The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 



sable he promptly gave chase nothing I could 

 do would restrain the brute. I felt furious enough 

 to shoot at the dog, but refrained, hoping that 

 after all the sable was so badly hit that he would 

 soon succumb. There was a great deal of blood 

 spoor, which my boys and I proceeded to follow 

 up. We walked at least a mile all downhill, to be 

 joined at last by the dog, who returned on his 

 tracks. Now we were at fault completely, as 

 the spoor led us into very dense country, where 

 no doubt the beast had lain down so soon as the 

 dog left him. This piece of bush was perhaps 

 a mile square, clothing the bottom of a valley 

 through which a shallow stream had its course. 

 I spent the best part of that day trying to find 

 the spoor again, and even tried to get that useless 

 dog to help us, but I was obliged to give it up 

 in the end, as it seemed to be entirely hopeless. 

 This was the only shot I ever had at a sable bull, 

 although I killed a cow two days later, more 

 because we had no meat in camp than because 

 I wanted her head as a trophy. 



It is amazing what a quantity of fresh meat 

 niggers will eat, they literally gorge themselves. 

 A buck goes nowhere one has to kill game 

 whether one likes it or not. The meal of the 

 country, which you have to buy for them, is all 

 very well when they are in their kraals, but when 

 with the white man hunting they expect as 

 much meat as they can dispose of. 



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