jock had learned one very clever trick in pulling down wounded animals. it often happens when you income unexpectedly upon game that they are off before you see them, and the only chance you have of getting anything is with a running shot. if they go straight from you the shot is not a very difficult one, although you see nothing but the lifting and falling hind quarters as they canter away; and a common result of such a shot is the breaking of one of the hind legs between the hip and the hock. jock made his discovery while following a rietbuck which i had wounded in this way. he had made several tries at its nose and throat, but the buck was going too strongly and was out of reach; moreover it would not stop or turn when he headed it, but charged straight on, bounding over him. in trying once more for the throat he cannoned against the buck’s shoulder and was sent rolling yards away. this seemed to madden him: racing up behind he flew at the dangling leg, caught it at the shin, and thrusting his feet well out, simply dragged until the buck slowed down, and then began furiously tugging sideways. the crossing of the legs brought the wounded animal down immediately and jock had it by the throat before it could rise again.
every one who is good at anything has some favourite method or device of his own: that was jock’s. it may have come to him, as it comes to many, by accident; but having once got it, he perfected it and used it whenever it was possible. only once he made a mistake; and he paid for it—very nearly with his life.
he had already used this device successfully several times, but so far only with the smaller buck. this day he did what i should have thought to be impossible for a dog of three or four times his size. i left the scene of torn carcase and crunched bones, consumed by regrets and disappointment; each fresh detail only added to my feeling of disgust, but jock did not seem to mind; he jumped out briskly as soon as i started walking in earnest, as though he recognised that we were making a fresh start, and he began to look forward immediately.
the little bare flat where the koodoo had fallen for the last time was at the head of one of those depressions which collect the waters of the summer floods and, changing gradually into shallow valleys, are eventually scoured out and become the dongas—dry in winter but full charged with muddy flood in summer—which drain the bushveld to its rivers. here and there where an impermeable rock formation crosses these channels there are deep pools which, except in years of drought, last all through the winter; and these are the drinking-places of the game. i followed this one down for a couple of miles without any definite purpose until the sight of some greener and denser wild figs suggested that there might be water, and perhaps a rietbuck or a duiker near by. as we reached the trees jock showed unmistakable signs of interest in something, and with the utmost caution i moved from tree to tree in the shady grove towards where it seemed the water-hole might be.
there were bushy wild plums flanking the grove, and beyond them the ordinary scattered thorns. as i reached this point, and stopped to look out between the bushes on to the more open ground, a koodoo cow walked quietly up the slope from the water, but before there was time to raise the rifle her easy stride had carried her behind a small mimosa tree. i took one quick step out to follow her up and found myself face to face at less than a dozen yards with a grand koodoo bull. it is impossible to convey in words any real idea of the scene and how things happened. of course, it was only for a fraction of a second that we looked straight into each other’s eyes; then, as if by magic, he was round and going from me with the overwhelming rush of speed and strength and weight combined. yet it is the first sight that remains with me: the proud head, the huge spiral horns, and the wide soft staring eyes—before the wildness of panic had stricken them. the picture seems photographed on eye and brain, never to be forgotten. a whirlwind of dust and leaves marked his course, and through it i fired, unsteadied by excitement and hardly able to see. then the right hind leg swung out, and the great creature sank for a moment, almost to the ground; and the sense of triumph, the longed for and unexpected success, ‘went to my head’ like a rush of blood.
there had been no time to aim, and the shot—a real snap shot—was not at all a bad one. it was after that that the natural effect of such a meeting and such a chance began to tell. thinking it all out beforehand does not help much, for things never happen as they are expected to; and even months of practice among the smaller kinds will not ensure a steady nerve when you just come face to face with big game—there seems to be too much at stake.
i fired again as the koodoo recovered himself, but he was then seventy or eighty yards away and partly hidden at times by trees and scrub. he struck up the slope, following the line of the troop through the scattered thorns, and there, running hard and dropping quickly to my knee for steadier aim, i fired again and again—but each time a longer shot and more obscured by the intervening bush; and no tell-tale thud came back to cheer me on.
forgetting the last night’s experience, forgetting everything except how we had twice chased and twice lost them, seeing only another and the grandest prize slipping away, i sent jock on and followed as fast as i could. once more the koodoo came in sight—just a chance at four hundred yards as he reached an open space on rising ground. jock was already closing up, but still unseen, and the noble old fellow turned full broadside to me as he stopped to look back. once more i knelt, gripping hard and holding my breath to snatch a moment’s steadiness, and fired; but i missed again, and as the bullet struck under him he plunged forward and disappeared over the rise at the moment that jock, dashing out from the scrub, reached his heels.
