Although I heard it, oddly enough, I paid no attention to it at the time, being utterly intent upon the business in hand.
Following a wounded buffalo bull up a tree-clad and stony kloof is no game for children, as these beasts have a habit of returning on their tracks and then rushing out to gore you.

So I went on with every sense alert, keeping Anscombe well behind me.
As it happened our bull had either been knocked silly or inherited no guile from his parents.

When he found he could go no further he stopped, waited behind a bush, and when he saw us he charged in a simple and primitive fashion.

I let Anscombe fire, as I wished him to have the credit of killing it all to himself, but somehow or other he managed to miss both barrels.
Then, trouble being imminent, I let drive as the beast lowered its head, and was lucky enough to break its spine (to shoot at the head of a buffalo is useless), so that it rolled over quite dead at our feet.
"You have got a magnificent pair of horns," I said, contemplating the fallen giant.
"Yes," answered Anscombe, with a twinkle of his humorous eyes, "and if it hadn't been for you I think that I should have got them in more senses than one." As the words passed his lips some missile, from its peculiar sound I judged it was the leg off an iron pot, hurtled past my head, fired evidently from a smoothbore gun with a large charge of bad powder.

Then I remembered the war-horn and all that it meant.
"Off you go," I said, "we are ambushed by Kaffirs." We were indeed, for as we tailed down that kloof, from the top of both cliffs above us came a continuous but luckily ill-directed fire.