The summer slipped away—the full-pulsed ripeness; of the year; beauty and passion; sunshine and storm; long spells of peace and gentleness, of springing life and radiant glory; short intervals¹ of reckless tempest and destructive storm! Among the massed evergreens² of the woods there stood out here and there bright spots of colour, the careless dabs³ from Nature’s artist hand; yellow and brown, orange and crimson⁴, all vividly⁵ distinct, yet all in perfect harmony. The rivers, fed from the replenished⁶ mountains’ stores, 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 Bushveld beckoned⁷ 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 really good sport. The rank tropical grass—six to eight feet high in most places, twelve to fourteen in some—was too green to burn yet, and the stout⁸ stems and heavy seed heads made walking as difficult as in a field of tangled⁹ sugar cane¹¹; 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 drenched¹² to the skin.
 
We were forced into the more open parts—the higher, stonier¹³, more barren ground where just then the bigger game was by no means plentiful¹⁴.
 
On the third day two of us started out to try a new quarter in the hilly country rising towards the Berg. 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 stony¹⁵ rises, but still higher up on the breezy hill tops or in the cool shady kloofs running towards the mountains. We passed a quantity of smaller game that morning, and several times heard the stampede of big animals—wildebeeste and waterbuck, as we found by the spoor—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 tantalising in the extreme to see him slow down and stand with his nose thrown up, giving quick soft sniffs¹⁷ and ranging his head from side to side, when he knew there was something quite close, and knew too that a few more toiling¹⁸ steps in that rank grass would be followed by a rush of something which we would never see.
 
Once 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 mortification²⁰ to see something, which we had ignored as a branch, tilt²¹ slowly back and disappear: there was no mistaking the koodoo 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 creek²² for easier going. There, too, we found plenty of drinking-places and plenty of fresh spoor 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 waded²³ in. I followed and when half-way through; saw the contented²⁴ look on his face and caught his words: “Buffalo²⁵! I thought so!”
 
We sat down then to think it out. The spoor told of a troop of a dozen to sixteen animals—bulls, cows, and calves²⁶; and it was that morning’s spoor: even in the soft moist ground at the stream’s edge the water had not yet oozed²⁷ 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 decided²⁸ to follow for some distance on the track and then make for the likeliest poort 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 spoor 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 bounds, as if he half thought of throwing a somersault and restrained himself; and then with several approving waggings of his tail settled 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 of a “Hst” 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 spoor; the animals were as big as cattle, and their trail through the rank grass was as plain as a road: our difficulty was to get near enough to see them without being heard. Under the down-trodden 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 rustle²⁹ 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 others’ spoor and stopping to crop a mouthful here and there or perhaps to play. The tambookie grass in these parts has a stem thicker than a lead pencil, more like young bamboo than grass; and these stems thrown cross-ways by storms or game make an entanglement³⁰ through which the foot cannot be forced: it means high stepping all the time.
 
We expected to follow the spoor for several miles before coming on the buffalo—probably right into the kloof towards which it appeared to lead—but were, nevertheless, quite prepared to drop on to them at any moment, knowing well how game will loiter on their way when undisturbed and vary their time and course, instinctively³¹ avoiding the too regular habits which would make them an easy prey³².
 
Jock moved steadily³³ 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 winding³⁴ course of the trail permitted.
 
To 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 immediate³⁵ consequence, he moved on again—rather more slowly, as it appeared to us. I looked at Francis’s face; it was pale and set like marble, and his watchful³⁶ grey eyes were large and wide like an antelope’s, as though opened out to take in everything; and those moments of intense interest and expectation were the best part of a memorable³⁷ 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 for scent³⁹, but with head erect⁴⁰, ears cocked, and tail poised—dead still: he was looking at something.
 
We had reached the end of the 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 abreast⁴¹ behind him, and 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 suspense⁴³; 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 we 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 calf⁴⁴ standing⁴⁵ 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 herd⁴⁶ and would fire when he got a chance at one of the full-grown animals.
 
My eyes were strained and burning from the intensity⁴⁷ 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’s 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 subsided⁴⁹ slowly and lay down flat with his head resting on his paws.
 
“Did you see?” asked Francis. “Not till you fired. I heard it strike. What was it?”
 
“Hanged if I know! I heard it too. It was one of the big uns; but bull or cow I don’t know.”
 
“Where did you get it?”
 
“Well, I couldn’t make out more than a black patch in 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. Bit risky⁵⁰, eh?”
 
“Seems like taking chances.”
 
