Jock Of The Bushvels by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick ( Chapter 6 )( Page 2 )( The First Hunt )

I was too disgusted to move, and sat in the sand rubbing my shoulder and thanking my stars that the rifle had not burst.  There was plenty to think about, to be sure, and no hurry to do anything else, for the noise of the shot must have startled every living thing for a mile round.

It is not always easy to tell the direction from which a report comes when you are near a river or in broken country or patchy bush; and it is not an uncommon thing to find that a shot which has frightened one animal away from you has startled another and driven it towards you; and
that is what happened in this case.  As I sat in the shade of the thorns with the loaded rifle across my knees there was the faint sound of a buck cantering along in the sand; I looked up; and only about twenty yards from me a duiker came to a stop, half fronting me.  There it stood
looking back over its shoulder and listening intently, evidently thinking that the danger lay behind it.  It was hardly possible to miss that; and as the duiker rolled over, I dropped my rifle and ran to make sure of it. Of course, it was dead against the rules to leave the rifle behind; but
it was simply a case of excitement again: when the buck rolled over everything else was forgotten!  I knew the rule perfectly well--Reload at once and never part with your gun.  It was one of Rocky's lessons, and only a few weeks before this, when out for an afternoon's shooting
with an old hunter, the lesson had been repeated.  The old man shot a rietbuck ram, and as it had been facing us and dropped without a kick we both thought that it was shot through the brain.  There was no mark on the head, however, and although we examined it carefully, we failed to find the bullet-mark or a trace of blood; so we put our rifles down to settle the question by skinning the buck.  After sawing at the neck for half a minute, however, the old man found his knife too blunt to make an opening, and we both hunted about for a stone to sharpen it on, and
while we were fossicking about in the grass there was a noise behind, and looking sharply round we saw the buck scramble to its feet and scamper off before we had time to move.  The bullet must have touched one of its horns and stunned it.  My companion was too old a hunter to
get excited, and while I ran for the rifles and wanted to chase the buck on foot he stood quite still, gently rubbing the knife on the stone he had picked up.  Looking at me under bushy eyebrows and smiling philosophically, he said: "That's something for you to remember, Boy.  It's my belief if you lived for ever there'd always be something to learn at this game." Unfortunately I did not remember when it would have been useful.  As I ran forward the duiker tumbled, struggled and rolled over and over, then got up and made a dash, only to dive head foremost into the sand and somersault over; but in a second it was up again and racing off, again to trip and plunge forward on to its chest with its nose outstretched sliding along the soft ground.  The bullet had struck it in the shoulder, and the broken leg was tripping it and bringing it down; but,
in far less time than it takes to tell it, the little fellow found out what was wrong, and scrambling once more to its feet was off on three legs at a pace that left me far behind.  Jock, remembering the mistake in the reeds, kept his place behind, and I in the excitement of the moment neither saw nor thought of him until the duiker, gaining at every jump, looked like vanishing for ever.  Then I remembered and, with a frantic wave of my hand, shouted, "After him, Jock."

