296 THE LAND OF THE LION 
I found myself at last at the foot of a steep bluff, my 
pony ridden to a standstill, and one bullet, my last, in the 
left barrel of my rifle. Right before me stood a wounded 
and irate old bull. Whether I had wounded him or not I 
didn’t know. Most likely I had, for he was old, tough and 
useless, and the Indians only killed for meat; anyway, 
with that last bullet I finished him and, decorated with his 
tail, started campward on foot, triumphant. Where camp 
was I had no remotest idea, but the slain buffalo dotted the 
plains, and women carrying in meat soon marked the long 
hot trail homeward. 
Yes, as I looked long into my African camp fire, that 
great day came back to me again. My rude but hospitable 
hosts of long ago had vanished with the innumerable herds 
that fed and housed them. ‘Towns flourish and wheat 
harvests wave where the buffalo streamed along in thunder- 
ing flight. And I thought, will this wild land in like manner 
know change as momentous? May it too become a land 
of health and homes and plenty? It is hard to say. Pro- 
phecy is fascinating but dangerous. Certainly the black 
man here shows no sign of vacating his heritage, nor does the 
white man, as yet, often give proof that he is able or willing 
to be in it more than an adventurer and fortune seeker. The 
country must of right belong at last to the men, black or 
white, who find in it a home. 
Since I have allowed myself to be betrayed into the 
reminiscent mood, I may as well tempt my readers’ patience 
a little further. When I was quite a little fellow I looked 
daily for years at the blue Mourne Mountains as they sloped 
gradually to the Irish Sea. The sweeping line of those 
purple hills, with the climbing patches of yellow oats and 
barley, that made a brave fight to hold their own against 
the surrounding bog and heather, are as clearly before my 
eyes now as they were in the autumn days of fifty years ago. 
On one side the mountains rose from the sands and mud 
