Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick ( Chapter 17 )( Page 3 ) Buffalo Bushfire and Wild Dogs

My eyes were strained and burning from the intensity of the effort to see; but except the calf I could not make out a living thing: the glare of the yellow grass in which we stood, and the sun-splotched darkness beyond it beat me. At last, in the corner of my eye, I saw Francis's rifle rise, as slowly--almost--as the mercury in a warmed thermometer.  There was a long pause, and then came the shot and wild snorts of alarm and rage.  A dozen huge black forms started into life for a second and as quickly vanished--scattering and crashing through the jungle.  The first clear impression was that of Jock, who after one swift run forward for a few yards stood ready to spring off in pursuit, looking back at me and waiting for the word to go; but at the sign of my raised hand, opened with palm towards him, he subsided slowly and lay down flat with his head resting on his paws. "Did you see?" asked Francis.  "Not till you fired.  I heard it strike. What was it?" "Hanged if I know!  I heard it too.  It was one of the big uns; but bull or cow I don't know." "Where did you get it?" "Well, I couldn't make out more than a black patch in the bush.  It moved once, but I couldn't see how it was standing--end on or across. It may be hit anywhere.  I took for the middle of the patch and let drive.  Bit risky, eh?" "Seems like taking chances." "Well, it was no use waiting: we came for this!" and then he added with a careless laugh, "They always clear from the first shot if you get 'em at close quarters, but the fun'll begin now.  Expect he'll lay for us in the track somewhere." That is the way of the wounded buffalo--we all knew that; and old Rocky's advice came to mind with a good deal of point: "Keep cool and shoot straight--or stay right home;" and Jock's expectant watchful look smote me with another memory--"It was my dawg!" A few yards from where the buffalo had stood we picked up the blood spoor.  There was not very much of it, but we saw from the marks on the bushes here and there, and more distinctly on some grass further on, that the wound was pretty high up and on the right side.  Crossing a small stretch of more open bush we reached the dense growth along the banks of the stream, and as this continued up into the kloof it was clear we had a tough job before us. Animals when badly wounded nearly always leave the herd, and very often go down wind so as to be able to scent and avoid their pursuers.  This fellow had followed the herd up wind, and that rather puzzled us. A wounded buffalo in thick bush is considered to be about as nasty a customer as any one may desire to tackle; for, its vindictive indomitable courage and extraordinary cunning are a very formidable combination, as a long list of fatalities bears witness.  Its favourite device--so old hunters will tell you--is to make off down wind when hit, and after going for some distance, come back again in a semicircle to intersect its own spoor, and there under good cover lie in wait for those who may follow up. This makes the sport quite as interesting as need be, for the chances are more nearly even than they generally are in hunting.  The buffalo chooses the ground that suits its purpose of ambushing its enemy, and naturally selects a spot where concealment is possible; but, making every allowance for this, it seems little short of a miracle that the huge black beast is able to hide itself so effectually that it can charge from a distance of a dozen yards on to those who are searching for it. The secret of it seems to lie in two things: first, absolute stillness; and second, breaking up the colour.  No wild animal, except those protected by distance and open country, will stand against a background of light or of uniform colour, nor will it as a rule allow its own shape to form an unbroken patch against its chosen background.