274 IN THE LAND OF THE BORA. 



in fact, the biggest of the herd. I think it is a 

 good buck, and wish I had a telescope to make 

 sure.* Shall I disregard the extra thirty yards ? 

 No distance can be harder to judge than one like 

 this, down a sheer cliff. I adjust the sight, and 

 as I do so the big one rises and comes towards 

 the others. In an instant my cap is on the rock, 

 and the barrels rest on it. Now he stops, but 

 only for a few seconds. Now again. This time 

 I do not forget I am almost vertically above him, 

 and sight between his knees. Bang ! and he is 

 kicking on the snow ! 



The herd had not the slightest idea whence 

 the danger threatened, although I stood up, and 

 the dog's yells might have guided them. After 

 racing here and there, four of them moved slowly 

 off up the snow. I was watching my quarry, and 

 when I saw the poor beast stretched out stiff I 

 returned to the dog, and attempted to get down 

 to the snowfield. (I may here remark that this 

 shot was heard in camp, and was fired at exactly 

 two o'clock, so that the stalk must have taken 

 about four hours. Such, however, is the fascina- 

 tion of the sport, that I never realized that I had 

 been going for six hours on a slice of bread and 

 butter and a cup of tea at 5.30 a.m.) After 



* This was a beginner's error. The biggest chamois of 

 a herd is never a buck, except, of course, in the rutting 

 season. 



