e overhanging
krantz--dislodging a cloud of spreuws from its rocky ledges. These dart
hither and thither, whistling and chattering, their shrill din mingling
with the bellowings of the wounded buck. But upon this arises another
din and it is that of canine throats. Two great rough-haired dogs leap
forth into the glade, following upon the line taken by the buck. Then
ensues a desperate game. The stricken animal, summoning all his
remaining strength to meet these new foes, staggers to his feet, and,
with head lowered and menacing, it seems that no power on earth can stay
the foremost of the dogs from receiving the full length of these
fourteen-inch horns in his onward rush. These, however, are no puppies,
but old, well-seasoned dogs, thoroughly accustomed to bush-hunting.
Wonderfully quick are they in their movements as, just avoiding each
deadly thrust, they leap, snapping and snarling, round their quarry--
until one, seeing his chance, seizes the latter just below the haunch in
such fashion as promptly to hamstring him. The game antelope is done
for now. Weakened, too, by the jets of blood spurting from his wounds,
he totters and falls. The fight is over.

With it the man with the gun has deemed it sound policy not to
interfere. To encourage the dogs would render them too eager--at the
expense of their judgment--and to fire a second shot would be seriously
to imperil them. Besides, he is interested in this not so very
ill-matched combat. Now, however, it is time to call them off.

To call is one thing, but to be obeyed is quite another. The two great
dogs, excited and savage, are snarling and worrying at the carcase of
their now vanquished enemy--and the first attempt to enforce the order
is met with a very menacing and determined growl, for this man is not
their master. Wisely he desists.

"Confound it, they'll tear that fine skin to ribbons!" he soliloquises
disgustedly. Then--"Oh, there you are, Bayfield. Man, call those
brutes off. They don't care a damn for me."

A horseman has dashed into the glade. He, too, carries a gun, but in a
trice he has torn a _reim_ from the D. of his saddle, and is lashing and
cursing with a will among the excited hounds. These draw off, still
snarling savagely, for he is their master.

"_Magtig_! Blachland, but you're in luck's way!" he exclaimed. "That's
the finest ram that's been shot here for the last five years. Well
done! I believe it's the same one I dr