Big Game Shooting 261 



myself that I should never have such a chance 

 again. A truly wretched man rode into camp that 

 afternoon. 



Next day, I shot a splendid bull, and shortly 

 after, another; but sportsmen will understand me 

 when I say that life has never been quite the 

 same since the irreparable loss of those two sleep- 

 ing beauties ! 



Speaking of the " Bad Lands," les mauvaises terres, 

 one is reminded of the " dry camps." A dry camp 

 is a place where water is not. Nothing more for- 

 lorn can be conceived. After a long day's travel in 

 sun and wind, you are obliged to pitch your tent 

 where night overtakes you. The water you carry 

 is hot and tainted, and the horses, poor beasts, snuff 

 uneasily as you drink your thimbleful ; well do 

 they know that their thirst is not to be quenched. 

 Then the question — an awful question — arises : 

 " Shall we go on on the chance of finding some 

 spring, or shall we go back ? " Success or failure 

 hangs upon a word ; perhaps life or death ! Uncer- 

 tainty wrinkles the faces of even the dogs. The 

 men in your pay are sure to be sulky and peevish. 

 The wage paid to them seems, doubtless, inadequate. 

 The master, on the other hand, finds the responsi- 

 bility a grievous burden upon shoulders already 

 stiff and aching. At such times fancy dwells 

 upon the comforts of a club. Hungry, thirsty, 

 dusty, and dirty, one asks one's self : " Is it worth 

 while ? " 



Looking back, I find my memory tenacious of the 

 good rather than the evil. I have endured many 

 dry camps, but I cannot faithfully describe one; 



