Horns 



matter in jungle. Raising the rifle, I took a care- 

 ful sight on the animal and fired, and got in a 

 second barrel as the beast started forward. We 

 dashed at a breakneck pace down the hill, got 

 into the 4 feet high grass at the bottom, which 

 filled the little terrace upon which the mango 

 tree stood, and ran plump into a bison coming in 

 our direction. I had reloaded as I ran down the hill, 

 and fired point-blank at this beast at a distance 

 of less than 10 yards. My shot had the effect 

 of turning him, and he made off in the wake of the 

 retreating herd which, after scattering in all direc- 

 tions, appeared from the noise ahead to be closing 

 up as they breasted at a great pace a scrub 

 jungle-covered slope in front. 



This time I had no doubts, as I felt certain 

 I had not missed. One of the two shots I fired 

 from the crest had palpably missed the bison — 

 gone over him. I had not allowed for the diffi- 

 culty of firing down at objects almost directly 

 below one, and committed the usual tyro's 

 mistake. 



The trackers soon found blood, and in plenty, 

 and telling the lunch-basket carriers to remain 

 about 100 yards behind us, we took up the trail. 

 Often do I look back to the afternoon that 

 followed. One of the most exciting and yet most 

 aggravating of the many exciting hours I have 

 passed in the Indian jungle ! Hour after hour 

 through the long afternoon we followed that blood 



125 



