ghter cows, running ahead, rather less. The
horsemen are still nearly three hundred yards in rear of the nearest of
the troop. "Jump off, lads, and shoot!" roars Tom Lane, as he reins up
his nag suddenly, springs off, and puts up his rifle. The other two men
instantly follow his example. Two barrels are fired by Lane, but the
distance is great, that desperate gallop has made him shaky, and his
bullets go wide.

Hume Wheler, quicker down from his horse than his friend, fires next at
the old bull, lagging last; he, too, misses clean, and shoves another
cartridge into his single sporting Martini. But now even the old bull
is close upon the forest, into whose depths the rest of the troop are
disappearing, and he, too, is within easy hail of safety. Before Hume
can fire again, Joe Granton has put up his sight for 350 yards and aimed
full; he draws a deep breath, pulls trigger, and in the next instant the
great dark chestnut bull falls prone to the earth, and lies there very
still. Never again shall he stalk the pleasant Kalahari forests never
again stretch upward that slender neck to pluck the young acacia
leafage!

"My God, Joe! you've killed him," gasped Hume Wheler.

"Bravo!" chimed in Tom Lane, wiping his brow; "whether you fluked him or
not, it was a wonderful shot. You've got Kate Manning's tail right
enough."

Now Joe, it must be frankly admitted, was not a good shot; either of his
friends could give him points in the ordinary way. Here was an
extraordinary stroke of luck! Speechless with delight, flushed of face,
and streaming with sweat, his eyes still fixed upon the piece of grass
where the bull had gone down, he mounted his horse and galloped up. The
others followed in more leisurely fashion. Joe was quickly by the side
of the great dappled giraffe. Taking off and waving his hat, he turned
his face to his friends and gave a loud hurrah. Then, first whipping
out his hunting-knife and cutting off the long tail by the root, he sat
himself down upon the dead beast's shoulder to await their coming. At
that instant a strange resurrection happened. Whether roused to life
again by the sharp severing of its tail, or by a last desperate stirring
of nature, the giraffe--not yet dead after all--rose suddenly from its
prone position, and, with Joe clinging in utter bewilderment to its long
neck, staggered to its stilt-like legs. For another instant the great
creature beat the air in its real death-agony, s