The rush of his charge
carried him past. As he struck he lurched forward, leaving a pool of
bright blood where his muzzle hit the ground; but he recovered himself
and made two or three jumps onwards, while I hurriedly jammed a couple
of cartridges into the magazine, my rifle holding only four, all of
which I had fired. Then he tried to pull up, but as he did so his
muscles seemed suddenly to give way, his head drooped, and he rolled
over and over like a shot rabbit. Each of my first three bullets had
inflicted a mortal wound.
It was already twilight, and I merely opened the carcass, and then
trotted back to camp. Next morning I returned and with much labor took
off the skin. The fur was very fine, the animal being in excellent trim,
and unusually bright-colored. Unfortunately, in packing it out I lost
the skull, and had to supply its place with one of plaster. The beauty
of the trophy, and the memory of the circumstances under which I
procured it, make me value it perhaps more highly than any other in my
house.
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