Now it was an entirely new game. We couldn't see any of the three bulls clearly enough to know which was which. So we stalked, to a couple of different vantage points trying to get a clearer view of things. Finally, we came across a small mound of dirt and granite and waited as the game scout climbed up and peered from the top. After a few seconds he waived up one of the trackers. And then the second tracker. They shared hushed whispers in Shona, and then signalled John to join them. More whispers. Then they all came back down towards me and John looked me straight in the eye.
"You can do this."
Do what?!?
"But you have to be absolutely sure. We know which one he is. You've hit him, but you missed his heart. Probably a couple hits high in the lungs. That might kill him, but not right now. And we're almost out of light."
His hand clenched my shoulder. "You can do this."
I moved towards the mound, but John's hand held me back.
"Take as much time as you need. You have to be sure. Only you know what it looks like in the scope."
OK, right, fine. Let's get on with this.
And that's when John spelled it out for me. He pointed at the center of his forehead, between his eyes and about an inch above the bridge of his nose. "You have to put it here -- EXACTLY here. Dead centre, about 2 inches below the bottom of the boss. If you don't, this is going to get really messy. Better to leave him as he is and try for him tomorrow than to mess up on a head shot. If we walk away now he might not go too far. But smack him in the face without killing him, and he'll go forever."
OK, between the eyes. Got it.
This time, as I moved towards the rise, John moved with me, and when I reached the crest he already had the shooting sticks set up and waiting. I eased the rifle onto them, and quickly scanned the nearby brush for our boy. But where was he?
Oh sh!t.
That's him in those trees. Or at least, that's his head and neck. He's looking right at us. And he's well over 100 yards away.
Between the eyes?!?!
A couple seconds later, all I was aware of was the movement of the crosshairs. Way too much movement. Then the movement of the buffalo itself, as it raised its head to test the wind and slowly moved its muzzle from side to side. John was wrong, I couldn't do this. It was too far to be trying to shoot a coin-sized target from a standing position. We'll have to try to find him tomorrow.
But I kept watching him all the same. Everything else in the world had disappeared. There was just that buffalo glaring balefully back at me over the top of its upraised nostrils, every detail so clear, each patch of grey, the malice in his eyes, the crosshairs so solidly planted right between his ...
BANG!
Time stopped. I was already praying to know the outcome before bullet could possibly have arrived. Nothing happened. Nothing moved. Everything was frozen in that tiny fraction of a second that seemed an eternity.
And then I saw his back half fall away as his head snapped upwards, backwards, and then followed the rest of his body to the ground.
And then, after all that, my knees went weak.
The shot had landed a bit lower than it was supposed to, but not by much, and the Hornady solid that narrowly missed the brain went on to break the neck, and the deed was finally done. Or almost. It took two more shots at close range before we heard the death bellow and saw the old warrior's withering glare replaced by a look of weariness and peace.
I stood there, speechless, standing on the shoulders of giants. I thought of Selous, Roosevelt, Hemingway, Hunter, Ruarke and all the rest. And for just the briefest of moments, I was among them.
He was 41 inches, he was ancient, and he was mine.
