"Hah!" ejaculated Simba.
"Where?" asked Kingozi, who knew by long experience that Simba's sharp eyes had noted the smallest particular of the beast's behaviour when the bullet landed, and thence had already deduced its location.
Without removing his eyes, Simba indicated with his forefinger a shot about midway of the ribs.
At the sound the rear guard of the animals raced madly away for about seventy yards, whirled in a phalanx, and gazed back. Neither man moved. Simba continued to stare, and Kingozi had lifted his prism glasses. A tyro would have attempted to draw near for a finishing shot, and so would probably have been let in for a long chase. A freshly wounded animal, if kept moving, is capable of astonishing endurance. But these two knew better than that. In a very few minutes the zebra, without fright, without suffering--for a modern bullet benumbs--toppled over dead. Again Simba raised his voice exultantly to the waiting porters.
"Nyama! nyama!" he shouted.
And they, racing eagerly forward, their faces illuminated with one of the strongest joys the native knows, shouted back:
"Nyama! nyama!"
For another two days the provisioning was assured.