"I must have missed with the first shot-a vital organ, I mean, not the whole elephant. He didn't go down."

"He went down faster than I've ever seen with a heart shot. They usually walk a hundred yards or so before they fall down."

"What?"

"Elephant's heart's bigger than a basketball," Ray said as he walked toward the dead bull. "Put a little pencil-sized hole in it, you'll kill the animal, but not instantly. You were talking about the Guinness book- remember that huge bull shot in Angola in '55 that's mounted in the Smithsonian?"

"Yeah...?"

"That one took three full magazines from a .416 Rigby. You don't think eleven of those shots were all in non-vital-Hey, look!" Raymond was pointing to the dead animal's hide. Two one-inch holes overlapped, with the right one more ragged than the left.

"My God! That's an exit wound!" Henry exclaimed, suddenly realizing that his first shot had penetrated six feet of elephant, torn through the inch-thick hide on the far side, and then sailed off over the bush. "I thought it was a spot of dirt-I used it for an aiming point!"

"With some success," the professional hunter said drily. Ray smiled to himself. Henry was staring at the hole in the hide and thinking about his 19th-century rifle's amazing penetration. Every other client he'd ever had would be examining the ivory, trying to estimate its weight.

"Damn, do you think the second shot also went through?" Henry asked, mostly to himself. "Want to help the skinners check?" Ray asked, joking.

"Yes!"

"Better take your shoes off and roll up your pants, then."

Half an hour later, Henry Bowman was knee deep in elephant entrails. He found the elephant's heart, and Half an hour later, Henry Bowman was knee deep in elephant entrails. He found the elephant's heart, and bore slugs that had torn through its center from opposite sides. Henry tracked the path of the second bullet, poking through the vast quantity of elephant guts to determine exactly where it had gone. He found that after the slug had passed through the heart, it had clipped a rib on the off side. He pushed his finger through the jagged break in the bone, through the flesh on the side, until he found the inside of the hide. There was a hole in it, and when Henry pushed his finger through it, he touched the hard surface of rock.

"I'm all the way through to the ground," Henry announced. "Second shot went clear through, too." He stood up and began to wipe his arms and legs off with a rag that one of the skinners handed him.

"Don't you want to finish butchering him?" Raymond asked in amusement.

"No, I'm just a typical, lazy client."

Ray Johnson translated the comment into Swahili for the skinners, and they all started laughing.

Ray Johnson opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Henry can decide whether to shoot or not he thought.

Henry Bowman had walked on ahead fifteen yards as they had climbed the hill, and was now silently cocking the right hammer of his 4-bore Rodda. Ray motioned the trackers to stay put and crouched down before moving to join his client.

On the other side of the small rise were three buffalo bulls. All were large, but the nearest one was exceptional. Ray judged it to be about 1800 pounds. It was broadside to them, at a distance of less than twenty-five yards. Henry swung the rifle to his shoulder, and the right barrel thundered. At the sound, the other two bulls ran away and to the left, up a slight incline. The buffalo Henry had shot ran with considerable effort to the right. By the time Henry had pulled the big rifle out of recoil and cocked the left hammer, the animal was forty yards away.

"I saw your shot. You went right through the lungs. You don't nee-" Ray's advice was cut off by the tremendous muzzle blast of the left barrel of Henry's rifle. Damn, but that's a cannon Ray thought. The buffalo did a somersault and landed on its back, dead.

"You didn't need that second shot," Raymond reproached his client. "He wouldn't have lasted a hundred yards."

"What, are you trying to lower my ammo costs on this hunt?" Henry asked. "I'm tired of shooting these game animals in the right spot with the largest rifle ever made, and then having to wait for them to get the message that they're dead. It's very unnerving."

"Where was that second shot? I couldn't tell."

"Right hip. Probably got enough penetration to get into the lungs, too."

The Rodda once again exceeded expectations. When the crew got to the big cape buffalo and examined it, they discovered that the first shot had gone in the right side, straight through the center of the lungs, and out the left side, leaving a one-inch exit hole after traversing almost four feet of flesh.

The second shot, as the bull was quartering away, had been even more impressive. It smashed the buffalo's right hip and continued forward, ripping a path through the heart and finally coming to rest under the hide in front of the bull's shoulder. The 4 1/2-ounce slug from the hundred-year-old rifle had pulverized a massive bone and then gone on through five feet of muscle. All five of the men were very impressed when they saw what the old gun had done, and they took several photos to document the event.

"Well," Henry said as he and Ray watched the trackers gut the animal in preparation for winching it onto the Land-Rover, "I hate to be a wimp, but it's been a week now, and I'm getting a little tired of lugging this boat anchor around."

"You're going to stop using the 4-bore?" Ray asked in mock horror. In truth, he had been very impressed that Henry had carried it almost all day every day, relinquishing it for his .375 only when plains game was immediately present. "Have one of the trackers carry it for you," He suggested.

