Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 25)( Page 1 ) Our Last Hunt

We had not touched fresh meat for many days, as there had been no time for shooting; but I knew that game was plentiful across the river in the rough country between the Kaap and Crocodile, and I started off to make the best of the day's delay, little dreaming that it was to be the last time Jock and I would hunt together. Weeks had passed without a hunt, and Jock must have thought there was a sad falling away on the part of his master; he no longer expected anything; the rifle was never taken down now except for an odd shot from the outspan or to put some poor animal out of its misery.  Since the night with the lions, when he had been ignominiously cooped up, there had been nothing to stir his blood and make life worth living; and this morning as he saw me rise from breakfast and proceed to potter about the waggons in the way he had come to regard as inevitable, he looked on indifferently for a few minutes and then stretched out full length in the sun and went to sleep. I could not take him with me across the river, as the `fly' was said to be bad there, and it was no place to risk horse or dog.  The best of prospects would not have tempted me to take chance with him, but I hated ordering him to stay behind, as it hurt his dignity and sense of comradeship, so it seemed a happy accident that he was asleep and I could slip away unseen.  As the cattle were grazing along the river bank only a few hundred yards off, I took a turn that way to have a look at them, with natural but quite fruitless concern for their welfare, and a moment later met the herd boy running towards me and calling out excitedly something which I made out to be: "Crocodile!  Crocodile, Inkos!  A crocodile has taken one of the oxen." The waggon boys heard it also, and armed with assegais and sticks were on the bank almost as soon as I was; but there was no sign of crocodile or bullock.  The boy showed us the place where the weakened animal had gone down to drink--the hoof slides were plain enough--and told how, as it drank, the long black coffin-head had appeared out of the water.  He described stolidly how the big jaws had opened and gripped the bullock's nose; how he, a few yards away, had seen the struggle; how he had shouted and hurled his sticks and stones and tufts of grass, and feinted to rush down at it; and how, after a muffled bellow and a weak staggering effort to pull back, the poor beast had slid out into the deep water and disappeared.  It seemed to be a quite unnecessary addition to my troubles: misfortunes were coming thick and fast! Half an hour was wasted in watching and searching; but we saw no more of crocodile or bullock, and as there was nothing to be done I turned up stream to find a shallower and a safer crossing. At best it was not pleasant: the water was waist high and racing in narrow channels between and over boulders and loose slippery stones, and I was glad to get through without a tumble and a swim. The country was rough on the other side, and the old grass was high and dense, for no one went there in those days, and the grass stood unburnt from season to season.  Climbing over rocks and stony ground, crunching dry sticks underfoot, and driving a path through the rank tambooki grass, it seemed well-nigh hopeless to look for a shot; several times I heard buck start up and dash off only a few yards away, and it began to look as if the wiser course would be to turn back.  At last I got out of the valley into more level and more open ground, and came out upon a ledge or plateau a hundred yards or more wide, with a low ridge of rocks and some thorns on the far side--quite a likely spot.  I searched the open ground from my cover, and seeing nothing there crossed over to the rocks, threading my way silently between them and expecting to find another clear space beyond.  The snort of a buck brought me to a standstill among the rocks, and as I listened it was followed by another and another from the same quarter, delivered at irregular intervals; and each snort was accompanied by the sound of trampling feet, sometimes like stamps of anger and at other times seemingly a hasty movement.