“Well, it was no use waiting: we came for this!” and then he added with a careless laugh, “They always clear from the first shot if you get ’em at close quarters, but the fun’ll 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 smote⁵¹ me with another memory—“It was my dawg!”
 
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 dense⁵² growth along the banks of the stream, and as this continued up into the kloof it was clear we had a tough job before us.
 
Animals when badly wounded nearly always leave the herd, and very often go down wind so as to be able to scent and avoid their pursuers. This fellow had followed the herd up wind, and that rather puzzled us.
 
A wounded buffalo in thick bush is considered to be about as nasty a customer as any one may desire to tackle; for, its vindictive⁵³ indomitable courage and extraordinary cunning are a very formidable combination, as a long list of fatalities⁵⁴ bears witness. Its favourite device—so old hunters will tell you—is to make off down wind when hit, and after going for some distance, come back again in a semicircle to intersect its own spoor, 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 ambushing⁵⁵ its enemy, and naturally selects a spot where concealment⁵⁶ 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 effectually that it can charge from a distance of a dozen yards on to 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 distance and 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 ostrich⁵⁷—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 it is thought to be—burying 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 bare 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 wavy⁵⁸ stripes of black and white, are a protection, enabling him to hide at will.
 
I have seen a wildebeeste effectually hidden by a single blighted⁵⁹ branch; a koodoo bull, by a few twisty sticks; a crouching⁶⁰ lion, by a wisp of feathery grass no higher than one’s knee, no bigger than a vase of flowers! Yet, the marvel⁶¹ 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 poort, and as he had not stopped once on our account we took to the creek after the fourth crosscut and made what pace we could to reach the narrow gorge⁶² where we reckoned to pick up the spoor again.
 
There are, however, few short cuts—and no certainties—in hunting; when we reached the poort 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 spoor and, by following it up, find out what had happened. This took over an hour, for we spoored 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 round some heavy bushes. The buffalo had stood, not where one would naturally expect it—in the dense cover which seemed just suited for his purpose—but among lighter⁶³ 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 out the thick bush on the left—to the exclusion⁶⁴ 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. One hesitates to say it was deliberately⁶⁵ planned; yet—plan, instinct or accident—there was the fact.
 
The marks showed us he was badly hit; but there was no limb broken, and no doubt he was good for some hours yet. We followed along the spoor, 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 then as we walked past, and had winded us later on when we got ahead of him into the poort. 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 crept along.
 
Well! what he had done did not answer our questions. On reaching the poort again we found his spoor, freshly made since we had been there, and he had walked right along through the gorge without stopping again, and gone into the kloof 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 wind to look for him; or, when he heard us pass down stream 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 poort itself it was far too strong for our purpose—the wind coming through the narrow opening like a forced draught⁶⁶. 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 place. 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 poort the kloof 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 kloofs and green slopes, with a few kaffir kraals visible in the distance; but to the right the formation was quite different, and rather peculiar⁶⁷. The stream—known to the natives as Hlamba-Nyati, or Buffalo’s Bathing Place—had in the course of time shortened its course to the poort by eating into the left bank, thus leaving a high, and in most places, inaccessible⁶⁸ 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 kranses of the mountains.
 
At the top end it opened out like a fan which died away in a frayed⁶⁹ edge in the numberless small kloofs and spurs fringing the amphitheatre of the hills. The shape was in fact something like the human arm and hand with the fingers outspread. The elbow was the poort, the arm the terrace—except that the terrace was irregularly curved—and the fingers the small kloofs in the mountains. No doubt the haunts of the buffalo were away in the ‘fingers,’ and we worked steadily along the spoor 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 desperately⁷¹ hard work, but we did want to get the buffalo; and although the place was full of game and we put up koodoo, wildebeeste, rietbuck, bushbuck, and duiker, we held to the wounded buffalo’s spoor, neglecting all else.
 
Just before ascending⁷² the terrace we had heard the curious far-travelling sound of kaffirs calling to each other from a distance, but, except for a passing comment, paid no heed⁷³ 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 spoke⁷⁴ 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 scrambled⁷⁵ 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 on the slopes; confound them!” Francis growled⁷⁶.
 
They habitually⁷⁷ 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 locusts⁷⁸ and other insects; two or three times we heard buck¹⁶ 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 sort it is well not to rouse. His grave is in the Bushveld where his unbeaten record among intrepid⁷⁹ lion-hunters was made, and where he fell in the war, leaving another and greater record to his name. The blood rose slowly to his face, until it was bricky red, and he looked an ugly customer as he said:
 
“The black brutes⁸⁰ have fired the valley to burn him out. Come on quick. We must get out of this on to 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, ............