Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 25)( Page 4 ) Our Last Hunt

It must have been at the fourth or fifth stand that Jock got through the guard at last.  The sable was badly wounded in the body and doubtless strength was failing, but there was little evidence of this yet.  In the pauses Jock's tongue shot and slithered about, a glittering red streak, but after short spells of panting, his head would shut up with a snap like a steel trap and his face set with that look of invincible resolution which it got in part from the pursed up mouth and in part from the intensity of the beady black-brown eyes: he was good for hours of this sort of work. This time the sable drove him back towards a big thorn-tree.  It may have been done without design, or it may have been done with the idea of pinning him up against the trunk.  But Jock was not to be caught that way; in a fight he took in the whole field, behind as well as in front-- as he had shown the night the second wild dog tackled him.  On his side, too, there may or may not have been design in backing towards the tree; who knows?  I thought that he scored, not by a manoeuvre, but simply because of his unrelaxing watchfulness and his resolute unhesitating courage.  He seemed to know instinctively that the jump aside, so safe with the straight-charging animals, was no game to play against the side sweep of a sable's horns, and at each charge of the enemy he had scrambled back out of range without the least pretence of taking liberties. This time the sable drove him steadily back towards the tree, but in the last step, just as the bull made his rush, Jock jumped past the tree and instead of scrambling back out of reach as before, dodged round and was in the rear of the buck before it could turn on him.  There were no flying heels to fear then, and without an instant's hesitation he fastened on one of the hind legs above the hock.  With a snort of rage and indignation the sable spun round and round, kicking and plunging wildly and making vicious sweeps with his horns; but Jock, although swung about and shaken like a rat, was out of reach and kept his grip. It was a quick and furious struggle, in which I was altogether forgotten, and as one more desperate plunge brought the bull down in a struggling kicking heap with Jock completely hidden under him, I ran up and ended the fight. It always took him some time to calm down after these tussles: he became so wound up by the excitement of the struggle that time was needed to run down again, so to say.  While I was busy on the double precaution of fixing up a scare for the aasvogels and cutting grass and branches to cover the buck, Jock moved restlessly round the sable, ever ready to pounce on him again at the least sign of life.  The slithering tongue and wide-open mouth looked like a big red gash splitting his head in two; he was so blown, his breath came and went like the puffing of a diminutive steam-engine at full speed, and his eyes with all the wickedness of fight--but none of the watchfulness--gone out of them, flickered incessantly from the buck to me: one sign from either would have been enough!  It was the same old scene, the same old performance, that I had watched scores of times; but it never grew stale or failed to draw a laugh, a word of cheer, and pat of affection; and from him there came always the same response, the friendly wagging of that stumpy tail, a splashy lick, a soft upward look, and a wider split of the mouth that was a laugh as plain as if one heard it.  But that was only an interruption--a few seconds' distraction: it did not put him off or satisfy him that all was well.  His attention went back to the buck, and the everlasting footwork went on again.  With his front to the fallen enemy and his fore legs well apart he kept ever on the move forwards and backwards, in quick steps of a few inches each, and at the same time edging round in his zigzag circle, making a track round the buck like a weather chart with the glass at `Changeable.' "Silly old fusser!  Can't you see he's finished?"  He could not hear anything, but the responsive wag showed that he knew I was talking to him; and, dodging the piece of bark I threw at him, he resumed his ridiculous round.