STORY CONTINUED FROM ABOVE.

Nobody moved. We all stood perfectly still, like so many statues, not actually seeing
them at first, but knowing they were there. Ever so slowly, pointing with only a finger,
and at the same time lowering his raised foot, Silas directed our attention down and
across the draw. Moving only my eyes I saw them too. Four of them, just like Richard
had said. Four, by themselves. No herd. No cows. Four mature, no old, not mature, four
old dugga boys. This is how it is supposed to be I thought. One of them was facing our
direction, and all of them seemed to be on high alert. Half-balanced on a hillside, out in
the sun, and holding our positions in mid-stride, we were in a bad way, but for once, the
wind was in our faces.

Knowing not to move was enough, and nobody said anything, the confidence of five days
together at this pursuit cementing our knowledge that we all knew what we were
supposed to do, which right now, was nothing but hold still. Two of the bulls soon
relaxed and resumed feeding, the third one actually turned and lay down, but the fourth
one kept staring in our direction. From that distance, I could not make out details, but the
shine off of his horns suggested a glass-slick boss that only comes with age. He had
probably been the one to hear us, and in this stance, head-on to us, anthropomorphetically
facing us, but in actuality more listening in our direction than looking, he eventually
dropped his head and turned slightly. Remembering what I had read about a bull’s vision,
I thought that now he is actually looking in our direction, and I held still, as did everyone
else, until finally, he dropped his head further and taking a step he resumed feeding.
Richard turned his head to me slowly, and indicated with facial gestures and with his eyes
that he and I were going to sit down on some rocks directly in front or us, my rock
appearing like a miniature Gibraltar rising out of the hillside, and certainly appearing as
nothing that would ever suggest comfortable seating. It was not the time or place to
argue, and so I did what I could, and we slowly moved into our positions. Richard was on
my left, Shadrick and Silas stayed behind us, dead silent and stock-still. They had played
this dangerous game many times, so that the act of freezing in place was nothing more
than a routine part of the job, and Silas’s part now being complete, it was now in
Richard’s hands and in mine to make the next move. With rifles across our laps and
outward from each other, we slowly picked up our binoculars.
Looking downhill, at about 75 yards, through the scrub and Mopane with the odd large
tree trunk thrown in the way to make it difficult if not interesting, we silently examined
our elusive quarry. The wary bull, the one on the left, had a slick boss, and worn down
horn tips. Trophy quality in inches was not much, and he might have measured 36 inched
wide on a good day, but the shine on his horns and the grey in his face told his story, and I judged him to be at least 12 or 13 years old, a skilled foe with which to try and match
wits. He was certainly the oldest and therefore the most experienced of the group, and
even though we all sat very still and remained very quiet, he turned towards us once or
twice more, apparently still not satisfied that all was well.
Scanning left to right, the second one was impressive, with large, fully hard bosses, and
horn tips appearing as if they were still sharp but perhaps not as high and as sharp as they
had once been. He also had a nice drop to his horns, which I think is a more desirable
trait than a flat wide spread. The one laying down appeared to be the largest, easily going
over 40 inches wide, but when he turned you could see the soft grey area in the center of
his horns, and the high sharp tips. “Maybe 8 years old.” I thought. “Maybe 9.” The fourth
one had turned and was moving up the hill and slightly out of sight, but he also had high
sharp tips suggesting he was new to the club, and returning my focus to the second one, I
wondered what we would do next, and how would we would close the gap and get into
position for a shot. The soft breeze remained in our faces, and the sunlight dappled the
ground with the movement of the leaves in the Mopane trees, and the calmness and
serenity of the valley seemed to slowly settle upon all of us.

