Allen starts, rigidly grips his gun in his excitement, and eyes the brake in front of him. The crashing of the underwood draws nearer and nearer, and a large bushbuck ram breaks cover. As it does so it catches sight of Naylor half hidden behind a tree, shears off at a tangent, and comes charging down nearly on the top of Allen, whose heart is in his mouth, and he wildly bangs away with both barrels point-blank, as the animal bounds past him within a yard, missing it clean. In a moment it will have reached covert, the dread open safely crossed, when—Crack! the buck rolls over and over with three or four loopers from Naylor’s shot barrel fairly in his carcase. But “many a slip”—he recovers himself, leaps up and bounds away into the bush.
“He’s hard hit,” says his slayer, running to the spot; “it was a devil of a long shot, though. Look what a lot of blood he’s dropped! We’ll put the dogs on him directly. He’s a gone coon, anyhow.”
“I can’t make out how I managed to miss him,” is Allen’s doleful remark. He is terribly mortified, poor fellow.
“You didn’t get a fair shot at him. I thought he was going clean over you. Never mind, you’ll get a better chance soon,” says good-natured Naylor. He thought the other rather a muff, but was too good a fellow to say so.
Bang! Bang!
Who is in luck’s way now? Bang, bang! again. A couple of bucks have dodged the ambushed shooters, and are making off along the high ground outside the line, making for the adjacent kloof, and Armitage and the younger Dutchman, who are nearest to them, are having rifle practice at long range. Four hundred yards—then the sights are altered to five. Bang! bang! the animals still keep on, though the last shot has thrown up a cloud of dust perilously near the hinder one. Then the six hundred yards is reached. Another minute and they will be over the hill and safe, at any rate for the present, when a ball from young Van Booyen’s rifle strikes the hindermost, which halts in mid course with a spring and a shudder, and rolls over, dead as a door-nail.
“Well done, Piet. By George, that was a good shot!” exclaimed the unsuccessful competitor.
“Ja, kerel,” replied the Dutchman, with a complacent grin, as he fished out his tobacco-pouch.
Claverton is standing where he and Jeffreys had been directed to. He has refused to avail himself of his privilege of guest and to take the best place, so they have split the difference by standing near each other. It is a fine open bit which promises two or three shots at least, for whatever comes out on that side of the kloof is bound to break cover there. At last Jeffreys gets tired of waiting; he is of opinion that everything has run across, and all the fun is on the other side, so he makes for his horse and announces his intention of waiting up above for Jim. Claverton however, remains. He is standing under a mimosa tree and is partly sheltered from view by a large stone, and has a beautiful clear space for at least eighty yards on either side of him.