As he galloped
up to administer the "coup de grace," meaning to make no mistake
about hitting the loin this time, the buffalo suddenly wheeled and
charged him again, and Close Up executed another hurried retreat.
For a while they took it up and down--first buffalo hunting man,
then man hunting buffalo--while Hugh fired whenever he had the
chance, without seeming to discompose the brute at all. At last
a lucky shot struck some vital spot inside; the beast stopped,
staggered, and fell dead without a sound. Hugh looked round. He
was alone; his mate was just visible far away over the plain, still
following at full speed a blue mound that struggled doggedly on
towards the timber. The grey horse drew up to his quarry, the man
leant forward, there was a sudden spurt of white smoke, and the
animal fell as if struck by lightning. It was very pretty to watch,
and looked as simple as shelling peas. The shooter rode over to
Hugh, and congratulated him on his first kill.
"I got all that mob that came our way," he said, "seven of 'em.
Yours makes eight. There's Ben after some still, and there's Tommy
Prince back at the bamboos firing at something. Firing this way,
too, damn him! Look at Ben!"
Far away on the plain, like puppets in the distance, went the
swiftly gliding figures of man and horse.
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