When they all had their heads down, Richard answered all my questions by reaching back
to Silas for the sticks and whispering to me “Get your rifle up.”
“What.” I thought to myself. “Shoot from here? Is he crazy? I can’t shoot downhill, with
open sights, from here of all places. On top of everything else there’s a rock sticking me
in the a..”
“Second from the left.” Richard interrupted my thoughts. “He’s easily the best one and a
very nice bull at that.”
Crazy or not he was in charge, and hiding my apprehension I acquiesced by saying,
“That’s the one I picked too.” and as he splayed the sticks wide I dropped my rifle into
the crook, taking up position in spite of my trepidation, which I hoped didn’t show.
“He knows what he’s doing.” I thought silently to reassure myself.
“I hope that I do too.” Was my next thought.
“Far left is the oldest but second one is the best one. Get on him and wait for the shot. I’ll
tell you when.”
“Second from the left?”
“Second from the left.”
“The bead covers his whole body.”
“That’s good.” He said. “Means you’ll hit him.”
“It must be 75 yards.”
“Don’t worry you can make that shot.”
I’ve always heard the line about being careful what you wish for. Well, now I had gotten
just that. After all, this is what I had said I wanted, fair chase, on the ground, tracking,
and open sights with my big double. I thought about my scoped .375, locked in my safe,
8000 miles away. A real tack-driver for an inexpensive rifle, this would be an easy shot
and probably an easy kill for the Ultra Mag, but I purposely had not brought it with me.

Inside my head, my mind was racing, trying to process everything that was happening,
and what I needed to do about it. “OK” I thought. “So make the shot. You know how this
rifle shoots. Bury the bead slightly. The see-through rear leaf sight really is a nice option.
I wonder why you don’t see more of them. Probably heresy to the traditionalists anyway.
Folding leafs and all that. Downhill, maybe 40 feet lower than we are, maybe 75 yards
away on this plane, triangulate that in your head. A squared plus B squared…”
The bulls were relaxed now, even if the hunter was not, and they seemed no longer tense
or on alert. The one we wanted and the older one were now in line with each other, not
offering any shot, and wanting the shot to happen, I thought that what needs to happen is
that the big one needs to turn to the left and walk out about ten yards, where a clear
opening through the trees would offer the best possible shot and with no chance of hitting
one of the others. Richard told me later that he had been thinking the same thing, and
then, amazingly, perhaps mysteriously, as if nudged ever so slightly by the hand of
Diana, the bull did exactly as we had both been hoping, and moved left into the opening,
and passing the trees so that he was broadside and in the clear, he stopped.

“Take him.” Was all he said.

Part IV

Death Wears Black

With a squeeze of my right hand the pressure on the trigger eventually released the sear,
and the potential energy of the spring was released and forced the pin forward at speed,
so that not much more than one one-thousandth of an inch of surface area on the firing
pin compressed the metal surface of the primer cup and crushed less than 1 grain of
priming compound against the anvil, causing a mini-explosion which forced its way
through the flash hole, and burning at over 1600 degrees it ignited the powder. As the
pressure increased and the burning gases expanded so did the brass case, so that it
conformed to the shape of the chamber allowing no more pressure to escape, which
eventually started the 500-grain Thompson solid to deform into the rifling, where it began
to twist as it accelerated down the barrel. Somewhere about two thirds of the way down
the barrel, the bullet exceeded the speed of sound, but any sonic boom was indiscernible
from the rest of the blast as the round exited the muzzle at 2400 feet per second, and
traveling some 75 yards, and although it had immediately started to decelerate upon
leaving the barrel, the bull felt the impact of some 5000 ft lbs of energy a good quarter
second before he heard anything.

