Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick ( Chapter 9 )( Page 4 )The Impala Stampede

What Jock was doing during that time I do not know.  It was all such a whirl of excitement and confusion that there are only a few clear impressions left on my mind.  One is of a buck coming through the air right at me, jumping over the backs of two others racing across my front.  I can see now the sudden wriggle of its body and the look of terror in its eyes when it saw me and realised that it was going to land almost at my feet.  I tried to jump aside, but it was not necessary: with one touch on the ground it shot slantingly past me like a ricochet bullet.  Another picture that always comes back is that of a splendid ram clearing the first of the dense thorn bushes that were to have been my cover in stalking.  He flew over it outlined against the sky in the easiest most graceful and most perfect curve imaginable.  It came back to me afterwards that he was eight or ten yards from me, and yet I had to look up into the sky to see his white chest and gracefully gathered feet as he cleared the thorn bush like a soaring bird. One shot, out of three or four fired in desperation as they were melting away, hit something; the unmistakable thud of the bullet told me so. That time it was the real thing, and when you hear the real thing you cannot mistake it.  The wounded animal went off with the rest and I followed, with Jock ahead of me hot on the trail.  A hundred yards further on where Jock with his nose to the ground had raced along between some low stones and a marula tree I came to a stop--bush all round me, not a living thing in sight, and all as silent as the grave. On one of the smooth hot stones there was a big drop of blood, and a few yards on I found a couple more.  Here and there along the spoor there were smears on the long yellow grass, and it was clear enough, judging by the height of the blood-marks from the ground, that the impala was wounded in the body--probably far back, as there were no frothy bubbles to show a lung shot.  I knew that it would be a long chase unless Jock could head the buck off and bay it; but unless he could do this at once, he was so silent in his work that there was little chance of finding him.  The trail became more and more difficult to follow; the blood was less frequent, and the hot sun dried it so quickly that it was more than I could do to pick it out from the red streaks on the grass and many-coloured leaves.  So I gave it up and sat down to smoke and wait. Half an hour passed, and still no Jock.  Then I wandered about whistling and calling for him--calling until the sound of my own voice became quite uncanny, the only sound in an immense silence.  Two hours passed in useless calling and listening, searching and waiting, and then I gave it up altogether and made back for the waggons, trying to hope against my real conviction that Jock had struck the road somewhere and had followed it to the outspan, instead of coming back on his own trail through the bush to me. But there was no Jock at the waggons; and my heart sank, although I was not surprised.  It was nearly four hours since he had disappeared, and it was as sure as anything could be that something extraordinary must have happened or he would have come back to me long before this.  No one at the waggons had seen him since we started out together; and there was nothing to be done but to wait and see what would happen.  It was perfectly useless to look for him: if alive and well, he was better able to find his way than the best tracker that ever lived; if dead or injured and unable to move, there was not one chance in a million of finding him. There was only one kaffir whom Jock would take any notice of or would allow to touch him--a great big Zulu named Jim Makokel'.  Jim was one of the real fighting Zulu breed; and the pride he took in Jock, and the sort of partnership that he claimed in tastes, disposition and exploits, began the day Jock fought the table-leg and grew stronger and stronger to the end.  Jim became Jock's devoted champion, and more than once, as will be seen, showed that he would face man or beast to stand by him when he needed help. This day when I returned to the waggons Jim was sitting with the other drivers in the group round the big pot of porridge.  I saw him give one quick look my way and heard him say sharply to the others, "Where is the dog?  Where is Jock?"  He stood there looking at me with a big wooden spoon full of porridge stopped on the way to his mouth.  In a few minutes they all knew what had happened; the other boys took it calmly, saying composedly that the dog would find his way back.  But Jim was not calm: it was not his nature.  At one moment he would agree with them, swamping them with a flood of reasons why Jock, the best dog in the world, would be sure to come back; and the next--hot with restless excitement--would picture all that the dog might have been doing and all that he might still have to face, and then break off to proclaim loudly that every one ought to go out and hunt for him.  Jim was not practical or reasonable--he was too excitable for that; but he was very loyal, and it was his way to show his feelings by doing something--generally and preferably by fighting some one.  Knowing only too well how useless it would be to search for Jock, I lay down under the waggon to rest and wait