"F-fifteen hundred? Like, a-" (here he thought for a few moments) "a-a seven-fifty on both?" No one in Richard Gaines' high school had ever earned scores anywhere near that high.

"Yes, or seven-fifteen, seven eighty-five, or whatever. Fifteen hundred combined's the minimum. Any less, you get two hundred dollars."

"Huh?" Gaines said. Henry's last comment had made no sense to him.

"Soon as we agree to do this, I go to the bank and get a cashier's check payable to you for two hundred dollars, and put it in an envelope with your money," Henry explained. "A lawyer holds the envelope and can't release it unless we're both there. When the test scores come back, we go see him. Fifteen hundred or higher, you tell him to give it to me. If I pull say, seven-fifty, seven-thirty, then I tell him to hand it to you."

Richard Gaines was adjusting to the concept that he might make $200 while having 700+ scores credited to him when he realized that Henry had not yet stated his fee. "Uh, and uh, how much does my check have to be for?" he said finally.

"Two bucks a point, based on the minimum. Three grand. Have a cashier's check for it by six o'clock Monday night. If that's too much or too soon, get someone else."

"Three thousand dollars?" Richard Gaines yelled. Several tables of the people in nearby booths turned to look at him. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" he added in an intense whisper. When Bill Pressler had offered to introduce him to Henry Bowman, Gaines had hoped he could talk the kid into taking the test for a twenty-dollar bill.

"Not at all," Henry said amiably.

"Do you know what I could buy with three thousand dollars?" Gaines continued in a slightly more measured tone.You bet I do Henry thought immediately. You could buy a clean clipwing Cub, stressed for aerobatics, just like mine. Or you could buy a three-year-old 427 Corvette and a Korean War Power Wagon with a ring mount. Or maybe INTERARMCO's entire inventory of 20mm Solothurn ammo.

"Three grand's pretty cheap, considering what four years at a good college costs," Henry explained. "And I have to risk ending up where you are right now. You, on the other hand..." He finished the sentence with a shrug. "SAT makes the difference, and you know it. Otherwise you wouldn't have come looking for me." Henry saw the older boy's expression change, and realized with astonishment that Gaines was thinking about what he had said. Jesus, he's buying this crap! Henry thought in disbelief.

"Before 6:00 Monday," Henry said as he slid out of the booth and stood to leave. "Bill here can give you my phone number, so I can tell you where the lawyer's office is." Since if you asked me now, I wouldn't have the faintest idea of what lawyer would want to hold an envelope for a couple of high school kids. "Let me know, one way or the other." He walked out the door, waving goodbye to Jimmy Keith as he went out the door.

Henry was grinning as he stepped into the parking lot. He was remembering the look on Gaines' face when he had named his fee. Couldn't have pulled a needle out of his ass with a tractor. Max Collins used the phrase occasionally. Henry thought it was very appropriate.

Well, after that little talk, there ought to be some good gossip a round school Monday Henry told himself with a smile.

As it turned out, there wasn't. What would happen on Monday would be much more interesting.

February 10,1969 "Henry, there's someone here to see you," Catherine Bowman called to her son after she had opened the front door. "Go on upstairs," she told the visitor. "His room's on the right."

Richard Gaines quickly made his way to Henry Bowman's bedroom. He found Henry sitting at a wide desk. Above it on the wall was a framed photo of a green and white biplane about a hundred feet off the ground, pointed almost straight down and obviously about to crash.

Henry had several texts open on the desk, and was bent over a piece of graph paper, making fine marks on it. He did not raise his head but held up a finger, indicating that his visitor should wait silently for a moment. Richard did not know it, but Henry was calculating extended trajectory curves for his Hartbarreled .224 Clark varmint rifle, based on the range results he had achieved the day before at one, two, and three hundred yards.

"Sorry, my head was full of numbers I didn't want to lose." He was startled to see Dick Gaines standing in the doorway. "Come on in." The older boy closed the door behind him and got to the point. "Look, I've only got eleven hundred right now. That's all I could get in two days, but it's in cash, and I'll have the rest before you go in to take the test."

Henry shook his head. "It's almost eight-thirty," he said, nodding towards the clock on the wall. "I said by six."

"Jesus, what's two hours?" Richard Gaines pleaded. "Look, you don't have to do the two hundred dollar deal, okay?" he offered. "I know you'll do great. Just take the test for me, okay?"

