Game of the smaller sort began to be plentiful about here, so not more than a dozen miles from Pilgrim’s Rest we outspanned early in the afternoon to try to get a blue wildebeeste or two, for I had seen the spoor of these creatures in a patch of soft ground, or failing them some other buck.  Accordingly, leaving the wagon by a charming stream that wound and gurgled over a bed of granite, we mounted our salted horses, which were part of Anscombe’s outfit, and set forth rejoicing.  Riding through the scattered thorns and following the spoor where I could, within half an hour we came to a little glade.  There, not fifty yards away, I caught sight of a single blue wildebeeste bull standing in the shadow of the trees on the further side of the glade, and pointed out the ugly beast, for it is the most grotesque of all the antelopes, to Anscombe.

“Off you get,” I whispered.  “It’s a lovely shot, you can’t miss it.”

“Oh, can’t I!” replied Anscombe.  “Do you shoot.”

I refused, so he dismounted, giving me his horse to hold, and kneeling down solemnly and slowly covered the bull.  Bang went his rifle, and I saw a bough about a yard above the wildebeeste fall on to its back.  Off it went like lightning, whereon Anscombe let drive with the left barrel of the Express, almost at hazard as it seemed to me, and by some chance hit it above the near fore-knee, breaking its leg.

“That was a good shot,” he cried, jumping on to his horse.

“Excellent,” I answered.  “But what are you going to do?”

“Catch it.  It is cruel to leave a wounded animal,” and off he started.

Of course I had to follow, but the ensuing ride remains among the more painful of my hunting memories.  We tore through thorn trees that scratched my face and damaged my clothes; we struck a patch of antbear holes, into one of which my horse fell so that my stomach bumped against its head; we slithered down granite koppies, and this was the worst of it, at the end of each chapter, so to speak, always caught sight of that accursed bull which I fondly hoped would have vanished into space.  At length after half an hour or so of this game we reached a stretch of open, rolling ground, and there not fifty yards ahead of us was the animal still going like a hare, though how it could do so on three legs I am sure I do not know.  We coursed it like greyhounds, till at last Anscombe, whose horse was the faster, came alongside of the exhausted creature, whereon it turned suddenly and charged.

Anscombe held out his rifle in his right hand and pulled the trigger, which, as he had forgotten to reload it, was a mere theatrical performance.  Next second there was such a mix-up that for a while I could not distinguish which was Anscombe, which was the wildebeeste, and which the horse.  They all seemed to be going round and round in a cloud of dust.  When things settled themselves a little I discovered the horse rolling on the ground, Anscombe on his back