather than the man and frank curiosity instead of alarm is quite evidently the feeling aroused. The builder-bears had allowed me to get close up and I picked up the big-ball and took the shot kneeling with my one toe hooked in the reins to secure Snowball taking the chance of being jerked off my aim rather than let him go but he behaved like an angel and once more that day a single shot was enough. It was a long and tedious job skinning the big fellow, cutting him up, hauling the heavy limbs and the rest of the meat up into a suitable tree and making all safe against the robbers of the earth and the air and most troublesome of all was packing the head and skin on Snowball who showed the profoundest mistrust of this dark ferocious-looking monster. Snowball and I had had enough of it when we reached camp well after dark but Jock, I am not so sure of, his invincible keenness seemed at times to have something in it of mutual approach the tinge of disappointment in those they love which great hearts feel and strive to hide. I never outstayed Jock and never once knew him to own up that he had had enough. No two days were quite alike yet many were alike in the sense that they were successful without hitch and without interest to any but the hunters. Many others were marked by chases in which Jock's part, most essential to success, too closely resembled that of other days to be worth repeating. On that day he had, as usual, been the one to see the builderbius and had given the word in time the rest was only one straight shot. That was fair partnership in which both were happy but there was nothing much to talk about. There was very little wanton shooting with us for when we had more fresh meat than was required, as often happened, it was dried as built on for the days of shortage which were sure to come. I started off early next morning with the boys to bring in the meat and went on foot giving snowball arrest more or less deserved. By nine o'clock the boys were on their way back and leaving them to take the direct route I struck away eastwards along the line of the pools not expecting much and least of all dreaming that fate had one of the worst days in store for us. From cloudless heavens her lightning's glance did not occur to my mind as we moved silently along in the bright sunshine. We passed the second pool loitering a few minutes in the cool shade of the evergreens to watch the green pigeons feeding on the wild figs and peering curiously at us then moved briskly into more open ground. It is not wise to step too suddenly out of the dark shade into strong glare and it may have been that act of carelessness that enabled the kudu to get off before I saw them. They canted away in a string with the cows in the rear between me and two full grown bulls. It was a running shot, end on, and the last of the troop, a big cow, gave a stumble but catching herself up again she canted off slowly. Her body was all bunched up and she was pitching greatly and her hind legs kept flying out in irregular kicks much as you may see a horse kick out when a blind fly is biting him. There was no time for a second shot and we started off in hot pursuit and fifty yards further on where there is a clear view I saw that the kudu was going no faster than an easy canter and jock was close behind. Whether he was misled by the curious action and believed there was a broken leg to grip or was simply overbold it is impossible to know. Whatever the reason, he jumped for one of the hind legs and at the same moment the kudu lashed out viciously. One foot struck him under the jaw close to the throat, whipped his head and neck back like a bent switch and hurled him, some assaulting backwards. I have the impression, as one sees oneself in a nightmare, of a person throwing up his arms and calling the name of his child as a train passed over it. Jock lay limp and motionless with the blood oozing from mouth, nose and eyes. I recollect feeling for his heartbeat and breath and shaking him roughly and calling him by name. Then remembering the pulnia by, I lift him in the shade of the tree, filled my hat with water, ran back again and poured it over him and into his mouth, shaking him again to arouse him and several times pressing his sides, bellows fashion, in a ridiculous effort to restore breathing. The old hat was leaky and I had to grip the rough cut of interlations to make it hold any water at all and I was returning with a second supply when with a great big heart jump I saw Jock heel over from his side and with his four legs flat on the ground raise himself to a resting position, his head wagging groggily and his eyes blinking in a very dazed way. He took no notice when I called his name but at the touch of my hand his ears moved up and the stumpy tail scraped feebly in the dead leaves. He was stone deaf but I did not know it then. He lapped a little of the water, sneezed the blood away and licked his chops and then with evident effort stood up. But this is the picture which it is impossible to forget. The dog was still so dazed and shaken that he reeled slightly, steadying himself by spreading his legs well apart and there followed a few seconds pause in which he stood thus. And then he began to walk forward with the uncertain staggering walk of a toddling child. His jaws were set close, his eyes were beady black and he looked fight all over. He took no notice of me and I never dreaming that he was after the kudu watched the walk quicken to a labored trot before I moved or called but he paid no heed to the call. For the first time in his life there was rank open defiance of orders and he trotted slowly along with his nose to the ground. And then I understood and thinking he was maddened by the kick and not quite responsible for himself and more than that admiring his pluck far too much to be angry I ran to bring him back but at a turn in his course he saw me coming and this time he obeyed the call and signal instantly and with a limp air of disappointment followed quietly back to the tree. The reason for jock's persistent disobedience that day was not even suspected then. I put everything down to the kick and he seemed to me to be all wrong but indeed there was excuse enough for him. Nevertheless it was puzzling that at times he should ignore me in positively contemptuous fashion and that others obey with all his old readiness. I neither knew he was deaf nor realized that the habit of using certain signs and gestures when I spoke to him and even of using them in place of orders when silence was imperative had made him almost independent of the word of mouth. From that day he depended wholly upon signs for he never heard another sound. Joch came back with me and lay down but he was not content. Presently he rose again and remained standing with his back to me looking steadily in the direction taken by the kudu. It was fine to see the indomitable spirit but I did not mean to let him try again and the kudu