Horns 



thought — I hoped — and as I fired my last barrel 

 the herd broke from a smart trot to a lumbering 

 gallop, swerved to their left, and went off through 

 the forest with that well-known crashing roar of 

 sound. Music sweeter than their retreating foot- 

 steps I have rarely heard, and though music was 

 not in the thoughts of my companions, for the two 

 other trackers emerged from somewhere behind, 

 solid content was expressed on their countenances. 

 The herd had crashed off, but not all. Two 

 angry bellows proclaimed the fact that they had 

 left one of their number behind, and we at once 

 proceeded to move cautiously forward in the 

 direction from which the sounds emanated. A 

 few yards from where the herd had advanced in 

 battle array the forest commenced again, and 

 just within this we saw a bison down, struggling 

 in its death agony. Stealing forward, finger on 

 trigger, I crept to within fifteen paces. The beast, 

 with a short bellow, tried to rise, but it was too 

 far spent ; a couple of groans and a deep sigh, 

 and its sporting spirit had departed to the happy 

 hunting-lands. After making sure the bison was 

 dead, we went up to it, and to my intense chagrin 

 I found that it was an old cow. At the time of 

 firing, in my attempt to turn the herd, I of course 

 knew that the chances were rather in favour of 

 my hitting a cow, but with the brutes showing 

 such a determined front and aggressiveness, the 

 risk had to be taken, if I ever wished to fire 



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