I have seen a wildebeeste effectually hidden by a 

 single blighted branch; a koodoo bull, by a few twisty 

 sticks ; a crouching lion, by a wisp of feathery grass 

 no higher than one's knee, no bigger than a vase of 

 flowers ! Yet, the marvel of it is always fresh. 



After a couple of hundred yards of that sort of 

 going, we changed our plan, taking to the creek again 

 and making occasional cross-cuts to the trail, to be 

 sure he was still ahead. It was certain then that 

 the buffalo was following the herd and making for 

 the poort, and as he had not stopped once on our 

 account we took to the creek after the fourth cross- 

 cut and made what pace we could to reach the narrow 

 gorge where we reckoned to pick up the spoor again. 



There are, however, few short cuts and no certain- 

 ties in hunting ; when we reached the poort there 

 was no trace to be found of the wounded buffalo ; 

 the rest of the herd had passed in, but we failed to 

 find blood or other trace of the wounded one, and 

 Jock was clearly as much at fault as we were. 



We had overshot the mark and there was nothing 

 for it but to hark back to the last blood spoor and, 

 by following it up, find out what had happened. 

 This took over an hour, for we spoored him then 

 with the utmost caution, being convinced that 

 the buffalo, if not dead, was badly wounded and 

 lying in wait for us. 



We came on his 'stand,' in a well-chosen spot, where 

 the game path took a sharp turn round some heavy 

 bushes. The buffalo had stood, not where one would 

 naturally expect it in the dense cover which seemed 

 285 



