Horns 



it was only a matter of time as to where it dropped. 

 For the next two hours we followed the trail, 

 the blood never ceasing, and over and over again 

 did the rifle come up to the shoulder at the 

 snap of a bamboo or twig. It is nerve-stretching 

 work walking up a wounded bison in thick jungle, 

 and the wounded bull took us through some of the 

 nastiest places we had seen that morning, pro- 

 gression being often only possible on hands and 

 knees. And those bamboos' thorns ! Every 

 bamboo clump, each patch of tall grass, big tree, or 

 thick bush might shelter the wounded and doubt- 

 less enraged brute, and the spirit which animated 

 this most sporting of herds led me to anticipate 

 a vicious charge should we be spotted as we 

 approached, and he be still capable of making it. 

 After some two and a half hours we reached a 

 small hill on which the forest was of a more open 

 nature. The blood trail took us over this, and 

 disappeared into what proved to be a large 

 stretch of bamboo jungle on the far side. After 

 satisfying myself that this was so, and sending a 

 couple of men to see that the bull was not in the 

 immediate vicinity, I had reluctantly to relinquish 

 further search. My time was up, my resting-place 

 for that night was the bungalow of a friend many 

 miles distant, and on the morrow I had to start 

 for the far north. It was a sad blow, as I wanted 

 to look upon that bull. There was little doubt that 

 its trophy, which from the size of the tracks 



149 