Henry shook his head. Have I wandered in to the Twilight Zone? I've got to come up with something that'll get rid of this moron. He smiled sadly and said, "You don't understand. After 6:00, it was the next guy in line's turn. He's already come by with the money, so I've been hired. And no matter what kind of IDs you can come up with, there's no way I can be two people at the same time. Sorry."

Richard Gaines looked crestfallen. He nodded his head and turned to leave. Henry Bowman opened his mouth as Richard Gaines walked out the door, then shut it when he realized he had nothing more to say.

Henry didn't go back to the trajectory tables that night. Some vague beliefs he had instinctively held had just been magnified a hundredfold in his mind. It would be years before he would be able to put them into words, but they had already taken deep root.

Always deal from a position of strength. When opportunity presents itself, seize it. Take control of a situation and others will follow you, even when it is not in their best interests to do so. Political power begets corruption. But the most important lesson was the one Henry had already learned from the events of his canoe trip the previous summer: Know when to walk away.

June 1,1969 "He's magnificent, but I'm afraid as soon as we stalk closer, he'll be in the woods. The wind isn't in our faces, and might change. Best to find another herd rather than waste time on this one." Raymond Johnson lowered his binoculars.

"By the time we do that, it'll be dark. I don't mind quitting for the day, but let me think about this for just a minute," Max Collins replied. His eyes scanned the area around where they stood. Not a fucking thing I could use for a rest around here. He looked at Raymond, and at the two trackers that were with him. Roll up a couple shirts, still wouldn't be but three inches high, and that's not enough to keep the grip cap out of the dirt. His eyes came to rest on a patch of ground that was very slightly higher than the surrounding area. That might get me above the weeds. Max Collins slid his left arm through the military sling and tightened it around his upper bicep as he knee-walked to the place he had picked out. The guide saw what he was doing and spoke up immediately.

"Ahh...Max, that's a four hundred yard shot, and I don't think-"

"Closer to four-fifty," Collins interrupted as he went from a kneeling position to one flat on his stomach. "Unless the one is normal size and all the others are stunted." Johnson opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. Max had made a perfect shot on a warthog that morning. Ray was not about to insult a client on the first day of his safari. The trackers could use some night practice anyway.

The big man stared out at the distant herd of greater kudu, looking for clues as to the speed of the wind. Almost none, this late. Just a kiss, from the left he decided with satisfaction. Then Collins worked himself into the same prone position he had used to place third in the Wimbledon Cup thousand-yard match in the late 'thirties. His feet were spread, and his spine, when viewed from above, made a twenty-five degree angle with the axis of the rifle barrel. Collins' elbows pressed into the dry earth, supporting his upper body, and the sling bit into his left arm as the tension on it increased.

The two trackers looked at Ray Johnson and scowled. The professional hunter did not normally let anyone take such a long shot, especially when the game was standing right next to the woods, and certainly not a half hour before dusk. Tracking a wounded animal in the dark was much harder, and their employer did not believe in letting injured game get away and take days to die. They looked at each other and resigned themselves to being up the entire night.

The grey animal with the spiral horns that faced the four men was Africa's version of a bull elk. The kudu did not come close to filling the scope's field of view at that long a distance, but Max Collins could see that he was indeed a huge example of the species. The rifleman put the crosshairs at a spot he judged to be thirty-two inches above and six inches to the left of the kudu's heart, took a deep breath, let part of it out, and began to squeeze the trigger.

The kudu took a step and started turning. It began to walk towards the woods.

Shit! Collins swore silently. Can't shoot at moving game at this range. He relaxed his trigger finger as he tracked the animal, willing the bull to stop for a moment. As if obeying his command, the big male kudu quit walking and sniffed the air. The kudu was now facing away at a quartering angle, and a straight line from the muzzle of Collins' Model 70 would traverse over three feet of abdominal muscle before reaching the kudu's heart or lungs.