the old martini carbine had one bad fault; even i could not deny that; years of rough and careless treatment in all sorts of weather—for it was only a discarded old mounted police weapon—had told on it, and both in barrel and breech it was well pitted with rust scars. one result of this was that it was always jamming, and unless the cartridges were kept well greased the empty shells would stick and the ejector fail to work; and this was almost sure to happen when the carbine became hot from quick firing. it jammed now, and fearing to lose sight of the chase i dared not stop a second, but ran on, struggling from time to time to wrench the breach open.
reaching the place where they had disappeared, i saw with intense relief and excitement jock and the koodoo having it out less than a hundred yards away. the koodoo’s leg was broken right up in the ham, and it was a terrible handicap for an animal so big and heavy, but his nimbleness and quickness were astonishing. using the sound hind leg as a pivot he swung round, always facing his enemy; jock was in and out, here, there and everywhere, as a buzzing fly torments one on a hot day; and indeed, to the koodoo just then he was the fly and nothing more; he could only annoy his big enemy, and was playing with his life to do it. sometimes he tried to get round; sometimes pretended to charge straight in, stopping himself with all four feet spread—just out of reach; then like a red streak he would fly through the air with a snap for the koodoo’s nose. it was a fight for life and a grand sight; for the koodoo, in spite of his wound, easily held his own. no doubt he had fought out many a life and death struggle to win and hold his place as lord of the herd and knew every trick of attack and defence. maybe too he was blazing with anger and contempt for this persistent little gad-fly that worried him so and kept out of reach. sometimes he snorted and feinted to charge; at other times backed slowly, giving way to draw the enemy on; then with a sudden lunge the great horns swished like a scythe with a tremendous reach out, easily covering the spot where jock had been a fraction of a second before. there were pauses too in which he watched his tormentor steadily, with occasional impatient shakes of the head, or, raising it to full height, towered up a monument of splendid and contemptuous indifference, looking about with big angry but unfrightened eyes for the herd—his herd—that had deserted him; or with a slight toss of his head he would walk limpingly forward, forcing the ignored jock before him; then, interrupted and annoyed by a flying snap at his nose, he would spring forward and strike with the sharp cloven fore foot—zip-zip-zip—at jock as he landed. any one of the vicious flashing stabs would have pinned him to the earth and finished him; but jock was never there.
keeping what cover there was i came up slowly behind them, struggling and using all the force i dared, short of smashing the lever, to get the empty cartridge out. at last one of the turns in the fight brought me in view, and the koodoo dashed off again. for a little way the pace seemed as great as ever, but it soon died away; the driving power was gone; the strain and weight on the one sound leg and the tripping of the broken one were telling; and from that on i was close enough to see it all. in the first rush the koodoo seemed to dash right over jock—the swirl of dust and leaves and the bulk of the koodoo hiding him; then i saw him close abreast, looking up at it and making furious jumps for its nose, alternately from one side and the other, as they raced along together. the koodoo holding its nose high and well forward, as they do when on the move, with the horns thrown back almost horizontally, was out of his reach and galloped heavily on completely ignoring his attacks.
there is a suggestion of grace and poise in the movement of the koodoo bull’s head as he gallops through the bush which is one of his distinctions above the other antelopes. the same supple balancing movement that one notes in the native girls bearing their calabashes of water upon their heads is seen in the neck of the koodoo, and for the same reason: the movements of the body are softened into mere undulations, and the head with its immense spiral horns seems to sail along in voluntary company—indeed almost as though it were bearing the body below.
at the fourth or fifth attempt by jock a spurt from the koodoo brought him cannoning against its shoulder, and he was sent rolling unnoticed yards away. he scrambled instantly to his feet, but found himself again behind: it may have been this fact that inspired the next attempt, or perhaps he realised that attack in front was useless; for this time he went determinedly for the broken leg. it swung about in wild eccentric curves, but at the third or fourth attempt he got it and hung on; and with all fours spread he dragged along the ground. the first startled spring of the koodoo jerked him into the air; but there was no let go now, and although dragged along the rough ground and dashed about among the scrub, sometimes swinging in the air, and sometimes sliding on his back, he pulled from side to side in futile attempts to throw the big animal. ineffectual and even hopeless as it looked at first, jock’s attacks soon began to tell; the koodoo made wild efforts to get at him, but with every turn he turned too, and did it so vigorously that the staggering animal swayed over and had to plunge violently to recover its balance. so they turned, this way and that, until a wilder plunge swung jock off his feet, throwing the broken leg across the other one; then, with feet firmly planted, jock tugged again, and the koodoo trying to regain its footing was tripped by the crossed legs and came down with a crash.
