SPRINGBOKS ON A SALT-PAN 199 



buck is picked up and slung behind the saddle, 

 and the hunter strikes for his wagons, a mile 

 away. 



The pan is deserted now. Only the dark crimson 

 stain of blood upon the silvery sand, the spoor of horse 

 and man, and the cloud of vultures, already circling 

 in the blue void of sky, tell of this tragedy of 

 sunrise. 



