“But how do the natives catch them?” asked Martin.
“By concealing themselves in the trees where they resort; and having covered themselves up from sight in a bower made of the branches, they shoot at the birds with arrows made of reeds; and, as they assert, if they happen to kill their king, they then have a good chance of killing the greatest part of the flock. The chief mark by which they know the king is by the end of the feathers in his tail, which have eyes like those of a peacock. When they have taken a number of these birds their usual method is to gut them and cut off their legs; they then run a hot iron into the body, which dries up the internal moisture, and, filling the cavity with salt and spices, they sell them to Europeans.”
“Stay—listen, Claud; there is some great beast near,” cried my brother, interrupting me, and at the same time bringing his rifle to the “present.”
I trembled, but followed his example, keeping my finger upon the trigger; nearly a hundred yards before us—(we were just then ourselves in a cleared space amongst tall grass)—the rattans in the jungle bent and crackled, and soon the head of the new-comer presented itself.
“Big pig, sahib; don’t both shoot at once,” cried Kati, drawing his creese.
“Martin,” I said, “be wary and cool; aim between the eyes, and I will reserve my fire in case you miss.”
On came piggy, not with a run, but at a gentle, ambling pace, coolly and defiantly looking us in the face—so gently, indeed, that with patience we might have bagged him; but before he advanced more than a dozen yards, my impulsive brother fired, exclaiming, “There’s a dead pig for you!”
But not so: the bullet, passing through his neck, did but arouse the animal, making it change its trot into a charge.
“Load quickly, Martin,” cried I, at the same time sending a bullet that hit the pig in the forehead, and sent him over, snorting, grunting, and fruitlessly endeavoring to get upon his legs again.
“Bravo, Claud—a capital shot! but now let us put the poor brute out of his misery.”