by Max Prasac – Saturday, November 11, 2017
The initial shots evidently didn’t get it done, much to the chagrin of our guide who had a look of disbelief on his face as he muttered something incoherent under his breath. If we let the bull stiffen up a while we would more than likely find him lifeless inside a nearby stand of trees, which would have been the prudent approach. Our guide was contemplating (maybe even dreading) the follow-up when he realized that I, of more exuberance than brains, had gone headlong into the stand of trees just beyond the high grass in hot pursuit of the wounded 1,600-pound water buffalo—the one that had parted the brush like a slate-gray locomotive with horns.
That damn stand of trees. My hunting partner in this venture, Jack Huntington, showing much more restraint than me, had paused to gather himself before taking the plunge into the darkness ahead. He snapped out of his reverie as my hasty pursuit of the fleeing bovine prompted him to act, not knowing what was unfolding in the shadows.