was as good as dead, no doubt. Yet a hundred kudu would not have tempted me to risk taking him out. To rest him and get him back to the camp was the only thought. I was feeling very soft about the dog then and while I sat thus watching him and waiting for him to rest and recover once more and almost within reach of me he started off again. But it was not as he had done before this time he went with a spring and a rush and with head lowered and meaning business. In vain I called and followed he outpaced me and lift me in a few strides. The kudu had gone along the right bank of the donger which commencing just below the pool extended half a mile or more down the flat valley. Joch's rush was magnificent but it was puzzling and his direction was even more so for he made straight for the donger. I ran back for the rifle and followed and he had already disappeared down the steep bank of the donger. When through the trees on the opposite side I saw a kudu car moving along at a slow cramped walk. The donger was a deep one with perpendicular sides and in places even overhanging crumbling banks. And I reached it as joch slipping and struggling worked his way up the other wall writhing and climbing through the tree roots exposed by the floods. As he rushed out the kudu saw him and turned. There was just a chance a second of time a foot of space before he got in the line of fire and I took it. One hind leg gave away and in the short side long stagger that followed joch jumped at the kudu's throat and they went down together. It took me several minutes to get through the donger and by the time the kudu was dead and joch was standing wide marled and panting on guard at its head the second shot had been enough. It was an unexpected and puzzling end and in a way not a welcome one as it meant delay in getting back. After the morning's experience there was not much inclination for the skinning and cutting up a big animal and I set to work gathering branches and grass to hide the carcass meaning to send the boys back for it. But the day's experiences were not over yet. A low growl from joch made me look sharply round to see half a dozen caffers coming through the bush with a string of mongrel hounds at their heels. So that was the explanation of the kudu's return to us. The natives, a hunting party, had heard the shot and coming along in hopes of meat had met and headed off the wounded kudu turning her back almost on her own tracks. There was satisfaction in having the puzzle solved but the more practical point was that there was all the help I wanted and the boys readily agreed to skin the animal and carry the four quarters to the camp for the gift of the rest. Then my trouble began with joch. He flew at the first caffa dogs that sneaked up to sniff the kudu. Shouting at him produced no effect whatever and before I could get hold of him he had mauled the animal pretty badly. After hauling him off I sat down in the shed with him beside me but there were many dogs and a succession of affairs and I knowing nothing of his deafness became thoroughly exasperated and surprised by poor old joch's behaviour. His instinct to defend our kills which was always strong was rather that day beyond control and his hatred of caffa dogs an implacable one in any case made a perfect fury of him. Still the sickening awful feeling that came over me as he lay limp and lifeless was too fresh and it was not possible to be really angry and after half a dozen of the dogs had been badly handled there was something so comical in the way they shared off and I jock that I could only laugh. They sneaked behind bushes and tried to circumvent him in all sorts of ways but fled precipitately as soon as he moved a step or lowered his head and humped his shoulders threateningly. Even the caffa owners who had begun to look glum broke into appreciative laughter and shouts of admiration for the white man's dog. Jock kept up an unbroken string of growls not loud of course but I could feel them going all the while like a volcano's rumbling as my restraining hand rested on him and when the boys came up to skin the kudu I had to hold him down and shake him sharply. The dog was mad with flight he bristled all over and no patting or talking produced more than a flicker of his ears. The growling went on the hair stood up the tail was quite unresponsive his jaws were set like a vice and his eyes shone like two black diamonds. He had actually struggled to get free of my hand when the boys began to skin and they were so scared by his resolute attempt that they would not start until I put him down between my knees and held him. I was sitting against a tree only three or four yards from the kudu and the boys who had lighted a fire in anticipation of early titbits which would grill while they worked were getting well along with the skinning when one of them saw fit to cause in order to hold forth in the native fashion on the glories of the chase and the might of the white man. Jock's head lowned his paws and his mouth was shut like a rat trap. His growling grew louder as the bombastic nigger all unconscious of the wicked watching eyes behind him waved his blood-stained knife and warmed to his theme. Great, you thought yourself! proclaimed the orator addressing the dead kudu in a long rigmarole which was only partly understood by me but evidently much approved by the other boys as they stooped to their work. Swift of foot and strong of limb but the white man came and there! I could not make out the words with any certainty but whatever the last word was it was intended as a dramatic climax and to lend additional force to this point the orator let fly a resounding kick on the kudu's stomach. The effect was quite electrical like an arrow from the bow Jock flew at him. The warning shot came too late and as Jock's teeth farsened in behind the terrified boy gave a wild bound over the kudu carrying Jock like a streaming coat tail behind him. The work was stopped and the natives drew off in grave consultation. I thought that they had had enough of Jock for one day and that they would strike work and leave me probably returning later on to steal the meat while I went for help from the wagons. But it turned out that the consultation was purely medical and in a few minutes I had an interesting exhibition of native doctoring. They laid the late orator out face downwards and one burly brother straddled him across the small of his back. Then after a preliminary examination of the forced slits left by Jock's fangs he proceeded to cauterize them with the glowing ends of sundry sticks which an assistant took from the fire and handed to him as required. The victim flapped his hands on the ground and hallowed out MY BUBBLE! MY BUBBLE! But he did not struggle and the operator toasted away with methodical indifference. The orator stood it well. I took Jock away to the big tree near the pool. It was evident that he too had had enough of it for one day.