I wrote this little bit of fiction a couple of decades ago. Hope some of you enjoy reading it. It was published in one of my books, and is copyrighted, but I hereby allow it to be copied and disseminated in any way you would like.
George
TWO OLD MEN

He was an old man, really old in buffalo terms. In his lifetime, he had seen more cycles of wet and dry than he could care to remember. Wet, when the rains came and the grass was lush and green and succulent wherever his aimless wanderings might take him. Dry was when the sun became a hammer, the grass was dry and tasteless, and his favorite water and mud spots had dried to adobe. It was now near the end of a wet period, and a large herd had moved into his home grounds. He welcomed the company.
A year or so earlier, he had stopped wandering with the herd. Well past his prime, he had been defeated in combat for the right to breed the cows by younger and more vigorous bulls. He had hung on for awhile, but eventually, he had not followed when they left for greener pastures. In this home range, he had a few favorite spots where even in the dry times, there was water to drink and mud to roll in. Mud was one of the few pleasures left to him. It discouraged the many ticks that stuck to his skin and also the insects that made his life miserable on occasion. It even soothed the wounds inflicted by the lions when they thought him weak enough to prey on. So far, they had been wrong.
There were two lions here. Most of their pride had followed the herd when they left, preying upon the small, the weak and the sick. The two left here were older males. So far, he had been strong enough to fight them off, but each battle with them had taken its toll. The time was approaching when he would lose one of those battles and become food for them, but that was of little concern to him. He was a Dagga boy; a mud-encrusted curmudgeon of a buffalo. An old man with a short temper to match his age.
Today, when the herd had returned, he had rejoined it. It was comforting to have others of his kind around again. He had been lonely. As usual, he and the other bulls in the herd had taken positions near the trailing end of it, as that was their role. Predators usually followed the herd, and the bulls’ job was to guard against them, protecting the cows and their precious young. The herd had rested for most of the night, and after drinking deeply at the waterhole, they were now feeding their way back into the bush. The lead cows and their calves had already crossed the dry riverbed ahead of him and his part of the herd would cross next. Something had spooked the cows up ahead. This made him even more alert to possible danger than usual. He prepared to do what was his job, that being defend the herd or run away if possible.


The hunter was also an old man. He had come from a far away place to hunt buffalo. Others were with him, and he enjoyed their company for a time, but enjoyed the company of his wife much more. They had been together for a long, long time, and he seldom went anywhere without her, but there was danger here, so she had remained behind in the safety of their camp. At his age, he knew he didn’t have many more years left in which he could do this. Already, the physical exertion of hunting could tire him much more quickly than in the past, and he realized that his time on earth was growing a bit short. He felt the urgency to do things he had always dreamed about, before his ability to do them had passed. That was why he was here today.
The younger men with him did this for a living. He did it because he loved the chase, and because his ancestors had given him a heritage of hunting. He was descended from a long line of predators, dating back nearly three million years. His weapons were much better than theirs had been, but hunting was still something he treasured for the contest, and also for the eating of his prey that followed, just like those before him. They had been following the herd of buffalo for awhile, then circled ahead of them to set up an ambush behind a huge boulder in a dry streambed. The first buffalo had appeared and that caused his heart to beat faster. His breathing quickened and his mouth got dry. Wetness appeared in the palms of his hands. He thought to himself, it always happens this way, and when it doesn’t happen anymore, I will stop hunting. He lived for these moments, and another was upon him. A bull buffalo appeared, and he raised the rifle to his shoulder, preparing to shoot. Just as he squeezed the trigger, the bull turned unexpectedly, and instead of making a clean and quick kill, the shot passed through only muscle.
“Oh no,” he thought to himself. “Now we have a problem.”

A loud noise, then pain. His shoulder hurt! Get away. Run. The old bull ran as fast as he could, following the rest of the herd that was now in a total panic. Go into the bush. Seek protection from the hurt with your herd. Slowly, the hurt and fear turned to anger. He turned toward what had caused him pain. Hate and anger ruled him now. Get back at the one who did this to you. Slowly, he turned to circle his backtrail and lay an ambush for the one who came for him.

The old hunter and his companions waited what seemed to be an intolerable amount of time. Finally, it was time to follow the blood trail and finish what they had started. A tracker, whose skills at following a trail were superior to any of them, led the way, closely followed by the hunter, gun at the ready. Fifty yards, then a hundred they followed the trail. Cautiously, carefully, all senses tuned to any smell or noise that might mean the buffalo bull was near. Worried that he might find them before they found him.
The old hunter was perspiring. Stains of wetness marked his shirt in front and under the arms. He wondered, “Do I smell of fear? Do the others know that I am afraid?” Still, it had been his ability to overcome fear most of his life. “Suck it up,” he told himself. “Be a man.” Slowly, the party made its way through the thick thornbush. “You can only see 20 yards or so,”
he told one of the others. “I don’t like this at all.”

