The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
sable he promptly gave chase—nothing I could 
do would restrain the brute. I felt furious enough 
to shoot at the dog, but refrained, hoping that 
after all the sable was so badly hit that he would 
soon succumb. There was a great deal of blood 
spoor, which my boys and I proceeded to follow 
up. We walked at least a mile all downhill, to be 
joined at last by the dog, who returned on his 
tracks. Now we were at fault completely, as 
the spoor led us into very dense country, where 
no doubt the beast had lain down so soon as the 
dog left him. This piece of bush was perhaps 
a mile square, clothing the bottom of a valley 
through which a shallow stream had its course. 
I spent the best part of that day trying to find 
the spoor again, and even tried to get that useless 
dog to help us, but I was obliged to give it up 
in the end, as it seemed to be entirely hopeless. 
This was the only shot I ever had at a sable bull, 
although I killed a cow two days later, more — 
because we had no meat in camp than because 
I wanted her head as a trophy. 
It is amazing what a quantity of fresh meat 
niggers will eat, they literally gorge themselves. 
A buck goes nowhere—one has to kill game 
whether one likes it or not. The meal of the 
country, which you have to buy for them, is all 
very well when they are in their kraals, but when 
with the white man hunting they expect as 
much meat as they can dispose of. 
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