Just as we were about starting, however, one of the natives reported a herd of elands about a mile to the south; whereupon Harry and Jack concluded to go after the elands, leaving the buffaloes to me. "It will diminish the chance of our hitting one another," said Harry, "which we might very likely do in the bushes where the buffaloes are; but there's less danger of that sort of trouble in the open country."
I assented to this suggestion, in which there was good sense, and remarked that it might make a variety in our stock of provisions for the next few days.
"Don't give all your attention to shooting bull-buffaloes," said Jack; "fetch down a yearling cow if you have the chance, as it will be better eating than the patriarchs of the herd."
"All right," I replied; "I'll endeavor to bring you in an assortment." And with that I started off, while they were getting their horses ready. I saw to it that I had plenty of ammunition, and Kalil was carrying my six-to-the-pound Remington, which I had cleaned up that morning.
When we reached the neighborhood of the buffaloes I filled my cartridge-belt and took my rifle from Kalil. Mirogo led the way, creeping along as cautiously as a cat—an animal which he resembled in more ways than one. I could hear the buffaloes tramping about in the bushes; they seemed to be considerably scattered, but evidently had not been disturbed recently.
The first of the buffaloes to come into my range of vision was a magnificent bull, who towered considerably above the bushes. Mirogo, who was a little distance ahead, called my attention to the animal and then dropped back behind me. I crept along until I had a good chance at the creature's shoulder, about twenty yards away. I fired, and my bullet told, as the buffalo gave a loud roar and then looked around in my direction. Immediately on firing I slipped behind a tree, and he did not, at first, perceive me. Mirogo and Kalil had also sought the protection of trees, and the animal was evidently puzzled to know where the shot came from. He threw his head in the air, snorted, and then started forward, coming straight to the tree where I was concealed.
When a buffalo's head is elevated in the way he usually carries it when on a trot, it affords slight chance for a shot. A bullet on the forehead is pretty sure to glance off, and if aimed at any other part of the head the result will be the same. About the only thing to do, provided no broadside is presented, is to crouch low to the ground and then aim at the animal's chest. If well planted, a chest-shot is a fatal, or, at any rate, a demoralizing one.
I had shoved a fresh cartridge into the rifle, and was ready for the beast when he came on. I crouched almost to the ground behind the tree, and when he was within about fifteen paces I let him have it in the chest. He fell forward with a plunge that brought him directly against the tree. I wiped the perspiration from my forehead, and did not venture to step out from my place of concealment for at least a minute. The buffalo has his tricks, as the reader already knows, and I wanted to be sure he was dead before I came within his reach.
I blew my whistle to summon my tracker and gun-bearer, and when they came—which was very quickly, as they were concealed close by—I had them pull the tail of the buffalo and otherwise test him. Then we marked the spot and went in pursuit of the rest of the herd.
Of course the shot had alarmed the other buffaloes, and they scattered about considerably. They were difficult to find, and for nearly half an hour we were uncertain in what direction to go. Mirogo and I held two or three consultations, and decided to push on toward the west, where the spoor showed that the animals had gone.