Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 25)( Page 5 ) Our Last Hunt

I was still laughing at him, when he stopped and turning sharply round made a snap at his side; and a few seconds later he did it again.  Then there was a thin sing of insect wings; and I knew that the Tsetse fly were on us. The only thought then was for Jock, who was still working busily round the sable.  For some minutes I sat with him between my legs, wisping away the flies with a small branch and wondering what to do.  It soon became clear that there was nothing to be gained by waiting: instead of passing away the fly became more numerous, and there was not a moment's peace or comfort to be had, for they were tackling me on the neck, arms, and legs, where the thorn-ripped pants left them bare to the knees; so, slinging the rifle over my shoulder, I picked Jock up, greatly to his discomfort, and carried him off in my arms at the best pace possible under the circumstances.  Half a mile of that was enough, however: the weight, the awkwardness of the position, the effort to screen him, and the difficulty of picking my way in very rough country at the same time, were too much for me.  A tumble into a grass-hidden hole laid us both out sprawling, and I sat down again to rest and think, swishing the flies off as before. Then an idea came which, in spite of all the anxiety, made me laugh, and ended in putting poor old Jock in quite the most undignified and ridiculous plight he had known since the days of his puppyhood when his head stuck in the bully-beef tin or the hen pecked him on the nose.  I ripped off as much of my shirt as was not needed to protect me against the flies, and making holes in it for his legs and tail fitted him out with a home-made suit in about five minutes.  Time was everything; it was impossible to run with him in my arms, but we could run together until we got out of the fly belt, and there was not much risk of being bitten as long as we kept up the running in the long grass.  It was a long spell, and what with the rough country and the uncontrollable laughter at the sight of Jock, I was pretty well done by the time we were safely out of the `fly.'  We pulled up when the country began to fall away sharply towards the river, and there, to Jock's evident satisfaction, I took off his suit--by that time very much tattered and awry. It was there, lying between two rocks in the shade of a marula tree, that I got one of those chances to see game at close quarters of which most men only hear or dream.  There were no snapshot cameras then! We had been lying there it may be for half an hour or more, Jock asleep and I spread out on my back, when a slight but distinct click, as of a hoof against a stone, made me turn quietly over on my side and listen. The rock beside me was about four feet high, and on the other side of it a buck of some kind, and a big one too, was walking with easy stride towards the river.  Every footstep was perfectly clear; the walk was firm and confident: evidently there was not the least suspicion of danger.  It was only a matter of yards between us, and what little breeze there was drifted across his course towards me, as he too made for the river, holding a course parallel with the two long rocks between which we were lying.  The footsteps came abreast of us and then stopped, just as I was expecting him to walk on past the rock and down the hill in front of me.  The sudden halt seemed to mean that some warning instinct had arrested him, or some least taint upon the pure air softly eddying between the rocks had reached him.  I could hear his sniffs, and pictured him looking about, silent but alarmed, before deciding which way to make his rush. I raised myself by inches, close to the rock, until I could see over it. A magnificent waterbuck bull, full-grown and in perfect coat and condition, was standing less than five yards away and a little to the right, having already passed me when he came to a stop: he was so close that I could see the waves and partings in his heavy coat; the rise and fall in his flanks as he breathed; the ruff on his shaggy bearded throat, that gave such an air of grandeur to the head; the noble carriage, as with head held high and slightly turned to windward he sniffed the breeze from the valley; the nostrils, mobile and sensitive, searching for the least hint of danger; and the eye, large and full and soft, luminous with watchful intelligence, and yet mild and calm--so free was it from all trace of a disturbing thought.  And yet I was so close, it seemed almost possible to reach out and touch him.  There was no thought of shooting: it was a moment of supreme enjoyment.  Just to watch him: that was enough.