Max Collins moved the crosshairs to a spot almost three feet over the Kudu's back, then changed his mind Spine's too small for this range Too easy to miss altogether and just tear up the muscle The kid said more than four feet Time to see if he really knows what the fuck he s talking about Max altered his aim so that the crosshairs rested on a point slightly above the kudu's back and a foot in front of the animal's right hip It was what Elmer Keith referred to as a 'raking shot through the boiler room' and could be taken (especially on an animal as large as a greater kudu) only if the rifle and ammunition being used gave truly outstanding penetration Typical hunting rifles firing expanding bullets normally were good for between twelve and eighteen inches of penetration on thin-skinned game The crosshairs were describing a regular pattern as they moved within an imaginary six-inch area containing Collins' aiming point The rifleman got in synch with the movement, and the trigger broke just as the crosshairs passed through the spot Collins had selected Perfect letoff'he thought as the muzzle blast rang out across the plain "Miss," Ray said The bull was just standing there "No, Ray Here " Banda, the lead tracker, was staring through the binoculars, and had seen dust fly from the hide in front of the kudu's right haunch He bent over and jabbed his index finger at the corresponding spot on his own torso to illustrate The tracker was grinning He knew what was coming The other animals in the herd began moving towards the trees when the sound of the shot reached them, but the big bull stood utterly still Six seconds later he collapsed in a heap "Heart shot," Max said as he got to his feet "Either that or he died of fright"

The guide, the client, and the two trackers started the quarter-mile walk to where the kudu lay All four of them were smiling "So, was the first day up to expectations?" Ray and Max were relaxing by the camp-fire Max was drinking scotch The younger man preferred gin "Damn, but I've never seen this much game," Max said with feeling "And I about shit when I saw that lion take down that buffalo, for Christ's sake " That morning they had seen a lion tear the throat from a cape buffalo and hang on until it bled out 'That was unusual for me, too," Ray admitted "Usually, they won't try it unless there are a pair that can attack at the same time The one today must have been hungry As I point out to everyone who comes here for the first time, nothing in Africa dies of old age " He took a sip of his drink and stared into the glowing fire "I'm still thinking about the shot you made on that kudu Four hundred forty steps, through the paunch and stopping just under the skin of the chest"

Max smiled "Been practicing a little "

"I've had other clients use the 338 Winchester, but nobody got penetration like you did with soft points Four and a half feet?"

"Got to give my nephew credit for that He's become the ballistician in the family He thought I should bring a 375 Ackley, but I wanted a factory caliber for my plains rifle, just in case my ammo got lost and I had to buy some I was going to load up some solids for my 338 for big stuff like eland, but he talked me out of it" Max was referring to ammunition loaded with bullets that had no lead exposed and did not deform at all on impact Such projectiles penetrated much more deeply than expanding bullets This was necessary on large game such as the eland, which weighed over a ton. "Henry loaded the stuff I brought on this trip " Max slid a round out of his cartridge belt and handed it to Ray for his inspection "That's a 275-gram Speer," he explained as Ray examined the round, referring to the weight and manufacturer of the copper and lead bullet projecting from the neck of the cartridge case "Elmer Keith's sworn by 'em for years," Max added Keith was the 70-year-old former outfitter and firearms authority from Salmon, Idaho Ray Johnson nodded Keith was well-known to all serious hunters and guides When Ray had lived in Pitkin County, he had corresponded with Keith on several occasions "Henry said the latest batch of 275's out of the factory would blow up Said Speer got a bunch of complaints from deer hunters who didn't like them whistling through a mulie like shit through a goose, and they softened the core, hardened the gilding metal, and scored the inside of the jacket, if you can believe that Henry hunted up a bunch of different lot numbers, sectioned and tested 'em all, and said this batch was good for more than four feet on game "

"Your nephew is a hunter, then?" Ray asked Max Collins laughed at this question and took another sip of his scotch "Henry's dying to get over here He shoots a 375 Ackley like a varmint rifle Must have put five, six thousand rounds through that thing by this time Got a Rigby 577 double he's damn good with, too And he's been looking for a 4-bore for ten years now "But to answer your question, other than a few groundhogs he's potted out in the country, Henry's never been hunting He'd rather shoot ten crows in an afternoon than sit in a tree stand all weekend and wait for a deer to walk by "When he promised me I'd get more than four feet penetration, I figured he'd tried the ammo out on wet newspapers or old phone books or something " Collins laughed harder at the memory "He was really fired up I was going to Africa, though Turned out he-" and here Max had to get himself collected before he could continue,"-he conned some guy at the slaughterhouse into letting him paste a couple of their steers Gave the guy a bottle of whisky to go on break so Henry could autopsy 'em "

"Good Lord, Max," Ray said as he laughed along with the older man, "you should have brought him along I wish all my clients who'd never been hunting were like that"

"I would have, but he's still in school right now Henry's sixteen " Max's face lit up as he remembered something else "Henry got the whisky from my sister's liquor cabinet 'cause the store wouldn't sell him any, and had to get me to go buy another bottle to replace it before his mother found out"

"You did, I hope?"

