eir keen ears must have heard something. They stood
motionless, gazing in the direction of the threatened peril, their
ringed black horns and prominent eyes plainly distinguishable to the
stalkers. One, a fine large ram, seemingly the leader of the herd, had
already begun to move uneasily.

"Take the two rams as they stand," whispered Suffield.

Crash! Then a long reverberating roar rolls back in thunder from the
base of the cliff. Away go the bucks like lightning, leaving one of
their number kicking upon the ground. This has fallen to Roden's
weapon; the other, the big ram, is apparently unscathed.

"I'll swear he's hit!" cried Suffield, in excitement and vexation.
"Look at him, Musgrave. Isn't he going groggily?"

Roden shaded his eyes to look after the leader of the herd, whose
bounding form was fast receding into distance.

"Yes, he's hit," he said decidedly. "A fine buck too. He may run for
miles with a pound of lead in him, though. They're tough as
copper-wire. We'd better sing out to Piet to bring on the horses, and
try and keep him in sight anyhow."

The fleeing bucks had now become mere specks, as, their stampede in no
wise abated, they went bounding down the mountain-side more than half a
mile away.

"Look there, Suffield," went on Roden, still shading his eyes; "there
are only the five ewes. Your ram's hit, and can't keep up, or else has
split off of his own accord. Anyway, he's hit, and will probably lie up
somewhat under the _krantz_."

Away they went, right along the base of the iron wall, which seemed to
girdle the mountain for miles. And here Mona's boast about being able
to take care of herself was put to a very real and practical test, for
the ground was rough and stony and the slope here and there dangerously
steep.

Suddenly an animal sprang up, right in front of them, apparently out of
the very rocks, at about a hundred yards.

"That's him!" shouted Suffield, skimming past his companions, bent on
diminishing the distance to get in a final shot. But this was not so
easy, for a full-grown rhybok ram, even when wounded, is first-rate at;
and this one was no exception to the rule, for he went so well and
dodged so craftily behind every stone and tuft of grass that his pursuer
would have to shoot him from the saddle, or not at all. Suffield,
realising this, opened fire hastily, and of course missed clean.

"We've lost him!" he growled, making no effort to continue the pursuit.