Five minutes
later they were cantering together up the rise, Mr. Clifford having
first ordered the waggon to trek on till they rejoined it, and slipped a
packet of cartridges into his pocket. Beyond the rise lay a wide stretch
of marshy ground, bordered by another rise half a mile or more away,
from the crest of which--for now the air was clear enough--they saw the
wounded bull standing. On they went after him, but before they could
come within shot, he had moved forward once more, for he was only
lightly hurt in the flank, and guessed whence his trouble came.
Again and again did he retreat as they drew near, until at length, just
as Mr. Clifford was about to dismount to risk a long shot, the beast
took to its heels in earnest.
"Come on," he said; "don't let's be beat," for by this time the hunter
was alive in him.
So off they went at a gallop, up slopes and down slopes that reminded
Benita of the Bay of Biscay in a storm, across half-dried vleis that in
the wet season were ponds, through stony ground and patches of ant-bear
holes in which they nearly came to grief. For five miles at least the
chase went on, since at the end of winter the wilderbeeste was thin and
could gallop well, notwithstanding its injury, faster even than their
good horses.
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