Its about mid day and you're on the 6th day of your safari. The noon sun is beating down and the flies are swarming around your head. In the back of the cruiser you are able to see over the tall grass, but just barely. All of a sudden the tracker sitting on the far side starts pounding on the cab of the cruiser and pointing towards a small grove of marula trees. The PH hits the breaks and looks back. This is one of the many times when you wish you could understand what they are saying to each other. Even though you can't, the excitement of the moment is contagious. Not knowing what is going on, you grab for your rifle. Your PH jumps out of the door and motions for you to come quickly. He is an english speaking chap, with an accent that is so english, that you sometimes misunderstand what he is saying. The grove of trees is only less than a half a K away, but your PH seems to be a bit nervous about it. As you catch up to him you question what is going on, because you didn't see anything to get excited about. His eyes have a shine to them as he speaks magic words. Buffalo, a big old lone dagga boy just went into that grove of marulas over there. The tracker had seen him as he disappeared into the shade. Now the minutes slow down, even as time speed up. You grab 2 of the big 470 rounds and jam them into the barrels making sure the action is tightly locked. 2 more go into your hand, between fingers, just in case. The grass is tall and sharp, but you don't notice the cuts on your arms, even the mopane flies seem to has gone away. The tracker has moved behind you and the PH as you approach the trees. You're less than 30 yards away trying to see through the grass and into the trees. He's there, you know it, and you know he knows you're there too. It's a waiting game now. Stand and search through the leaves, find a little motion, color is nothing because everything in the shade looks black. The ph nudges you, he"s seen the flick of an ear. You finally follow his line of sight and can make out the old boy. He's laying down in the shade keeping cool, while you are out in the broiling sun. He is cool, but not comfortable, he knows about you, he knows everything about you, he knows your ancestors, and he doesn't like you. The stare down continues, until he finally gets to his feet. Even as he takes a step, his huge bulk disappears in the shade. Thoughts race through your head, Do I really want a buffalo, perhaps a nice rabbit will do, but the bull, not you will decide that question. He is coming out of the trees now. All you can see is his head and the top of his shoulders, and his eyes. Always his eyes. Ruark may have made the comment famous, but this guy doesn't look like you owe him money, instead you hatred, hatred on anything on 2 legs. Your PH is studying the horns, spread, boss, drop, but you are locked onto the eyes. Your hands are sweating, but your throat is dry. All of a sudden there is a change in those eyes. Your PH is saying something, but you don't hear, all you can hear is in those eyes, and you know he is coming to get you, nobody else, you. Some instinct makes you throw the 470 to your shoulder, the gleam of the twin barrels are blocking most of the buffalo, but the front sight is clear on the point where hit shoulder and neck join. He's coming now, you sense it, and he does start to move. The right barrel explodes, and before you can recover the old bull is gone. Your PH looks at you, and says, You must have wanted him bad. I guess you stammer. He wasn't that big you know. But you said Go you say to him, I did not he says, I said no, but through that accent you head no as go, or maybe it was those eyes that told you go. In any case you now have a buffalo that may or may not be dead, may or may not be circling to get the second chance at you. Everything has become quiet. Then the guttral bellow comes. You look at your PH and he as a big smile, the tracker is pounding you on your back, and you know that the shot was good. The 500 grain woodleigh has struck home. As you get closer in the grass you can see the big black shape laying on its side. Not moving, the second barrel goes into him. No need, the first broke his neck.. While not the biggest bull in the world, he is still a very good one, Huge boss, tips worn down to nothing, even his scrotum has been torn off in a fight. The old bull had seen his lifespan go by, a true trophy. Now you decide, Much better than a rabbit.

Keep up the good work!

Very nice the short pieces are getting better and better