A GRUESOME STORY 217 



distinct dialect and I would have lost a lot I heard 

 about forest devils. Not many miles from J. Tul we 

 came on to the "buta" of the river Sopo. A "buta" is 

 the treeless plain, submerged in the rains, and covered 

 with coarse grass in the dry weather, which one finds 

 in many parts of the banks of tropical rivers. 



My guides asked me to shoot a hartebeest for them. 

 I did so in two shots, one in the region of the lungs, 

 the other at the base of the horns, which I measured, 

 found small, and decided not to keep. It soon became 

 evident that the vultures would take toll of the carcase. 

 I had gone about a mile from it when, looking round, 

 I saw the poor beast raise itself to a sitting posture, to 

 be beaten down by the vultures which crowded the 

 air above it. I waited, as I hoped that he was dead, 

 but up he got again. The sight made me feel sick. I 

 cursed the ill-luck that had let me, for want of a knife, 

 leave its throat uncut. I started running towards it, 

 the matted grass and irregularities of the dried-up 

 swamp impeding my progress, firing at intervals into 

 the scrimmage which every now and then took place. 

 I repeat this gruesome story as a lesson to others. On 

 the carcase I registered a vow to "mak siccar" another 

 time. 



On another occasion I had a more or less similar 

 experience. I bowled a cob over with a spine shot, 

 but as my knife was blunt and took time in cutting 

 through the skin of the throat, I sent my gun-carrier 

 to fetch another from one of my men who was passing. 

 Suddenly the cob got up, and before I could throw 

 myself on him, was off. 