“Again, again!” Said Richard. I had not seen the impact, and I didn’t even really know if I had hit him, but knowing the
reputation of American hunters who admire their shots, I had mentally prepared myself
for this moment and I immediately stood, as happy to be off the rock as anything else,
and I was lowering the rifle from the uplift of the blast into firing position, and swinging
through him as he ran up and left, like the low house on station five, the bead passing
through him, and I pulled the second trigger and walloped him again from 60 yards.
With the first shot they had all taken off uphill and to the left in a line, quartering slightly
towards us and amazingly, at this second shot they all turned and stopped and faced back down the hill towards where they had been.
“Good shooting.” said Richard.
“Did I hit him?” I asked. I had truly not seen the impacts.
“Reload! Reload! You nailed him.” Richard answered.
“Broke the shoulder. Probably right through the heart. I could see his foreleg swinging as
he tried to run.”
Fumbling with my empties that for some reason I wanted to keep, I eventually dropped
them into Silas’ hands and pulling two more solids from my belt I dropped them into the
rifle and snapped it closed.
The bulls were now on high alert, but seemed confused or perhaps unable to locate the
source of their current cause for consternation. This confusion and indecision gave us a
minute to reorganize. Moving to the left and up the hill slightly, Richard reset the sticks,
and as I got on him, there was a tree in the way of the vital triangle. Not knowing exactly
what to do, and not wanting to move again for fear that they would locate us and run
away, I held my position. I could only see his head and his flanks on either side of the
tree, and I held still, as they did, thinking that he would eventually step forward or turn
back up the hill, and then I would blast him again. Suddenly everything became very quiet and still. The bulls were still staring back down the hill, not moving and apparently
still as indecisive as I now was, and Richard put an end to the delay by hissing at me;
“Bloody hell will you shoot the thing?”
Immediately I was angry, my excitement getting the better of me.
“There’s a tree in the way!” I snapped back. ”I can’t see the vitals.”
Stepping off the sticks, letting them drop to the ground, I moved up a few yards to clear
the tree, and free-handed I shot him again from 50 yards away.
With the shot, he staggered sideways, and immediately the other three bulls turned back
and again took off to the left and up the hill, apparently still unclear as to the source of
the danger but running with the wind. Our bull then turned as well, and as he attempted to
follow his companions, I swung on him again and shot him for the fourth time, now from
40 yards away. Richard was not expecting the shot, and the blast from the second barrel
took him by surprise, but the only sound of which I was conscious was the clattering of
the other three bull’s hooves on the rocks as they disappeared over the hill. No longer
angry at each other, we gathered ourselves and moved up again and watched the bull stop
running, stumbling as he went, and turning away from us he walked slowly into the
Mopane scrub, and again turned to the right to face back down the hill, and stood there
with his head down. Once more dropping the empties into Silas’ waiting hands, I
reloaded while Richard retrieved the sticks and set them up for me, all of this seemingly
happening in one fluid movement, everyone knowing what they needed to do, and
working together well. The bull was still standing, but head down and he was breathing
laboriously. He was obviously in a bad way. “The next one will knock him down for
sure.” I thought to myself.

This time with no hesitation on my part, and with everyone already covering their ears, I
lined up on his chest, now from about 30 yards away, and let him have number five, and
to my amazement, he staggered, but did not go down. He just stood there, like a stunned
prizefighter, beat but not yet beaten, and steadfastly refusing to give up. In disbelief at
what I was seeing, I began to mentally question my shooting ability. I could see the small
rivers of blood trickling down his hide, and Richard had confirmed my first shot
placement, but there he stood, and with the barrels burning my left hand, I aimed at his
chest again and shot him for the sixth time, and lowering the rifle from the recoil, I saw
him finally take a knee, and then slowly go down.

Actually, to be more specific, he lay down. He was not knocked down. He folded his legs
and purposely lay down. He was not bowled over. He was not even staggering too much,
but at least he was down. I was happy to be shooting solids through the thick scrub that
we were in, but I wondered if a soft nose would have knocked him down, because from
this distance I was sure that the solids were passing right through him. While it was up to
this point very exciting it was also not quite the dramatic encounter I had hoped for.
Either way, this was obviously an animal that would not go down easily, and so I
reloaded with two more of my four remaining Sledgehammers, and closing the rifle I was
not sure what we would do next. Perhaps it would be best to wait and let him die where
he was. I truly did not think that he would ever get up again.

