Tales of South Africa

by H. A. Bryden

Cobus, with the marvellous skill of the native African hunter, quickly separates the trail of the wounded beast from its scores of fellows, and presently, as they enter the bush, bears suddenly to the left. The stricken brute has turned him aside from the battle, and the main body of the troop have plunged right-handed through the bush to seek shelter in the dense reed-beds not far away.

At first the blood-spoor, which is now easily followed, takes them through fairly open bush, in which they can see about them without much difficulty. So far all is well. A wounded buffalo is, as all hunters know, the most dangerous and tricky beast in Africa, and in thickish bush his pursuer must needs follow him yard by yard with his life in his hand. Presently the spoor takes them by a narrow game-path through impenetrable thorny covert six or eight feet high. Patches of bright red blood show that the buffalo is bleeding freely, and from the lungs; he cannot go far at this rate. Cobus, who has led the way hitherto, looks at the dark wall of bush on either hand, indicates the deep shade thrown here and there, and the possibility of dangerous ambush at any moment, and shakes his head. He likes the job little enough, and he is perfectly right. To go on is to risk a violent death, and there is little chance of escape from a charge in such confined quarters. But to many Englishmen the constant spice of clanger adds greatly to the charm of sport in Africa. Bill quietly pulls Cobus behind him, knits his brow, and prepares to creep forward. Ralph in his turn supersedes Cobus, and dogs the heels of his friend. It looks like a nasty business, and he wishes them all well out of it; but he can’t now go back on his chum.

Breathlessly, cautiously, they pick their way down the narrow game-path. The dense thicket shuts out every trace of the cool outer breeze; the sun beats down hotly upon their heads; lightly clad though they are, the sweat starts freely from their bodies. Silently they move on. They turn an angle or two, pass safely some dark shadows in the bush-wall, and then, without a fiftieth part of a second of warning, from a piece of bush where you might swear a steinbok could not have hidden itself, a great dark form comes charging forth, with eyes of fire, blood-dripping nostrils, and head well up.

In an instant the revengeful beast has cleared the angle of bush where it had lain silently biding its time, and is almost on top of Bill. Bill fires one shot,—he has no time for more,—and then, to save himself, springs as far to the left as possible. In vain! His bullet glances harmlessly from the tremendous frontal horn of the buffalo without stopping or even injuring the brute. Another half instant and the great grim beast has taken terrible revenge.

There is a single lightning-like sweep of the heavy head, a dull, sickening thud, and Bill is sent crashing into the thorny thicket yards away.

The buffalo stands in devilish wrath for a brief moment, a terrible picture, meditating its next attack; its left chest is exposed.

Ralph instantly seizes his only hope of salvation and poor Bill’s. His eight-bore rifle is at his shoulder, the loud report roars out, and the bull staggers to earth, sore-stricken yet not vanquished. Fiercely he struggles for his feet again, the blood pouring from his mouth and nostrils with the tremendous exertion. In the next instant another bullet, planted in the centre of his forehead, just below the rugged mass of horn, ends his career, and he breathes out his last with that fierce complaining bellow peculiar to the death-throe of his race.

Ralph and the native turn at once to Bill, lying senseless and bleeding, deeply embedded in the frightful mass of thorny bush. It is a tough task even to extricate him; but after some minutes’ hewing and hacking with their hunting knives it is at last accomplished, and the victim is laid tenderly on the smooth game-path.

Alas! his injuries are terrible. Several ribs are displaced and smashed on the right side; there is a deep jagged hole beneath; and the sharp horn, driven with the mighty strength of an old buffalo bull, has penetrated far into the lung. So much is at once apparent, and it looks sadly as if Bill’s hours are numbered.

It is a shocking blow for Ralph. Who could have dreamed that that strong, active man, not yet at his prime, full of pluck, enterprise, and a perennial cheeriness—but ten short minutes before cracking some half-whispered joke to his friend and servant—could now be lying, a battered, senseless rag of humanity, in his comrade’s arms?