He was gone before my hand was down, and faster than I had ever seen him move, leaving me ploughing through the heavy sand far behind.  Past the big bush I saw them again, and there the duiker did as wounded game so ften do: taking advantage of cover it changed direction and turned away for some dense thorns.  But that suited Jock exactly; he took the short cut across to head it off and was close up in a few more strides.  He caught up to it, raced up beside it, and made a jump at its throat; but the duiker darted away in a fresh direction, leaving him yards behind. Again he was after it and tried the other side; but the buck was too quick, and again he missed and overshot the mark in his jump.  He was in such deadly earnest he seemed to turn in the air to get back again and once more was close up--so close that I the flying heels of the buck
seemed to pass each side of his ears; then he made his spring from behind, catching the duiker high up on one hind leg, and the two rolled over together, kicking and struggling in a cloud of dust.  Time after time the duiker got on its feet, trying to get at him with its horns or
to break away again; but Jock, although swung off his feet and rolled on, did not let go his grip.  In grim silence he hung on while the duiker plunged, and, when it fell, tugged and worried as if to shake the life out of it. What with the hot sun, the heavy sand, and the pace at which we had
gone, I was so pumped that I finished the last hundred yards at a walk, and had plenty of time to see what was going on; but even when I got up to them the struggle was so fierce and the movements so quick that for some time it was not possible to get hold of the duiker to finish it
off.  At last came one particularly bad fall, when the buck rolled over on its back, and then Jock let go his grip and made a dash for its throat; but again the duiker was too quick for him; with one twist it was up and round facing him on its one knee, and dug, thrust, and swept
with its black spiky horns so vigorously that it was impossible to get at its neck.  As Jock rushed in the head ducked and the horns flashed round so swiftly that it seemed as if nothing could save him from being stabbed through and through, but his quickness and cleverness were a
revelation to me.  If he could not catch the duiker, it could not catch him: they were in a way too quick for each other, and they were a long way too quick for me. Time after time I tried to get in close enough to grab one of the buck's hind legs, but it was not to be caught.  While Jock was at it fast and furious in front, I tried to creep up quietly behind--but it was no use: the duiker kept facing Jock with horns down, and whenever I moved it swung round and kept me in front also.  Finally I tried a run straight in; and then it made another dash for liberty.  On three legs, howeve, it had no chance, and in another minute Jock had it again, and down they came together, rolling over and over once more.  The duiker struggled hard, but he hung on, and each time it got its feet to the ground to rise he would tug sideways and roll it over again, until I got up to them, and catching the buck by the head, held it down with my knee on its neck and my Bushman's Friend in hand to finish it. There was, however, still another lesson for us both to learn that day; neither of us knew what a buck can do with its hind feet when it is down.  The duiker was flat on its side; Jock, thinking the fight was over, had let go; and, before I could move the supple body doubled up, and the feet whizzed viciously at me right over its head.  The little
pointed cloven feet are as hard and sharp as horns and will tear the flesh like claws.  By good luck the kick only grazed my arm, but although the touch was the lightest it cut the skin and little beads of blood shot up marking the line like the scratch of a thorn.  Missing my arm the hoof struck full on the handle of the Bushman's Friend and sent it flying yards out of reach.  And it was not merely one kick: faster than the eye could follow them the little feet whizzed and the legs seemed to buzz round like the spokes of a wheel.  Holding the horns at arm's length in order to dodge the kicks, I tried to pull the duiker towards the knife; but it was too much for me, and with a sudden twist and a wrench freed itself and was off again. All the time Jock was moving round and round panting and licking his chops, stepping in and stepping back, giving anxious little whimpers, and longing to be at it again, but not daring to join in without permission.  When the duiker broke away, however, he waited for nothing, and was on to it in one spring--again from behind; and this time he let go as it fell, and jumping free of it, had it by the throat before it
could rise.  I ran to them again, but the picking up of the knife had delayed me and I was not in time to save Jock the same lesson that the duiker had just taught me. Down on its side, with Jock's jaws locked in its throat, once more the duiker doubled up and used its feet.  The first kick went over his head and scraped harmlessly along his back; but the second caught him at the
point of the shoulder, and the razor-like toe ripped his side right to the hip.  Then the dog showed his pluck and cleverness.  His side was cut open as if it had been slashed by a knife, but he never flinched or loosened his grip for a second; he seemed to go at it more furiously
than ever, but more cleverly and warily.  He swung his body round clear of the whizzing feet, watching them with his little beady eyes fixed sideways and the gleaming whites showing in the corners; he tugged away incessantly and vigorously, keeping the buck's neck stretched out and
pulling it round in a circle backwards so that it could not possibly double its body up enough to kick him again; and before I could catch the feet to help him, the kicks grew weaker; the buck slackened out, and Jock had won. The sun was hot, the sand was deep, and the rifle was hard to find; it was a long way back to the waggons, and the duiker made a heavy load; but the end of that first chase seemed so good that nothing else mattered.  The only thing I did mind was the open cut on Jock's side; but he minded nothing: his tail was going like a telegraph needle; he
was panting with his mouth open from ear to ear, and his red tongue hanging out and making great slapping licks at his chops from time to time; he was not still for a second, but kept walking in and stepping back in a circle round the duiker, and looking up at me and then down at
it, as if he was not at all sure that there might not be some fresh game on, and was consulting me as to whether it would not be a good thing to have another go in and make it all safe. He was just as happy as a dog could be, and perhaps he was proud of the wound that left a straight line from his shoulder to his hip and showed up like a cord under the golden brindle as long as he lived--a memento of his first real hunt.