Up till now, we had been above the bull, but as he had run from right to left across our
front and uphill we were now on the same plane with him. Without telling me Richard
grabbed a handful of my shoulder and pulled me up the hill and to the left. We needed to
get uphill and behind him so that if he did get up and decided to come at us, he would
have to run uphill. He was still down, but at one point he heard us as we moved around,
and he turned his head, looking back over his right shoulder, and we made eye contact.
At this point Richard snapped a photo over my right shoulder. My rifle is held semi
elevated, pistol grip in my right hand, the burning-hot barrels in my left hand, ready to
take aim and discharge the solids held within that will put an end to this business.
As I said earlier, I have always enjoyed reading Capstick. Through his writings he and
many others took me to Africa in my youth when I could not go in person, and I always
knew that his style of writing brought considerable enhancements to what actually goes
on out in the wild. Nevertheless, I always enjoyed reading the stories, the excitement of
the snap shots at the last second, the raging murderous bulls and the screaming elephants,
the cold-hearted crocodiles, the deadly lions and leopards, and the unstoppable rhinos. I
always privately acknowledged the flair in the writing and the most likely somewhat less
glamorous reality of the real experience. And I had always hoped that my experiences in
Africa would fall somewhere in the middle of this spectrum. No boring one-shot kills
from three hundred yards away, but at the same time no so-close-you-can-feel-his-breathon-
your-neck encounters either. So now, standing 20 yards behind a bull that I have just
shot 6 times, when he turned to look back at me, I suddenly realized that I am satisfyingly
close to my perceived ideal experience, if not perhaps slightly on the dramatic side. This
was to me the single most surreal moment of the hunt. It was the way that he snapped his
head back to the right when he heard us and finally had us pinpointed. I could have easily
shot him from where I was, but I knew that his laying down did not offer an ideal shot,
and so we just stared at each other for a second or two. If communication expressing
anger, excitement, or apprehension and perhaps fear, if these can be communicated
across species then this is where it happened, if only for a second, and then it was over.

In all my years of hunting, with most of the credit going to my time and training in the
Army, I’ve never had to shoot anything more than once, with the possible exception of
my South African buffalo bull taken two years prior, and even he didn’t really need it.
After 8 days of hard hunting, I had finally put one in a bull from 40 yards away with the
same rifle. Neither seeing nor hearing the hit, I immediately took aim to fire again, when
I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was my South African PH. “Don’t bother, you clobbered
him. He’s dead on his feet.” I was incredulous. “Do you know how much this rifle
costs?” was all that I could think to say. That Buffalo was my first animal taken on my first African Safari, in my first attempt to
live up to my own expectations. With my brand new double rifle chambered in .470 Nitro
Express, and over 100 rounds of ammunition with me for that trip, I would be damned if I
would take it to Africa and fire it only once in the field. “Screw that.” I said out loud, and
blasted the bull again. That was two years prior, and far from my mind at the time. Now,
there was no shot with the way the bull was laying, and so we continued up the hill, and
once there, directly behind him now, I think that our intention had been to merely gain position on the high ground, and then wait it out, but apparently the bull had had enough of us.

From just behind me Richard said, “If he gets up you shoot him.” And with that, there
was no longer any time or need to contemplate our next course of action, because to our
astonishment, as if in a contemptuous response to the “if” from Richard, as if there was
no “if “ about it, the bull stood up once more. He was obviously in a very bad way, but
while he may have gone down, he was not yet out, and I thought to myself, “Holy shit he
is getting up! OK, no problem, smack him again.” And as he stood semi-broadside to us,
facing to the left, with the bead slightly buried in the see-through rear leaf, I lined up
again on the kill zone, aiming to break the opposite leg, lining up by splitting the light
between the legs, one half of the way up the bottom one third of the body, and blasted
him for the seventh time, now from 20 yards away. Lowering the rifle from the recoil, I
expected to see him reeling if not down, but instead, he was turning towards us,
laboriously, on his three good legs, and with seven 500-grain solids in him in
considerably less than 5 minutes, he charged.

“Wow.” I thought. “Look at that. Just like Capstick wrote. He’s actually charging us.
He’s shot to pieces and he’s actually charging us.” Like a wild African Grim Reaper with
horns instead of a scythe, death was bearing down on me. Death, appropriately enough,
dressed in black, full of holes, spurting blood and on three legs. “How dramatic can you
get?” I thought. But really, it all seemed routine, a very matter-of-fact charge. He was
lumbering on three legs, bleeding, and his left foreleg was wind-milling, but otherwise
seeming none the worse for the half pound of lead already thrown at him, and there was
no rage in his eyes that I could see, and no hatred, no outwardly apparent murderous
intentions. He was simply running up the hill and straight towards us. It was a case of
him or me, like two brawlers in the street, the time had come to put an end to the business
at hand, once and for all.

