Now For Old Smut, The
Hero Of Countless Battles, Who, Though Pluck To The Back-Bone, Always
Tempers His Valour With Discretion.
Yoick to him, Smut!
And I jumped into the water. The buck made a rush
forward, but at that moment a mass of yellow hair dangled before his
eyes as the true old dog hung upon his cheek. Now came the tug of
war--only one seizer! The spring had been so great, and the position of
the buck was so secure, that the dog had missed the ear, and only held
by the cheek. The elk, in an instant, saw his advantage, and quickly
thrusting his sharp brown antlers into the dog's chest, he reared to his
full height and attempted to pin the apparently fated Smut against a
rock. That had been the last of Smut's days of prowess had I not
fortunately had a spear. I could just reach the elk's shoulder in time
to save the dog. After a short but violent struggle, the buck yielded up
his spirit. He was a noble fellow, and pluck to the last.
Having secured his horns to a bush, lest he should be washed away by the
torrent, I examined the dogs. Smut was wounded in two places, but not
severely, and Cato had just recovered his senses, but was so bruised as
to move with great difficulty. In addition to this, he had a deep wound
from the buck's horn under the shoulder.
The great number of elk at the Horton plains and the open character of
the country, make the hunting a far more enjoyable sport than it is in
Newera Ellia, where the plains are of much smaller extent, and the
jungles are frightfully thick. During a trip of two months at the Horton
Plains, we killed forty-three elk, exclusive of about ten which the
pack ran into and killed by themselves, bringing home the account of
their performances in distended stomachs. These occurrences frequently
happen when the elk takes away through an impervious country, where a
man cannot possibly follow. In such cases the pack is either beaten off,
or they pull the elk down and devour it.
This was exemplified some time ago, when the three best dogs were nearly
lost. A doe elk broke cover from a small jungle at the Horton Plains,
and, instead of taking across the patinas (plains), she doubled back to
an immense pathless jungle, closely followed by three
greyhounds--Killbuck, Bran, and Lena. The first dog, who ran beautifully
by nose, led the way, and their direction was of course unknown, as the
dogs were all mute. Night came, and they had not returned. The next day
passed away, but without a sign of the missing dogs. I sent natives to
search the distant jungles and ravines in all directions. Three days
passed away, and I gave up all hope of them. We were sitting at dinner
one night, the fire was blazing cheerfully within, but the rain was
pouring without, the wind was howling in fitful gusts, and neither moon
nor stars relieved the pitchy darkness of the night, when the
conversation naturally turned to the lost dogs.
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