as it fell jock was round and fastened on the nose; but it was no duiker, impala or rietbuck that he had to deal with this time. the koodoo gave a snort of indignation and shook its head: as a terrier shakes a rat, so it shook jock, whipping the ground with his swinging body, and with another indignant snort and toss of the head flung him off, sending him skidding along the ground on his back. the koodoo had fallen on the wounded leg and failed to rise with the first effort; jock while still slithering along the ground on his back was tearing at the air with his feet in his mad haste to get back to the attack, and as he scrambled up, he raced in again with head down and the little eyes black with fury. he was too mad to be wary, and my heart stood still as the long horns went round with a swish; one black point seemed to pierce him through and through, showing a foot out the other side, and a jerky twist of the great head sent him twirling like a tip-cat eight or ten feet up in the air. it had just missed him, passing under his stomach next to the hind legs; but, until he dropped with a thud and, tearing and scrambling to his feet, he raced in again, i felt certain he had been gored through.
the koodoo was up again then. i had rushed in with rifle clubbed, with the wild idea of stunning it before it could rise, but was met by the lowered horns and unmistakable signs of charging, and beat a retreat quite as speedy as my charge.
it was a running fight from that on: the instant the koodoo turned to go jock was on to the leg again, and nothing could shake his hold. i had to keep at a respectful distance, for the bull was still good for a furious charge, even with jock hanging on, and eyed me in the most unpromising fashion whenever i attempted to head it off or even to come close up.
the big eyes were blood-shot then, but there was no look of fear in them—they blazed with baffled rage. impossible as it seemed to shake jock off or to get away from us, and in spite of the broken leg and loss of blood, the furious attempts to beat us off did not slacken. it was a desperate running fight, and right bravely he fought it to the end.
partly barring the way in front were the whitened trunks and branches of several trees struck down by some storm of the year before, and running ahead of the koodoo i made for these, hoping to find a stick straight enough for a ramrod to force the empty cartridge out. as i reached them the koodoo made for me with half a dozen plunges that sent me flying off for other cover; but the broken leg swayed over one of the branches, and jock with feet planted against the tree hung on; and the koodoo, turning furiously on him, stumbled, floundered, tripped, and came down with a crash amongst the crackling wood. once more like a flash jock was over the fallen body and had fastened on the nose—but only to be shaken worse than before. the koodoo literally flogged the ground with him, and for an instant i shut my eyes; it seemed as if the plucky dog would be beaten into pulp. the bull tried to chop him with its fore feet, but could not raise itself enough, and at each pause jock, with his watchful little eyes ever on the alert, dodged his body round to avoid the chopping feet without letting go his hold. then with a snort of fury the koodoo, half rising, gave its head a wild upward sweep, and shook. as a springing rod flings a fish the koodoo flung jock over its head and on to a low flat-topped thorn-tree behind. the dog somersaulted slowly as he circled in the air, dropped on his back in the thorns some twelve feet from the ground, and came tumbling down through the branches. surely the tree saved him, for it seemed as if such a throw must break his back. as it was he dropped with a sickening thump; yet even as he fell i saw again the scrambling tearing movement, as if he was trying to race back to the fight even before he reached ground. without a pause to breathe or even to look, he was in again and trying once more for the nose.
the koodoo lying partly on its side, with both hind legs hampered by the mass of dead wood, could not rise, but it swept the clear space in front with the terrible horns, and for some time kept jock at bay. i tried stick after stick for a ramrod, but without success; at last, in desperation at seeing jock once more hanging to the koodoo’s nose, i hooked the lever on to a branch and setting my foot against the tree wrenched until the empty cartridge flew out and i went staggering backwards.
in the last struggle, while i was busy with the rifle, the koodoo had moved, and it was then lying against one of the fallen trunks. the first swing to get rid of jock had literally slogged him against the tree; the second swing swept him under it where a bend in the trunk raised it: about a foot from the ground, and gaining his foothold there jock stood fast—there, there, with his feet planted firmly and his shoulder humped against the dead tree, he stood this tug-of-war. the koodoo with its head twisted back, as caught at the end of the swing, could put no weight to the pull; yet the wrenches it gave to free itself drew the nose and upper lip out like tough rubber and seemed to stretch jock’s neck visibly. i had to come round within a few feet of them to avoid risk of hitting jock, and it seemed impossible for bone and muscle to stand the two or three terrible wrenches that i saw. the shot was the end; and as the splendid head dropped slowly over, jock let go his hold.
he had not uttered a sound except the grunts that were knocked out of him.
