"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.




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