When it became light enough he called the waggon boys, and all went in search of Black.
They hadn't very far to go. They saw him perched in a tree quite half-a-mile away. Fernie had to climb up and bring the poor fellow down as he was stiff with cold. He pick-a-backed him to the camp. A vigorous rubbing, a hot blanket, and a hotter whisky and water soon restored the patient.
He had a curious story to tell.
When he realised that Fernie had fired his rifle straight up into the air, he concluded that the bullet would sooner or later come straight down again. It might fall on him. Why run unnecessary risk? So he ran away. He thought he had time to pull on his boots, but no more. He intended to give the bullet ten minutes and then come back.
He heard Fernie call to him, but he also heard a sound which made him run faster and still faster. It was the movement of some invisible wild beast trotting parallel and very close to him. He stopped once. It stopped. Scared out of his senses, he ran on, and so did It. By a stroke of good fortune he collided in his flight with a tree; instinct made him clamber up; he did it awkwardly.
"It" jumped up at him as he climbed. Black, on the verge of exhaustion, continued to struggle frantically up the tree. He heard the crash of teeth as It's jaws came together within an inch of his leg. He felt It's hot breath on his flesh and a shiver ran down his spine.
He drew up his leg as the beast jumped again. He felt the heel of his boot seized in the creature's jaws; felt the full weight of the thing at his hip-joint as his leg swung with the spring of the beast. He clung to the tree for dear life. Something gave way. He wondered how much of his leg had gone.
Fortunately his loss was not so very serious; his boot had been wrenched from his foot—one of his patent two-compartment boots, and with it much skin from his toes.
The waggon boys, who examined the spoor under the tree, declared it to be that of a hyena, probably the hyena which had tried to steal the meat.
The boot was not recovered.