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At the shot, the big black bull slightly quartering toward me, I was lost in the recoil off the sticks. I tried to recover as the herd of dugga boys ran off in a cloud of the drought dry Zimbabwean dust. Nine bulls, every one big, but every one still running.
As I pulled the rifle down out of recoil, chambering another round and stepping sideways and looking so hard to find him, Cape buffalo hindquarters heaved and tails flew, nothing giving me a chance for a follow up shot, the one I’d practiced for so long. Suddenly they were just gone, so quickly disappearing into the August mopane scrub.
I stood there breathless, and amazed.
It was an early morning, I was in the Deka safari concession of Zimbab...
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