THE LAST FRONTIER 



stampede in another direction; only again to come to 

 a listening halt of breathless stillness. So the hunter, 

 unable to see anything, and feeling very small, 

 huddles with his gunbearers in a compact group, 

 listening to the wild surging short rushes, now this 

 way, now that, hoping that the stampede may not 

 run over him. If by chance it does, he has his two 

 shots and the possibility of hugging a tree while the 

 rush divides around him. The latter is the most 

 likely; a single buffalo is hard enough to stop with 

 two shots, let alone a herd. And yet, sometimes, the 

 mere flash and noise will suffice to turn them, pro- 

 vided they are not actually trying to attack, but 

 only rushing indefinitely about. Probably a man 

 can experience few more thrilling moments than he 

 will enjoy standing in one of the small leafy rooms of 

 an African jungle while several hundred tons of 

 buffalo crash back and forth all around him. 



In the best of circumstances it is only rarely that, 

 having identified his big bull, the hunter can deliver 

 a knockdown blow. The beast is extraordinarily 

 vital, and in addition it is exceedingly difficult to get 

 a fair, open shot. Then from the danger of being 

 trampled down by the blind and senseless stampede 

 of the herd he passes to the more defined peril from 

 an angered and cunning single animal. The major- 

 ity of fatalities in hunting buffaloes happen while 



338 



