ELK HUNTING 



to take an active and efficient part in the fight, and we long 

 for a fair field and no favour, at any rate for the pig. 



Another fast five or six minutes up a steep rocky ravine 

 in thick forest and we can hear (100 feet above) hounds 

 baying furiously. Climbing up by the edge of the ravine, 

 hand over hand, hanging on to saplings and moss-covered 

 boulders, we reach the lip of a waterfall of about 20 feet. 

 The water, thick and muddied by the fight going on above, 

 splashes past over a perpendicular rock into a small deep 

 pool below. A foothold here is hard to find and keep, but 

 a narrow ledge of rock some 3 feet below the lip of the 

 fall enables one of the field to get on terms with the in- 

 furiated boar. The noise is deafening in this narrow pre- 

 cipitous ravine, and what with the sound of the falling 

 water and the baying of hounds, it seems impossible to 

 make our shouts of encouragement heard by the now more 

 weary pack. They have tackled a stiff customer in a 

 difficult country from the find, and doubtless there are 

 many wounded amongst them. However, brave old Zulu, 

 the grandest seizer that ever faced a stag or seized a boar, 

 catches sight of the nearest sportsman, who now stands, 

 knife in hand, facing the pack and about 2 feet behind the 

 boar. The old dog takes heart of grace and springs full 

 in the face of those wicked tushes, and the sportsman, 

 taking a quick step upwards, stands on the rock beside, 

 and the trusty knife goes down into his heart, whilst Zulu 

 seizes him as best he may. A quicker step back, and in a 

 moment a black and brown mass passes like a flash before 

 the hunters' vision, falling with a loud splash into the pool 

 below, a dead boar and a gallant old dog unwounded and 

 full of fierce anger, as he worries his fallen foe. It has 

 been a short run, lasting not half-an-hour from find to 

 finish, but so much the better, with two of the best of the 



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