Williams felt desperate. He began to think it best after all to let the Great Man kill a good cow and have done with it when, looking to the left, he saw the bull. It was the bull! Black as ink, with a snow-white belly. Horns seemed above the average.
A great spasm of joy gripped Williams's heart. Here was a bull worthy of the Great Man, the direct representative of the Sovereign.
In response to a sign from Williams, the Great Man looked, saw, raised his rifle and—Williams checked him. Good Heavens, what was the matter with that bull? Seemed to be going short, off fore. It couldn't be.
Then he motioned to the Great Man to take his shot. The next moment the noble bull crashed to the ground and the cows filed on at a gallop and so out of sight.
"A good shot and a good bull, Sir," said Williams, but he was conscious of a sickening sense of dread.
They hurried up. The bull lay stone dead with a bullet exactly placed behind the shoulder.
"Shall I mark out the head skin for you, Sir? You'll want to keep this head?"
Williams worked like a man possessed. He cut the sleek, black skin from the withers to the brisket as the bull lay. Without moving the carcass he made a slit up the mane to the base of the skull. Here he stopped and listened. He heard something. Footsteps approaching. With a gasp of despair he dropped his hunting knife and faced the way the bull had come.
Curse the fellow! There he was; the Great Man's A.D.C., babbling like the fool he was. He was talking in English to the native who accompanied him. "Are you sure you are on the right track?" The native said nothing because he didn't understand one word of any language but his own. The A.D.C. headed straight for the Great Man's bull. Presently he looked up and walked forward smiling.