THE LAST SEFARI 427 
would have been true. The poor beast did not even see 
where he was going, and rushed aimlessly forward in his 
death struggle. He came very fast to within about twenty 
yards of the knoll where I sat. Whether he saw me then 
or no, I cannot say; anyway, he turned a little to one side, 
as scores of other rhino that I stalked close up to have 
done, and passing quite near, collapsed, squeaking loudly, 
on the very edge of the donga I had just scrambled through. 
Now in all this there is nothing in the least unusual 
and I have only entered into these details on account of 
what follows, for here begins the really interesting part of 
my story. 
As I turned back to look at my rhino and measure him, 
I saw my Wakamba tracker, who had that morning proved 
himself an unusually good man at his work, standing but 
a few yards away from me, on the other side of the donga 
I had crossed, and making silent, frantic signs for me to 
come to him. After the Wakamba method, his arms were 
stretched forward and downward while he opened and 
closed rapidly his hands. 
Brownie and I at once saw something serious was up, 
though what it was neither of us could imagine. We 
ran down the donga’s edge to a place where we could cross, 
as the sides sloped and the passage was easy, and came up 
alongside Gallinero, the Wakamba. His eyes were pop- 
ping out of his head as he pointed into the black depths of 
the donga, on whose very edge we now stood, and whis- 
pered M’Bogo (buffalo). It seemed absurdly impos- 
sible. Here the narrow gulf was quite thirty feet deep, 
and not only densely packed with tangle but quite filled up 
and overshadowed by thickly growing thorn trees and trail- 
ing plants that roofed it over, shutting out all light. It 
didn’t seem possible that a buffalo should be down there. 
Brownie and I had lowered ourselves down into it, a few 
yards from this very spot. I had shot off my heavy rifle 
