THE BUFFALO 95 



powerful glasses, looking for all the world like a 

 large herd of overgrown, dusky cattle. The wind 

 blew lightly but consistently in our direction, and 

 at a distance of 700 or 800 yards the buffaloes 

 had taken absolutely no notice of us. Luckily, 

 considering its uncompromising featxu:es, the 

 plain was intersected by a number of dry, shallow 

 channels, evidently the means of escape for the 

 heavy, torrential downfalls of the summer rains, 

 and along one of these, closely followed by my 

 two hunters, I proceeded to crawl slowly. It was 

 a long, weary task, rendered the more difficult 

 and disagreeable by the dust which flew up and 

 persistently filled our eyes and mouths and 

 nostrils. From time to time, as the distance 

 grew shorter, the sound of the clicking of horns 

 striking together, or the domineering bellow of 

 some salacious bull, was borne towards us, until 

 at length, weary, grimy, and out of breath, we 

 peeped over the upper edge of our cover, to see, 

 with a sigh of excited relief, that not much more 

 than 140 yards separated us from the unconscious 

 animals. By subsequent cautious manoeuvring, 

 I succeeded in reducing this to about 120 yards, 

 and then, fairly dead beat, and with our hearts 

 thumping against our ribs as though to burst 

 through, we all lay flat down for a few seconds 

 to recover our wind and steadiness. It was an 

 eerie position, and we were not unmindful that 

 when the herd should finally stampede, as stam- 

 pede sooner or later they must, it was an even 

 chance that, not having made us out, they might 

 do so right over the top of us. After a minute 



