Chapter Fourteen.
Buffalo Bull and the Shorthorn.
In one of the kloofs near the Fish River, an old buffalo bull had taken up his quarters, and, like all solitary males, he was suspicious and savage.
“And I don’t wonder at it,” said Abe Pike, when discussing the bull’s points. “Trouble sours the best of us, and he’s had his share of trouble—what with his struggles as a youngster to get a footing in the herd, and his struggles, when he became leader, to guard his position against enemies without in the shape of tigers and hunters, an’ against enemies within in the shape of younger bulls, not to speak of the jealousy of his wives; and then on top of all this, the trouble of being driven from the family when his powers were failing, maybe by a own son of his. Yes, sir, that lonely animile, for all he’s so savage, an’ a’most knocked the life outer me, has my sympathy in his proud old age. Proud he is, you believe me. He might a stayed with the herd ef so be he choose to behave himself and foller with the calves, but once a king always a king. Ef he can’t rule in the herd, he’ll rule all alone in that kloof—nursing his pride and his memories—and going scatter—dash—on sight for any critters mad enough to enter his domain.”
“Did you run against him, Uncle?”
“Well—I’d put it the other way—that he run against me. I tole you often how he fit and killed my rooi bonte bull, Red Prince, that old red and white chap with a cross of shorthorn that was so masterful you couldn’t keep him in any kraal if he wanted to move out I’ve seen him fix his horns under a heavy pole that took two men to place across the gate, and jest hoist it as tho’ it were a straw, and if he set out to go into the mealie patch why he’d go in, an’ there was an end of it, bellowing all the time fit to drown the roar of the sea.”
“Did the old solitary kill your bull?”
“You know that, sonny, for you saw his body with the rip that went to his heart. I yeared ole Prince bellow one morning, and, lookin’ over the veld, I saw him away off yonder on the ridge slowly moving, with his big head swaying from side to side, and as I watched him he would, every now and again, stop to paw the ground and toss his horns. I thought, maybe, there was some stray cattle beyond, and I set off after him with the sjambok. After he topped the ridge I could still hear the rumble of his challenge, and when I reached the divide there he was down below raking up the earth with his hoof, but there was no sign of a horn or hide beside him. I ran down to him, and at the sound of my running he turned his head, showing the red of his eyes. He blew through his nostrils at me, and he looked that wicked that I dodged away behind a big rock, and soon’s I peeped out I saw he was looking at the kloof with his ears pricked forward. So I scanned the edge of the wood, which was about fifty paces off, and there, poking out of the shadows, was the head of that buffel, his black muzzle held high, and the sharp curved tips of his horns showing above the great mass of bone on his forehead. The foam was dripping from his muzzle. I saw, then, that red crittur of mine had got the scent of the buffel, and here he had come to do battle out of the love of a fight. I called to the old fool to come back, but, with another dig of his hoof and a shake of his head, he went forward with that slow, steady stride of a crittur that knows no fear. From the wood there came a menacing growl, and at the hoarse rumble of it the red bull sunk his crest and let out a beller that went rolling over the kloof. Then the old solitary stepped out, big and black, with white scars showing on his shoulders and his head held high and threatenin’. There the two of them stood face to face with twenty yards between, their ears twitching and the tails jerking against their sides, Red Prince looking heavier with a mightier neck, the crest arching like the neck of a horse, and the dewlap hanging down between his wide knees. Bigger and stronger he looked than the buffel, but my heart went weak within me for him when I saw the wild gleam of the buffel eyes, and dwelt on the pile of rugged bone that spanned his forehead. Slowly they walked up to each other, muttering deep threats, then their horns clashed, and their foreheads were pressed closer and closer to the strain of heaving quarters. A minute they stood so, the breathing coming heavily, so that the dust below was blown about—then my old red chap turned the buffalo right round, and with a snort and a sidelong blow, he ripped a long red streak in the black thigh. The buffel sprang a step aside, then his tail went up over his back, and he rushed forward. Right round on his pins as nimble as a yearling the old red went, and catching the buffel between the forelegs, he heaved him up and sent him with a thud on to his side. If he had only known, poor old chap, he would never have let his enemy reach his feet again, but he curled his nose up and jest stood there watching the black devil gather himself together. The buffel was up—phew—and then, with a savage roar, his eyes gleaming like a tiger’s, he jest leapt at the big red body standing there so proud, and the next moment—’twas done so quick—I saw the blood running from his side. I wept, lad, at the sight. There stood the buffel, with his muzzle up—and the foam dripping from it—watching the red bull, whose legs were planted wide apart to steady himself. While the life was flowing from that terrible wound in his side the old chap shook his head again. So they stood silent, eyeing one another, then Prince lurched forward—dead—and the buffel went up and smelt him, with his back toward me. I had moved round the rock to watch the fight, and as I stood there tremblin’ from the excitement, that old black devil suddenly whipped round, and with a most hair-rising roar, came straight at me. The outer curve of his horn caught me on the shoulder, and sent me spinning till I tripped over a rock, and when he turned I squeezed tight against the shelter of the stone. Then that ole brute came and stood by with his nose a few inches off, and his bloodshot eyes glaring at me, and every minute or so he’d try to chop me with a hoof, or hook me out with his horns. And three times he trotted off to smell the red bull—the which times I’d try to squeeze closer to the rock, and then at the third time he cleared off to the left at a gallop.”