HUNTING THE PRONG-BUCK. 97 



was a lowering and gloomy day ; at sunrise 

 pale, lurid sundogs hung in the glimmering 

 mist ; gusts of wind moaned through the ra- 

 vines. 



At last I reached a row of bleak hills, and 

 from a ridge looked cautiously down on the 

 chain of plateaus, where I had been told I 

 should see the antelope. Sure enough, there 

 they were, to the number of several hundred, 

 scattered over the level snow-streaked surface 

 of the nearest and largest plateau, greedily 

 cropping the thick, short grass. Leaving my 

 horse tied in a hollow I speedily stalked up a 

 coulie to within a hundred yards of the near- 

 est band and killed a good buck. Instantly 

 all the antelope in sight ran together into a 

 thick mass and raced away from me, until 

 they went over the opposite edge of the pla- 

 teau ; but almost as soon as they did so they 

 were stopped by deep drifts of powdered snow, 

 and came back to the summit of the table- 

 land. They then circled round the edge at a 

 gallop, and finally broke madly by me, jos- 

 tling one another in their frantic haste and 

 crossed by a small ridge into the next plateau 

 beyond ; as they went by I shot a yearling. 



I now had all the venison I wished, and 

 would shoot no more, but I was curious to 

 see how the antelope would act, and so walked 

 after them. They ran about half a mile, and 

 then the whole herd, of several hundred indi- 

 viduals, wheeled into line fronting me, like so 

 many cavalry, and stood motionless, the white 

 and brown bands on their necks looking like 

 the facings on a uniform. As I walked near 

 they again broke and rushed to the end of the 

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