Half-way between the Crocodile and Komati Rivers, a few miles south of the old road, there are half a dozen or more small kopjes between which lie broad richly grassed depressions, too wide and flat to be; called valleys. The fall of the country is slight, yet the rich loamy soil has been washed out in places into dongas 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 preserve; for it was full of game, and a most delightful¹ spot. It was there that Snarleyow twice cleaned out the hunter’s pot.  
Apart from the discovery of this preserve, the day was memorable² for the reason that it was my first experience of a big mixed herd³; and I learned 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 sniff⁴ and walk up wind I took the rifle and followed, and only a little way off we came into dry vlei ground where there were few trees and the grass stood about waist high. Some two hundred yards away where the ground rose 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 twenty and thirty tsessebe. We saw them clearly and in time to avoid exposing ourselves: they were neither feeding nor resting, but simply standing⁶ about, and individual animals were moving unconcernedly from time to time with an air of idle loitering. I tried to pick out a good tsessebe ram⁷, 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 Bushveld, 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 hind⁵ 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 remains⁸ 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 astonishment⁹. It was a 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 along 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 following carefully close behind me, he was looking steadily¹⁰ away to our immediate¹¹ right. I subsided¹² gently on to my left side to see what it was that interested him, and to my delight saw a troop of twenty to twenty-five Blue Wildebeeste. They, too, were ‘standing any way,’ 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 wildebeeste two hundred yards away, I became conscious of something else in between us, and only half the distance off, 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 re-focus one’s sight.
 
What I saw was simply a dozen quagga, all exactly alike, all standing alike, all looking at me, all full face to me, their fore¹³ 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 in it, and something perplexing also: when I looked at the quagga the wildebeeste seemed to get out of focus and were lost to me; when I looked at the wildebeeste the quagga ‘blurred’ and faded out of sight. The difference in distance, perhaps as much as the very marked difference in the distinctive¹⁴ colourings, threw me out; and the effect of being watched also told. Of course I wanted to get a wildebeeste, but I was conscious of the watching quagga 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 wildebeeste a movement away on the left made me look that way: the impala jumped off like one animal, scaring the tsessebe into a scattering¹⁵ rout¹⁶; the quagga switched round and thundered off like a stampede of horses; and the wildebeeste simply vanished. One signal in one troop had sent the whole lot off. Jock and I were left alone, still crouching¹⁷, looking from side to side, staring at the slowly drifting dust, and listening to the distant dying sound of galloping¹⁸ feet.
 
It was a great disappointment, but the conviction that we had found a really good spot made some amends¹⁹, and Snowball was left undisturbed to feed and rest for another two hours. We made for the waggons²⁰ 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 rietbuck ram jumped up within a dozen yards of Snowball’s nose. Old Rocky had taught me to imitate the rietbuck’s shrill²² whistle and this one fell to the first shot. He was a fine big fellow, and as Snowball put on airs and pretended to be nervous when it came to packing the meat, I had to blindfold²³ him, and after hoisting²⁴ the buck²¹ up to a horizontal branch lowered it on to 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 miserable²⁵ walk: one had to haul him. Once—but only once—I had tried driving him before me, trusting to about 400 pounds weight of koodoo meat to keep him steady; but no sooner had I stepped behind with a switch than he went off with a cumbrous plunge²⁶ and bucked²⁷ like a frantic²⁸ mule²⁹ until he rid himself of his 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 labouring along in this fashion when we came on the wildebeeste again. A white man on foot seems to be recognised as an enemy; but if accompanied by 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 fixed³⁰ on the animals rather than the man, and frank curiosity instead of alarm is quite evidently the feeling aroused.
 
The wildebeeste had allowed me to get close up, and I picked out the big bull and took the shot kneeling, with my toe hooked in the reins³¹ to secure Snowball, taking 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 invincible³² keenness seemed at times to have something in it of mute reproach—the tinge³³ of disappointment in those they love which great hearts feel, and strive to hide! I never outstayed Jock, and never once knew him ‘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 hitch³⁴ 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 wildebeeste and had ‘given the word’ in time; the rest was only one straight shot. That was fair partnership³⁵ in which both were happy; but there was nothing 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 ‘bultong’ 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 a rest, 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 eastwards³⁶ 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 lightnings 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 evergreens³⁷ to watch the green pigeons feeding on the wild figs³⁸ and peering down curiously³⁹ 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 koodoo to get off before I saw them. They cantered 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 catching⁴⁰ herself up again she cantered 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 was a clear view I saw that the koodoo 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 over bold, it is impossible to know. Whatever the reason, he jumped for one of the hind legs, and at the same moment the koodoo lashed⁴¹ out viciously. One foot struck him under the jaw⁴² close to the throat, ‘whipped’ his head and neck back like a bent⁴³ switch, and hurled⁴⁴ him somersaulting backwards⁴⁵.
 
I have the impression—as one sees oneself in a nightmare—of a person throwing up his arms and calling the name of ............