Tatenyan grinned an immense grin, and took the rifle.
Accompanied by their two gun-bearers, the white men set off in high spirits. There was plenty of scattered cover between them and the buffalo, principally thorn-bush, and the hunters picked their way as noiselessly as possible, following the lead of Cobus.
A noble koodoo bull, carrying a magnificent pair of spiral horns, stared at them for a second as they entered a grassy clearing, and then with his three cows fled away before them.
But they were after heavier game even than the gallant koodoo, and he went unscathed.
Now they are nearing the buffalo. Beyond the fringe of bush which yet masks them they can hear the great beasts grunting, wallowing, splashing, nay, even hear them plucking the sweet grass that margins the lagoon. The wind, what there is of it, is right in their faces. The game here has scarcely ever yet been disturbed by gunners; they are safe for sport.
Old hands though they are, they now steal breathlessly through the bush. Cobus has resigned the lead, and the two friends stalk in with the greatest care together. At last they peer through a small opening. What a scene lies before them! A troop of at least three hundred mighty buffalo, bulls, cows, and calves, some feeding, some drinking, some rolling in the shallow lagoon, some playfully butting at one another. All, utterly unconscious of impending danger, stand there within a radius of two hundred yards; the nearest of them are within fifty. A more inspiring prospect hunter’s eye never beheld.
Numbers of the weaver birds (Bubalornis erythrorhyncus), always found associating with buffalo, are here, some picking busily at the parasites on the great creatures’ backs; others flitting hither and thither, chattering noisily, intent on business or pleasure. Even the sharp weaver birds detect no enemy—much less their allies the buffaloes. A few white egrets, apparently as fearless of the great quadrupeds as the buffalo birds, add beauty to the scene. Some of these charming herons, too, are perched upon the buffalo, their snowy plumes contrasting sharply with the sombre hides of their gigantic friends. Birds and quadrupeds alike are all void of suspicion upon this bright, quiet morning in the far African wilderness.
Having taken in with an eager glance or two this wonderful picture, the two men and their gun-bearers crouch down behind the thick screen of bush and wait. It seems half an hour to them. At length, in about five minutes, two massive old bulls, grim, heavy-fronted, and carrying immense horns, nearly devoid of hair, short in the legs, yet of tremendous bulk, come feeding past within easy range. The two men glance at one another, and with a nod single out their victims.
On a sudden their heavy rifles roar out together. One of the bulls falls instantly to the shot; the other staggers, but plunges on. There is a terrific commotion among the herd. The great beasts all gallop left-handed, seeking an outlet in the ring of bush. Through the lagoon they splash, driving the water in masses of spray about them, and then away they rave through grass and undergrowth, making the earth thunder beneath them. Bill, whose buffalo has for the moment escaped, selects a fat cow, and with two bullets well planted brings her down. The vast troop has passed away, and they now emerge to inspect their quarry.
The dead buffaloes are fine specimens, and in high condition and, leaving Tatenyan behind to begin the skinning and cutting-up process, the two Englishmen now proceed together with Cobus to take up the blood-spoor of the wounded bull and finish him off. He carries a magnificent pair of horns—a champion head—which Bill yearns to possess himself of.