IN THE CHITTAGONG HILL TRACTS 125 



of a bison directly fronting me. I fired at the forehead, 

 a useless shot, but it floored the bison. I heard my com- 

 panion fire. The animal was not twenty-five yards away. 

 I hurriedly reloaded and had only just jammed the cartridge 

 home when a stmggling shape rose sideways. I sighted and 

 fired as did my companion, though I had shouted to him 

 to reserve his fire. The bison dropped, and a dead silence 

 supervened. My companion wanted to go forward ; he 

 was mad with excitement — not the type to take out bison- 

 shooting as I had discovered. I would not permit this. 

 We fetched a compass round approaching from the opposite 

 side, and bombarded the carcase with sodden clods and 

 masses of refuse as soon as near enough. When satisfied 

 we went up and found the bull dead, lying on a mass of 

 smashed bamboos which his great weight had snapped. 



