Hunting at High Altitudes 



at last a large buffalo walked toward my tree, when 

 I gave it both barrels of my 450. Instantly the 

 herd stampeded, and I thought that I had missed, 

 but I soon heard from near by the low moaning 

 bellow which a buffalo usually makes as it is dying. 

 The noise of my shots had awakened the camp, 

 and the men, knowing well the meaning of the 

 noise the beast made, came down with a lamp, 

 which soon showed us a good bull lying dead on 

 the bank. The next night I killed another in the 

 same way, and having had enough of this rather 

 unsportsmanlike method of hunting, we moved a 

 march further on to where there were said to be 

 kudu. On the way I picked up a very fine pair of 

 kudu horns, which had been killed by a lion, and in 

 the following week saw some very fine kudu bulls, 

 but did not succeed in getting any owing to a run 

 of very bad shooting, combined with a large and 

 very painful liver, the result of fever. So severe 

 was the pain that I could not bend nor take long 

 breath, while all the time my side ached as though 

 my ribs were broken. Much as I hated to leave 

 the kudu country without getting one of the several 

 good heads, both Finaughty and I were feeling so 

 badly that We thought it unwise to remain any 

 longer, so moved back to where the wagon was 

 standing on the Kafue River. Here we found that 



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