"Shit, I ran out and bought him a case Told him to work up some good cape buffalo loads for my 458"

Ray Johnson found this comment uproariously funny Despite it being only the first day of a three-week safari, he decided that his earlier assessment of the man had been dead-on Max Collins was the best client he had ever had in his six years working as a professional hunter June 12,1969 The three big bulls were by themselves, and since the wind was blowing away from them, they were unaware that Ray, Max, and the two trackers were nearby. They were all large, but the bull in front was definitely the biggest. 45 inches at least Raymond thought. Seventeen, maybe eighteen hundred pounds.

Max Collins was carrying his dangerous-game rifle, a custom .450 Ashurst built on a Czech BRNO ZKK 602 action. The BRNO action was, in Max's opinion, the best of the Magnum Mausers. Curt Behnke had fitted the barrel and milled the trigger guard and oversize magazine that held five rounds. He had also reversed the operation of the safety (no simple task) so that it functioned in the same direction, forward for 'off', as the rifles made in every country other than Czechoslovakia. Henry and Walter Bowman had made the stock to fit their big relative.

The .450 Ashurst cartridge was made from a straightened .375 H&H case. It was basically a lengthened .458 Winchester that held more powder and could therefore be loaded to more powerful levels. The chamber was cut so that lower-powered .458 factory ammo could be used in a pinch, with only a slight loss in accuracy.

"Take him," Raymond whispered. He didn't need to say which one.

Collins threw the big rifle to his cheek and squeezed the trigger as soon as the front s ight settled on the cape buffalo's shoulder. The muzzle blast of the .450 Ashurst made the four men's ears ring, and the buffalo dropped as if struck by a bolt of lightning. At sixteen yards, Collins had put his shot within a quarter inch of where he was aiming, which was on the point of the animal's shoulder. The 500 grain steel-jacketed solid bullet had struck the buffalo at 2460 feet per second, concentrating over 6700 foot-pounds of energy onto an area smaller than a dime.

Henry had correctly predicted exactly what would happen if Max were to get a broadside shot at a cape buffalo. The 500 grain Winchester solid was designed to go straight and maintain its shape no matter what it struck. It shattered the buffalo's near shoulder, clipped the top of its heart, and smashed its off shoulder in a space of about three milliseconds. No four-legged creature can remain standing with both shoulders shattered, and this one was no exception.

There was another thing that Henry had predicted, but Max would not remember the boy's warning until several minutes later. A lot was going to happen before then.

Max Collins racked the bolt of the Czech Mauser without dropping the rifle's butt from his shoulder, ejected the fired case, and chambered a new round before the dust had settled around the carcass of the 1750-pound animal. Max knew that his bullet had done exactly what he had wanted, and that the buffalo he had shot was not a danger to them, but he did not lower his rifle. There were two other bulls less than fifty feet away, and cape buffalo were known to charge at almost any time.

They were especially known to charge when wounded, and that is exactly what the bull farthest from the four men did. This second bull, which weighed a mere 1630 pounds, lowered his nose and headed straight at Max Collins.

A charging cape buffalo at less than fifty feet presents a very challenging problem, particularly if the animal's head is lowered. A heart shot, where the animal will die within five or ten seconds, is not good enough. Man and lion both have all too often been killed by a dying cape buffalo in the last few seconds of its life. In order to survive a charge, the hunter must not only kill the animal, but make it collapse before it gets to him.

Shoulder and spine shots do this, but are not possible from the front.

The only shot that is certain to drop a charging buffalo instantly is one to the brain. This poses a problem in that the animal's thick horn bosses cover much of the buffalo's skull and act as a very effective form of armor against any attempted brain shots.

When the gold bead of the .450's front sight landed on the charging bull's head, Max Collins pulled the trigger and worked the bolt as the gun rose in recoil. He concentrated on his shooting and not on what might happen to him in the next few seconds.

Max's shot on the charging bull was two inches higher and an inch and a quarter left of where it should have been. It struck 1/4" above the corner of the sloping horn boss just left of center. The round nose of the Winchester bullet was deflected several degrees by the dense horn material. The bullet plowed through the horn boss on an angled path, glanced off the skull, cracking it slightly, and howled off over the Angolan countryside. In doing this, the impact of the bullet blew a baseball-sized chunk of horn material and a small amount of buffalo hide fifty feet in the air. It also made the bull considerably angrier in the process. The cape buffalo kept coming. Ray Johnson stepped to the side as he raised his .600 Nitro Holland and Holland, flicked off the safety, and prepared to try to stop the charge.