The old buffalo was getting weaker, but his anger and hatred was still strong. The hunter’s bullet had nicked an artery, and he was losing blood. His sensitive ears detected the sounds of the hated predators coming after him. He tensed his muscles, preparing to charge and trample them into the dust.
There they are! The first man emerged from behind a thornbush, his head down looking at the ground. The buffalo came to life for one last charge, wanting with all his being to get to the man and trample him into the dry dust that was the world now. He started to run, just as a second man emerged from the bush. “I will get both of them,” he thought to himself, totally immersed in his hatred. Quickly, he closed the distance to them. They were within reach now.

“Here he comes!” One of the younger men shouted. The old man turned to his left to see two thousand pounds of death bearing down on him and the tracker like a runaway truck. Things seemed to slow down. The rifle came up fluidly to his shoulder. “This is easy,” he thought to himself. “I have plenty of time. Just put the crosshairs on the buffalo’s nose and squeeze the trigger.” The buffalo’s head bobbed up and down as he ran. As the head bobbed downward, the hunter felt his finger tighten on the trigger, felt the thud of the rifle butt against his shoulder, and worked the bolt action, chambering another round. As the buffalo was still coming, he raised the crosshairs to a point just between the bull’s eyes and squeezed the trigger again.

As he charged toward the objects of his anger and hatred, the bull felt a stab of pain in his nose and then in his neck as the bullet passed through. It buried itself in the huge muscles of his neck, and didn’t slow his progress even a bit. He was close now. Soon he would feel the hated man crushing under his feet and would gore him with his massive horns. Then everything went black. He was falling, but didn’t even know it. His muscles in his legs kept contracting, and even in falling he slid ever closer to his target.

After the second shot, the man jumped out of the way to his left. The bull slid past him, just missing the tracker, who was also jumping out of the way. Someone had screamed, a primal sound of fear resonating from deep within the well of his chest, and stemming from some ancestral instinct. He didn’t think it was he who had screamed, but he couldn’t be sure. The bull was down, and was moving only by reflex. To be certain, he put another bullet into the spine. “It is the dead ones that kill you, “ the professional hunter he was with had told him. “Be sure.” He had.
Now, it was over. Suddenly, his knees were too weak to hold him up, and he sat down in a quite undignified way. Putting the rifle on the ground, he noticed that his hands were shaking. The others were congratulating him. Instead of the exhilaration of the kill, all he felt was relief that it was over. “Are you OK?” asked the professional hunter. He wasn’t sure what he answered, but was thinking that if he would ever have a heart attack, it would be right then. Suddenly, he was struck with a thought that one old man’s life had ended, while another’s would continue for a while longer. He arose and started to think the happy thoughts again, and wondered how much of this he should tell his wife.

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What a wonderful read! Thank you.


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Great read! Thanks for posting.

What wonderful writing! I felt like I was rooting for both the Buffalo and the hunter.

I am hunting both Lion & Buffalo in a few months, so your story was timely for me.

Thank you!

quote:

2010

Thank you for the story. It was well written.

Nice read. Freshened up some memories, thank you!

Outstanding story! Thanks for sharing with all of us!

Enjoyed seeing it from two perspectives. Good read

Great story!! Very well told. Thanks, Brian

So real, so powerful, so timeless, so true - and so close to home!

I loved it. Thank you for sharing it with us.

I sent this to my wife. I am closer to being too old to do things like this than not....she doesn't understand that. And like most folks who didn't grow up hunting, she doesn't understand what it means to me..

Great story George,

What was the name of the book you published?

Thank you for asking, and thank you to all who commented. I did not put this up there to sell books, and I don't usually put my stuff on any message board, but when Saeed started that thread on telling one's safari stories, I thought some might enjoy this one even though it is fiction.
The first book, THE LUCKIEST HUNTER ALIVE, was published in 2003 and is out of print, as is the second one, THE LUCKIEST HUNTER IS STILL ALIVE. I did do a second edition of both. There are several more, and all of my publications are available on Amazon.com. The problem is that Amazon would want money for any of my stuff. I usually just give it away since I don't need money. If anyone wants a copy of one of my books I usually send it to them at my expense. Crazy, huh? By the way, I am now 79 years old and pretty much out of big game hunting. I discovered on a recent moose hunt that I just can't do the hard stuff anymore. I still hunt whitetails at my cabin in Somerset County, Pennsylvania, and catch the occasional trout.

Outstanding story. Never having hunted Buff, I can leve vicariously through stories like this.

Great story, and very relevant to me: I'm 81 and going buffalo hunting next summer for the first time. I was a runner for decades and wore my knees out, but can still hobble.

Can't wait!

Because some seemed to like this story, I posted another on on the American Big Game Hunting forum. The title of this second one is THE LAST DAY. It was originally published in 2005 in my second book of stories, THE LUCKIEST HUNTER IS STILL ALIVE. It is copyrighted, but as for this one (TWO OLD MEN) I have given permission for readers to share it if they wish.
George AKA Muttleysgone