To their great disappointment the trail at last led out into more open ground, where the elephants had scattered about; and after following the tracks of one, and then another without success, they got bewildered, and lost the spoor altogether.
While casting about to find it in a place where the bush was thin and straggling, Swartboy suddenly ran off to one side, calling to the others to follow him. Von Bloom and Hendrik went after to see what the Bushman was about. They thought he had seen an elephant, and both, considerably excited, had already pulled the covers off their guns.
There was no elephant, however. When they came up with Swartboy, he was standing under a tree, and pointing to the ground at its bottom.
The hunters looked down. They saw that the ground upon one side of the tree was trampled, as though horses or some other animals had been tied there for a long time, and had worn off the turf, and worked it into dust with their hoofs. The bark of the tree—a full-topped shady acacia—for some distance up was worn smooth upon one side, just as though cattle had used it for a rubbing-post.
“What has done it?” asked the field-cornet and Hendrik in a breath.
“Da olifant's slapen-boom” (the elephant's sleeping-tree), replied Swartboy.
No further explanation was necessary. The hunters remembered what they had been told about a curious habit which the elephant has—of leaning against a tree while asleep. This, then, was one of the sleeping-trees of these animals.
But of what use to them, farther than to gratify a little curiosity? The elephant was not there.
“Da ole karl come again,” said Swartboy.
“Ha! you think so, Swart?” inquired Von Bloom.