“Bison.  Badshah’s pointing for us.  We can’t shoot them here, for we’re in Government jungle where the killing of elephants, bison and rhino is forbidden unless they attack you.  But the track leads north towards the mountains and at their foot the Government Forest ends.  That’s only half a mile away and we can bag them there.  Load your rifle with solid-nosed bullets.  This is the pug (footprint) of a bull, I think.”

The two natives had seen the tracks by this and were wildly excited.  Badshah without urging moved swiftly through the trees and soon brought his riders to the hills and into sight of the sky once more.  The mountains stood out clear and distinct in the slanting rays of the setting sun.  Suddenly a loud though distant, almost musical bellow sounded, seeming to come from a bamboo jungle about a mile away.

“That’s a cow-bison calling,” said Dermot in a low voice.  “There’s a herd somewhere about; but the ‘pugs’ we’re following up are those of a solitary bull.  We’re in free forest now; so with luck you may get your first bison.  It’s very steep here; we’ll dismount, leave the elephants and go on foot.”

The subaltern was wildly excited, and his heart thumped at a rate that was not caused by the steep slope up which he followed Dermot.  The Colonel tracked the bull unhesitatingly, although to Wargrave there was no mark to be seen on the ground.

They were creeping cautiously through bamboo cover on a hill when Dermot, who was leading, suddenly threw himself on his face, lay still for a minute or two, then, motioning to his companion to halt, crawled forward like a snake.  A few paces on he stopped and beckoned to Wargrave, and, when the latter reached him, pointed down into the gully below.  They were almost on the edge of a descent precipitous enough to be called a cliff.  Immediately underneath by a small stream was a massive black bull-bison, eighteen hands—­six feet—­high, with short, square, head, broad ears and horizontal rounded horns.  The only touches of colour were on the forehead and the legs below the knees, which were whitish.  The animal, with head thrown back, was staring vacantly with its large, slatey-blue eyes.

Wargrave trembled with excitement and his heart beat so violently that the rifle shook as he brought it to his shoulder and gently pushed the muzzle through the stiff, dry grass at the edge of the cliff.  But for the one necessary instant he became rigidly steady and without a tremor pressed the trigger.  Then the rifle barrels danced again before his eyes, when he saw the great bull collapse on the ground, its fore-legs twitching violently, the hind ones motionless.

“Good shot.  You’ve broken his spine,” exclaimed Dermot, springing to his feet and sliding, scrambling, jumping down the steep descent.  The excited subaltern outstripped him; but before he reached the bull it lay motionless, dead.

“You’re a lucky young man, Wargrave.  A splendid bison on your first day in the jungle.  Those horns are six feet from tip to tip I bet,” and the Political Officer held out his hand.