Two of the bull elephants had especially large, heavy tusks. These were the ones Zitu pointed out to his men. They got into positions from which they could get a better view of the herd and a closer aim. Unless they hit the elephants in exactly the right spot, they would not be able to kill them. Nomusa knew that a wounded elephant is a ferocious beast. These next few moments would be extremely dangerous ones. Her heart began to pound so hard she was afraid the elephants would hear it.
The chief now made a quick sign. With all their strength and skill the hunters hurled their sharp-pointed spears at the two bull elephants. Nomusa’s bow twanged as she let her arrow fly, aiming for the vulnerable spot under the elephant’s ear. Zabala and Damasi hurled their short spears.
A great uproar set up among the elephants. Trumpeting and screaming, their heads up and tails held out stiffly, they charged the bushes where the hunters lay hidden.
Suddenly there was a great thud, and unexpectedly the herd turned in the opposite direction and thundered off. After a moment the hunters crept out of their hiding place to see what had happened.
One of the huge bull elephants lay on its side, a mountain of flesh enclosed in a gray wrinkled skin. Nomusa and the others stared at the enormous mass, hardly able to believe they had killed this giant.
“We were very lucky,” said Zitu. “I think I know what happened. As the herd charged at us, this one fell dead in its path. That turned the others.”
The chief rubbed his hand along the handsome tusks of the dead elephant. “They are fine tusks.”
In the meantime Nomusa and Damasi had been looking at the path made by the herd as they rushed off. Small trees had been uprooted and great branches broken off others. Nomusa stared at the ground.
“Look!” she cried. “A trail of blood!”