African Hunter Published Books Campfire Tales Volume 1 of 20 | Page 10

was in my throat. I was spitting dust. Man, they better turn up that
rut or we’ll be pulverized! Thank God they followed the plan.
We could now see them as they passed, maybe, we could catch
a big boy isolated somewhat. Brown Bomber, my Parker-Hale
.375 H and H, was mounted on the stick ready to ring out in a flash
if the opportunity arose. Suddenly, he was in my scope searing his
stare right through the glass into my eyes. A true Goomba, Ruark
wrote that a Cape buffalo looks at you as if you owe him money.
This guy looked at me like the note was overdue, and he was here
to collect! To my chagrin, however, he never separated from the
mass of beef to present a shot; and then they were gone. The bush
was quiet again as we plodded across the river of sand through the
dust towards the Cruiser.
“Thank you!” I said to Pete as I extended my hand. A puzzled
look spread on his face as he shook it. “That was the most exciting
time of my life!” I exclaimed. “Yeah, that was something!” A
huge grin now in place. I never fired a shot.
DAGGABOYS
Quite understandably I regarded anything additional as pure
gravy and certainly anti-climactic. However, we still had a buffalo
to collect. Morning of the next day, we resumed our quest. Barely
minutes from camp, Pete pulled over to examine tracks that pocked
the road. Four sets, big and fresh, were broken off from the herd.
Pete explained that these were likely mature bulls gone their own
way, aka, dagga boys. “We should get a good one in this bunch.
Let’s go.”
Two hours of tracking through the mostly open savannah later
we were on them. Pete rapidly dismissed two as being too small.
We would take the larger of the others. Once the choice was made,
we crawled into position, first on hands and knees, then on our
bellies. I was admonished to not make a sound or to even look up.
Pete would tell me how and when to react through hand signals.
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African Hunter Magazine - Campfire Tales, Volume One