“OK” I thought again. “No problem. Right up the nose just like Hemingway wrote.
Remember, the brain is behind the eyes, not above. Right up the nose. Behind the eyes.”
But the problem was his nose was all over the place, his head was moving up and down
and sideways as he ran, and my mind was racing. “All right, one barrel left. Do I have
time to shoot and reload or should I reload one and then shoot twice? Jesus his head is
swinging all over the place. He really is coming at us. I wonder why Richard doesn’t
shoot? I hope he’s still behind me. What are you saying? Of course he’s still behind you!
Then why doesn’t he shoot? Maybe I shouldn’t want him to shoot. I wonder if he knows
what happened to Francis Macomber? I can’t get a bead on this big bastard. I sure like
this see-through site. How the hell are you supposed to shoot him with his head bobbing
all over the place? No time to reload. Shoot once more and then reload. Don’t bother
trying to save the empties this time. Just drop them on the ground. Two solids in the front
of the culling belt. You might need to run behind this tree. Don’t forget the softs if you
need them. You won’t need them. You won’t have time even if you do need them. I don’t think there’s time to reload even once, so you’d better knock him down this time.”

All this time, seconds at the most, the bull was coming up the hill, and timing it as he got closer, so that I would take him when his head peaked on an upswing and I could shoot through the nose, ready to take him through the brain in full charge, to join the ranks of the elite, Hemingway, Roosevelt, Selous, Capstick, Taylor, and of course Cooke. I envisioned the skull that would be displayed in my living room, with a large hole right through the middle, slightly offset perhaps, below the boss and just above the nasal cavity, a conversation piece for all visitors, the envy of all my deer hunting friends, and a declaration to the universe of my ability to face down death itself, and I fired for the eighth time, and missed the head completely.

That night, around the fire after dinner, I was enjoying an Ashton Maduro, and the dregs
from a fine South African Red. Richard was boiling water for tea. We were all very tired,
and we were sitting on the verandah overlooking the gorge, with the stars overhead and
the lights of the kapinta boats twinkling in the darkness. Dinner had been light, it being
late by the time we got to camp, and by then we had already downed a few Castles.
“I still can’t believe it.” Said Alicia, interrupting the silence.
“Me neither.” I agreed. “I thought we had more Zambezi left.”
“No, I still can’t believe we missed being there today.”
“Oh that.” I said. “Just as well you weren’t there. You would have freaked.”
“Oh but surely it was exciting.” Said Belinda.
“Exciting.” Said Richard. He was staring into the fire and smiling to himself.
“I wanted to be there when you got him.” Continued Alicia.
“You would have shit.” I reaffirmed.
“ I would not have shit.”
“Yes you would have.” Richard confirmed.
“I almost did, and I was holding a great big rifle,” I added. “So you would have for sure.
Besides, I would have worried about you, especially today. Today was your day in camp
anyway.”
Alicia and Belinda had been out with us every other day, alternating days in the field with
days lounging around the camp relaxing, reading, and taking photos of the Dassies that
skittered around the rocks overlooking the gorge. I was just as happy they had not been
with us, as I really would have been worried about them.
“All in a days work for Richard.” Said Belinda.
“Mmm,” Said Richard. Voicing his agreement without further verbalization.
“Certainly some days more exciting than others.” I said without removing the Ashton
from between my teeth.
“I don’t understand why he wouldn’t go down.” said Alicia.
“Ahh, they’re tough you see.” Said Richard.
“I’ve seen them drop dead with one shot, and I’ve seen them take lead all day long. I was
really glad that we never lost sight of him.”
“Me too” I agreed. “It was hard enough even knowing where he was. I can’t imagine if
we had had an extended follow up.”
“The first shot broke the leg, so I knew you hit him hard.” Said Richard.
That first bullet had broken the shoulder, tumbled through the top of the heart, and lodged
in the sternum, but of course, we did not know that at the time.
“The problem is that there just so tough, you never know what they’re going to do.” He
continued.
“And then the PH was rude to me.” I added, continuing the line of joking that had
permeated throughout the evening.
“When I say shoot you shoot.”
“I was shooting but..”
Richard closed his eyes and turning his head away he raised his hand, holding his palm
up to me.
“I know, I know. There was a tree…”
Alicia and Belinda were laughing.
“And how many times did you shoot him again?” Asked Alicia still laughing.
“Eight.” I said.
“But you said you missed him with the eighth shot.”
“No,” I clarified. “I said I missed the head.”
“So what happened?”
‘Well,” I started, contemplating the Ashton while rolling it between my fingers, returning
in my mind to that afternoon. “It was like this you see;”

