The jungles then have a curious appearance.The underwood being dead, the forest-trees rise from a mass of dry sticks like thin hop-poles.The roots of these plants very soon decay, and a few weeks of high wind, howling through the forest, levels the whole mass, leaving the trees standing free from underwood.The appearance of the ground can now be imagined-a perfect chaos of dead sticks and poles, piled one on the other, in every direction, to a depth of between two and three feet.It can only be compared to a mass of hurdles being laid in a heap.The young nillho grows rapidly through this, concealing the mass of dead sticks beneath, and forms a tangled barrier which checks both dogs and man.With tough gaiters to guard the shins, we break through by main force and weight, and the dogs scramble sometimes over, sometimes under the surface.At this period the elk are in great numbers, as they feed with great avidity upon the succulent young nillho.The dogs are now at a disadvantage.While they are scrambling with difficulty through this mass of half-rotten sticks, the elk bounds over it with ease, leaving no path behind him, as he clears it by leaps, and does not exhaust himself by bursting through it.He now constantly escapes, and leaves the pack miles behind; the best hounds follow him, but with such a start he leads them into the unknown depths of the jungles, over high mountains and across deep ravines, from which the lost dogs frequently never return.
There can be no question that it is a bad country for hunting at all times, as the mass of forest is so disproportionate to the patinas; but, on the other hand, were the forests of smaller size there would be less game.Elk-hunting is, on the whole, fine sport.There are many disappointments constantly occurring, but these must happen in all sports.The only important drawback to the pleasure of elk-hunting is the constant loss of the dogs.The best are always sure to go.What with deaths by boars, leopards, elk, and stray hounds, the pack is with difficulty maintained.Puppies are constantly lost in the commencement of their training by straying too far into the jungle, and sometimes by reckless valour.I lost a fine young greyhound, Lancer, own brother to Lucifer, in this way.It was his first day with the pack.
We found a buck who came to bay in a deep rocky torrent, where the dogs had no chance with him, and he amused himself by striking them under water at his pleasure.He at length took his stand among some large rocks, between which the torrent rushed with great rapidity previous to its descent over a fall of sixty feet.
In this impregnable position young Lancer chose to distinguish himself, and with a beautiful spring he flew straight at the buck's head; but the elk met him with a tremendous blow with the fore feet, which broke his back, and the unfortunate Lancer was killed in his first essay and swept over the waterfall.This buck was at bay for two hours before he was killed.
A veteran seizer is generally seamed with innumerable scars.Poor old Bran, who, being a thoroughbred greyhound, is too fine in the skin for such rough hunting, has been sewn up in so many places that he is a complete specimen of needlework.If any dog is hurt in a fight with elk or boar, it is sure to be old Bran.He has now a scar from a wound that was seven inches in length, which he received from a buck whose horns are hanging over my door.
I had started with the pack at daybreak, and I was riding down the Badulla road, about a mile from the kennel, when the whole pack suddenly took up a scent off the road, and dashed into the jungle in full cry.
The road was enclosed by forest on either side.The pack had evidently divided upon two elk, as they were running in different directions.
Starting off down the pass, I soon reached the steep patinas, and Iheard the pack coming down through the jungle which crowns the hills on the left of the road.There was a crush in the underwood, and the next moment a fine buck broke cover and went away along the hillside.
Merriman and Tiptoe were the two leading dogs, and they were not fifty yards behind him.Old smut came tearing along after them, and I gave Bran a holloa and slipped him immediately.It was a beautiful sight to see Bran fly along the patina: across the swampy bottom, taking the broad stream in one bound, and skimming up the hill, he was on the buck's path in a few minutes, pulling up to him at every stride.He passed the few dogs that were in chase like lightning, and in a few more bounds he was at the buck's side.With a dexterous blow, however, the buck struck him with his fore foot, and sent him rolling down the hill with a frightful gash in his side.The buck immediately descended the hillside, and came to bay in a deep pool in the river.Regardless of his wound, old Bran followed him; Smut and the other dogs joined, and there was a fine bay, the buck fighting like a hero.The dogs could not touch him, as he was particularly active with his antlers.
I jumped into the water and gave them a cheer, on which the buck answered immediately by charging at me.I met him with the point of my hunting-knife in the nose, which stopped him, and in the same moment old Smut was hanging on his ear, having pinned him the instant that I had occupied his attention.Bran had the other ear just as I had given him the fatal thrust.In a few seconds the struggle was over.Bran's wound was four inches wide and seven inches long.
My brother had a pretty run with the doe with the other half of the pack, and we returned home by eight A.M., having killed two elk.
