So sudden had been this movement on the part of the game, and so unexpected, that both dogs and hunters were taken by surprise, and not a shot was fired until the klipspringer was beyond reach! Just at that moment, as they stood watching his retreat, a puff of smoke was noticed far down the mountain—a gun cracked at the same instant—and the buck was seen to tumble headlong from a rock!
With fresh surprise the hunters turned to one another. “Who?” exclaimed all simultaneously. Ha! there were only five of them. One was missing!
“It’s Klaas!”
It was Klaas beyond a doubt—Klaas who had killed the klipspringer.
Klaas had given an illustration that the “race is not always to the swift.” He was rather a heavy boy, was Klaas; and feeling fatigued at so much climbing, had seated himself on a stone, and was taking a bit of a rest, when he observed the klipspringer, standing upon a rock right before his face. Having his light fowling-piece loaded with buckshot, he had taken aim, and dropped the buck from his perch.
Jan was not a little jealous, and insinuated that it was a bit of “luck” not very well deserved; but whether it was luck or not, Klaas had certainly killed the klipspringer, and was not a little elated at his performance.
Having collected the game, the young yägers proceeded to where they had left their horses; and, mounting, galloped off after the wagons that were moving slowly across the distant plain.