“He was coming straight at us, and I could see the rage in his eyes, the bloodthirsty awful
hatred, and the murder in his soul as he willed the last of his being towards me to the …”

“Would you be serious and tell me what happened!” Alicia interrupted my narrative.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “That’s how I remember it.”
“Me too.” Said Richard. “But you forgot the part where he roared like a lion.”
“Oh that’s right,
Sorry I forgot.
He was roaring as he came you know…”
Alicia and Belinda looked at each other, and then Belinda was laughing because Alicia
was rolling her eyes.
“I suppose we’ll never get the real truth from these boys.” Said Belinda.
“All right, all right. I’ll tell you what really happened,” I said. “It was like this…”

I finally decided to fire the second barrel and then reload, if I needed to do so, and I
planned to break open the rifle and duck behind the tree that was behind us as I pulled out
the empty cases. Figuring that the tree might provide me with at least a second or two
extra to pull my last two solids out of my belt and reload one more time. After two more
shots, possibly from behind the tree, I would be effectively out of ammo, save for the two
softs, which I was then wishing I had shot first. After all of that if he still wasn’t down
Richard would have to finish the job. I tried to time my aim with the up and down motion
of the bull’s head, and I wanted to shoot as he was reaching the zenith of the upswing, so
that with his head up and forward I would be looking straight down his nose, where I
could envision the brain low behind the eyes. Instinctively I felt the two triggers with my
fingers, knowing the first barrel held only the empty brass case, and my grip tightened
somewhat as the slippery sweat of my right hand contrasted with the burning sensation of
my left hand on the barrels, and I launched the eighth round at him from ten yards.
My timing was off, but, like Hemingway wrote, “he will have to lower the head to
hook...” Now, I don’t know if he was actually lowering his head to hook me. I like to
think that he was, because it’s more romantic and makes for a better story, but it could have just been the swinging of his head. Anyway, as his head went down, “and that will
uncover the old place the boys wet their knuckles on…” the bullet passed right over it
“and I will get one in there…” and slammed into his back, just to the left and between the
shoulder blades, and shattered his spine. The bull folded like a house of cards and nosed
into the dirt, skidding for a only a yard or so, his relatively slow progression and the
uphill slope stopping him quickly some five yards in front of me, and he quivered as he
rolled on his side, and almost immediately let out a grunt that transformed into a short
death bellow.
“That’s got it.” Said Richard, and he snapped another picture.
I turned around, half surprised to see him, and I asked; “Were you ever going to shoot?”
He laughed and said, “I was thinking it was about time to drop your camera.”
“Drop my camera? Ha! You’d better not drop my camera out here.”
The excitement was now releasing itself in half-hearted humor.
I looked back at the Bull. “Jesus that was close.” I said to myself.
Silas and Shadrick now moved up slowly. They had wisely backed away a few steps.
Shadrick had his service rifle if he needed it, but Silas was unarmed except for the
handful of brass he was holding. He was not carrying the .505 that day. I broke the rifle
open, pulled out the two empty brass cases and handed them to him as well, the hot metal
burning my already scorched left hand, and I dropped in my last two solids just in case.
But the bull let us know that this would not be necessary, as he let out a long and eerie
death below, the sound filling the valley, passing down the draw and through the trees,
where we could again see the shine of the sunlight on the lake.

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