"To shoot any beast that won't stay with the mob. Some of 'em won't
be stopped. They have to go. Well, if one goes, the rest keep trying
to follow, and no forty men will hold 'em. You just keep your eyes
open, and if a beast breaks out in spite of the whips, you shoot
him if the blacks tell you. See?"
"Where am I to shoot him?"
"Shoot him any place. In the earhole, or the shoulder, or the ribs,
or the flank. Any place at all. Shoot him all over if you like.
One or two bullets don't hurt a beast. It takes a lead-mine to kill
some of 'em."
"Do the blacks shoot?" asked Charlie.
"No, I don't never trust no blacks with firearms. One boy knifes
well, though. Races alongside and knifes 'em."
This seemed a fairly difficult performance; while the Englishman
was wondering how it would be carried out, they made a start. They
rode mile after mile in the yellow moonlight, until they discerned
a mob of cattle feeding placidly near some big scrub. They whistled
to the blacks, and all rode away down wind to a spot on the edge
of the plain, a considerable distance from the cattle.
Here they dismounted and waited, Considine and Charlie talking
occasionally in low tones, while the blacks sat silent, holding
their horses. Carew lay down on the long dry grass and gazed away
over the plain.
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