Max Collins did not notice his guide's actions. He thought of nothing except working the bolt of his rifle smoothly, putting the front sight on the center of the buffalo's skull, and squeezing the trigger. His next shot on the charging beast was an inch lower than the last one. With the chunk of horn gone, the steel-jacketed slug bored right into the brain, deflected off the inside of the skull, and traveled down the center of the animal's spinal column for a distance of almost three feet. The buffalo fell on its chest and skidded to a stop less than ten feet in front of Collins, who was racking the .450's bolt for yet another shot. The big buff was dead. It had died before its chin hit the ground, its brain destroyed and its spine cored by the steel-jacketed slug.

Max looked over at Raymond, who lowered his .600 Nitro and engaged the safety.

"Nice double, Max," Ray said with a grin.

Max nodded, but didn't say anything right away. He was feeling just a little lightheaded.

"Thanks for holding off," he said finally. "It felt good to drop that second one without any help." Raymond smiled. He had known that Max would want to stop the charge himself. The two men made jokes and laughed in relief after the charge, and then the guide noticed something.

"I think I see why he charged, Max. Look." Ray was indicating the side of the dead buffalo's body, and Collins had to walk several yards to his right to see what the man was pointing at.

Two feet behind the shoulder was a fingernail-sized hole with a trickle of blood running out of it. Banda, the lead tracker, stepped over to the buffalo and inserted the thin blade of a skinning knife into the hole. The knife stopped after three inches of it had disappeared.

"Your shot on the first one," Ray explained. "Broke both shoulders, exited, and went a couple inches into the bull standing behind him. Pissed him off, I'd say."

"I'll be a son of a bitch," Collins said. "My nephew told me that might happen, and I told him he was crazy."

"I've seen it before with a .378 Weatherby," Ray Johnson admitted, "but never with a .45 caliber rifle. We'll make sure your next one doesn't have anything standing around behind it."

Max Collins shook his head and laughed as he watched the trackers roll the buffalo on its side and prepare to gut it. Damn, but it's good to be alive.

The men were back in camp, eating a late dinner that the camp cook had prepared and reliving the excitement of the afternoon, when Max suddenly thought of something. He put down his fork, finished chewing, and looked at Ray Johnson.

"You know, that little bastard even told me he had a cure for it, but I didn't take him seriously." "What's that, Max?"

"Overpenetration with solids in the .450. He loaded up some ammo for me in case I had that problem, and I thought he was kidding."

"Soft points?"

"No, we both thought those might not reach the second shoulder. Let me show you." Max Collins went to his tent and retrieved his ammo bag. He dug down in the bottom, found the ammo box he was looking for, and brought it back to the table. Ray took it from him and pulled off the lid.

Inside were twenty .450 Ashurst cartridges, but the 500 grain steel-jacketed solids had been seated backwards into the brass cases. Instead of a rounded nose, the striking end of the bullet was completely flat and full diameter.

"They're backwards!" Raymond exclaimed.

"I thought it was a joke, but he insisted I bring them with me. He said he'd found some article where John Buhmiller tried it on elephant and they killed better that way. Henry altered the feed ramp and re-throated my barrel for base-first bullets, and he says his crazy load shoots to the same point of aim at fifty yards. Said they bust up the shoulder bones on the slaughterhouse bulls better, too."

"I have never heard of doing that, but John Buhmiller is a man I would listen to."

Buhmiller was a Montana barrelmaker who had won Montana's version of the Wimbledon cup 1000-yard match in both 1937 and 1938. He was an avid experimenter with a fondness for large calibers who had first gone to Africa when he was in his 70s. Buhmiller had taken a liking to Africa, and gone on to work game control there, shooting hundreds of head of dangerous game while in his 80s. Henry Bowman corresponded with him regularly.

Twenty years later, flat-pointed, thick-jacketed .458 projectiles would be made by Jack Carter's Trophy Bonded Bullets company. Trophy Bonded's 'Sledgehammer Solid' would be considered by many African hunters to be the best slug ever made for cape buffalo. In 1969, however, the only shooters loading anything like it were an old Montana barrelmaker and a 16-year-old from Missouri who liked to shoot big guns.

"I think I'll load these crazy-looking things in my .450 tomorrow, when we go out," Max said, examining one of the cartridges Henry had made for him.

"Tell me more about this nephew of yours, Max," Ray said as he motioned for one of the camp crew to refill his drink. "I have a sneaky feeling you've only given me the tip of the iceberg."