“What is old Swart doing, anyhow? They’re near enough for a shot.”
“He’s doing something,” answered Klaas. “I’m sure I saw him move. Did he not draw his bow yonder?”
“He did,” replied Jan; “he has let off an arrow. I saw his arms move suddenly. See, the ostriches are off again. Ho! they are quite gone!”
It was not so, however; for, although the three ran off on hearing the twang of the Bushman’s bow, they did not run far. After going some quarter of a mile or so, the cock began to droop his wings and run round in circles, the hens all the while following. His movements now became of a very eccentric kind, and it was plain that Swartboy’s arrow had pierced him, and the poison was doing its work. The bird reeled like a drunken man, once or twice fell to its knees, rose again, ran on a piece farther, flapping its wings, and vibrating its long neck from side to side; and then, staggering forward, fell upon the plain!
For several minutes it continued to flutter, kicking out with its strong limbs, and raising the dust as if it had been a buffalo. At length its struggles ceased, and it lay motionless upon the sand.
The two hens still continued near, and from their actions were evidently both surprised and alarmed. They did not, however, attempt to run off, until Swartboy, knowing they were far beyond the reach of his bow, rose up from his ambush, and walked towards them. Then both took to their heels, and scouring off over the plain, were soon out of sight. Klaas and Jan now reported that Swartboy was stooping over the dead cock, and, as they believed, skinning him.
That was exactly what Swartboy was doing, for, about an hour after, he came into camp carrying the skin upon his shoulders, and with an air of triumph, that plainly said—
“Congo, could you do that?”