"Do they always come at you when they're wounded?" said Hugh.
"Always," said the shooter, "and very often when they're not wounded
they'll turn and charge if you've run 'em a long way. You want to
look out, I tell you. They'll wheel very sudden, and if they ketch
your horse they'll grind him into pulp. Ben, my mate here, had
a horse killed under him last week--horse we gave five and twenty
quid for, and that's a long shot for a buffalo horse. I believe in
Injia they shoot 'em off elephants, but that's 'cause they won't
come out in the open like they do here. There's hundreds of toffs
in England and Injia'd give their ears for a day after these, you
know. Hello! Look! See there!"
Far away out on the plain Hugh saw fifteen or twenty bluish-grey
mounds in a line rising above the grass; it was a herd of buffalo
feeding. The animals never lifted their heads, and were curiously
like a lot of railway trucks covered with grey tarpaulin. It was
impossible to tell which was head and which was tail. A short halt
was made while girths were tightened, cartridges slipped into place,
and hats jammed on; they all mounted and rode slowly towards the
herd, which was at least half a mile off, and still feeding steadily.
Everyone kept his horse in hand, ready for a dash the moment the
mob lifted their heads.
"How fast will they go?" whispered Hugh to the nearest shooter.
"Fast as blazes. You've no idea how fast they are. They're the
biggest take-in there is. When they lift their heads they'll stare
for half a minute, and then they'll run. The moment they start,
off you go. Watch 'em! There's one sees us! Keep steady yet--don't
rush till they start."
One of the blue mounds lifted a huge black-muzzled head, decorated
with an enormous pair of sickle-shaped horns that stretched right
back to the shoulders. He stared with great sullen eyes and trotted
a few paces towards them; one after another, the rest lifted their
heads and stared too. Closer drew the horsemen at their steady,
silent jog, the horses pricking their ears and getting on their
toes as race-horses do at the start of a race.
"Be ready," said the shooter. "Now!"
The mob, with one impulse, wheeled, and set off at a heavy lumbering
gallop, and the horses dashed in full gallop after them. It was a
ride worth a year of a man's life. Every man sat down to his work
like a jockey finishing a race, and the big stock horses went through
the long grass like hawks swooping down on a flock of pigeons. The
men carried their carbines loaded, holding them straight up over
the shoulder so as to lessen the jerking of the wrist caused by
the gallop.