Both Coffee and Chicory exerted themselves to the utmost; but their efforts were in vain, and at last they turned to Dick shaking their heads.
“No good gun,” said Coffee. “Ought to shoot um dead.”
“It’s a bad job,” said Jack; “but it’s of no use to grumble. Come, boys, we must hunt out something else.”
“I wish we had brought the dogs, Jack,” said Dick.
“Coffee find him soon—that way.”
He pointed with an exultant look in his face at a great flap-winged vulture flying directly over his head, and for a moment both Jack and Dick were puzzled; but seeing the boys both set off at a run, they followed, recalling as they went what they had seen and heard about the vultures tracking the wounded or sickly game, and it was evident that the bird they had seen was on the track of the wounded eland.
An hour’s tramp decided the point, Coffee and Chicory coming up with the wounded beast, defending itself with its horns against the attacks of the vultures that were collecting round and making furious darts at its eyes.
A merciful bullet ended the poor creature’s miseries, and as the animal was so fine it was decided to load up with as much as they could conveniently carry, then place sticks about the carcase, and leave it to be fetched in by Peter and Dirk with a yoke of oxen.
All this was done, and they were about half-way back when, to their utter astonishment, a party of about half-a-dozen blacks, armed with assegais and clubs, rushed out from behind some bushes, and began to advance with fierce and threatening gestures.
“I say, Dick, what’s to be done?” said Jack. “Shall we throw down the meat and run away?”