"No, I like having my main gun in my hands. And I wouldn't wish a 25-pound gun on anyone who didn't get to shoot it at game." He looked down at his big rifle and grinned. "I've shot two elephant and two buffalo with it so far. That'll do for now. I'm going to start carrying my .500 Buhmiller, at least for a few days. Twelve pound gun's going to feel like a feather."

In two days, Henry was going to be glad he had made the decision to switch rifles.

"Henry!" Ray Johnson screamed. "In the truck! NOW!" He stepped on the starter and stabbed the throttle, revving the engine.

They had been looking for a big elephant all that morning. It was lunchtime, and very hot. The Land-Rover had no doors, windshield, or roof, and Ray Johnson had parked the open vehicle under some trees at the side of a dried-up creek bed. In the shade, he had broken out the canteens and some sandwiches for Henry and the three trackers. Banda, the lead tracker, had walked about a hundred fifty yards away on the other side of the creek bed, looking for tracks and any other sign of a good-sized elephant.

Henry, who liked the Rhodesian countryside, had walked in the same general direction as Banda had, and was about a hundred yards away from the vehicle when Ray heard the familiar sound and began yelling to his client.

Banda had heard the sound a few moments before, and he was grinning broadly. He loved showing his courage and speed in front of the other trackers.

Henry looked back quizzically at the professional hunter. Ray was standing on the seat of the Land-Rover, gesticulating wildly towards Banda, and screaming something that Henry could not understand at that distance. The other two trackers stood in the back of the open vehicle, waving their arms frantically as well.

That was when Henry Bowman heard the noise. It didn't register at first, but it grew quickly, and in a few seconds Henry realized what Ray was yelling about. He saw that Banda was standing motionless, as if rooted to his spot. About a hundred yards past the head tracker, some two hundred head of cape buffalo were coming into view around the side of a hill. They were running directly towards Banda, Henry, and the vehicle.

Henry Bowman looked over his shoulder, judging the distance to the vehicle, then brought his eyes back to the lead tracker. Why doesn't he move? There's no trees around. He's going to get trampled in the...stampede, or whatever you call it. Henry searched frantically for an escape route for Banda, but saw none. He realized that if he waited a few seconds more, he himself would not be able to make it back to the Land-Rover. And Banda's another fifty yards closer to the stampeding herd. He's already fucked. Henry Bowman made a decision.

Raymond Johnson and the two tracker-skinners stood in the idling Land-Rover and watched in abject horror as Henry Bowman unslung his .500 Buhmiller from his shoulder and began running directly towards the stampede.

Banda licked his lips and decided he had let the thundering herd get close enough. He turned on his heel and began to sprint for the truck, only to see Henry ten yards away, running straight towards him. Banda's eyes grew wide with terror. He knew the American could never outrun the herd.

Henry Bowman misinterpreted the tracker's look of fear. About time you figured out you were going to get stomped. I thought you guys weren't supposed to choke like that he thought as he brought himself to a halt. Henry went into the speed-shooting stance he used for rifles of heavy recoil, with almost all of his weight on his forward left foot.

"Right behind me!" he screamed to the tracker, hoping he both heard and understood. Henry flicked off the safety and swung the muzzle of the custom Enfield up and into line with the approaching herd, which was now about twenty yards away. Fifteen feet, Uncle Max said. I hope this works Henry thought briefly, then focused his mind on what he had to do.

Time seemed to slow down for Henry Bowman as he identified the one buffalo that was coming exactly straight at him. It was a medium-sized cow, and when it was a little less than twenty feet away, Henry squeezed the trigger. The first 600-grain Barnes solid out of the necked-up .460 Weatherby case struck within a quarter of an inch of where Henry had been aiming, instantly shutting off all the buffalo's brain function before blasting out the back of its skull and then re-entering the animal's body just in front of the base of the spine. The dead animal's head slammed into the dirt about eight feet in front of Henry Bowman and the carcass began to tumble.

As the hindquarters of the tumbling animal briefly obscured his vision, Henry worked the Enfield's bolt. A bull had been following two steps behind the buffalo cow and was now trying to jump over its dead body. Henry brought the rifle to bear on the chest of the second buffalo, slapped the trigger, and threw himself forward as the bullet tore straight through the bull's chest and shattered its spine. The buffalo died in midjump and collapsed on the neck of the dead cow, tearing his hide on one of the cow's horns.

Henry braced his left knee on the dead cow's back as he worked the bolt. Another bull was almost to the two dead buffalo and looked as if he might or might not break right. Henry ignored the animals that were streaming around the obstacle he had created, focused on the one headed straight at him, then slapped the trigger again. By now he was holding the rifle lightly, as "he would a .22, and firing it as soon as the butt touched his shoulder. The gun hammered him with over one hundred foot-pounds of recoil, but Henry didn't feel it. His third shot hit just to the left of the bull's right eye. The bullet blew much of the bull's brain matter out of a jagged hole at the left rear of his head, just below the horn boss. Momentum carried the dead bull forward and it crashed on top of the bodies of the first two. Henry had fired all three shots in less than three seconds.

Henry stood crouched behind the three-buffalo pile with his left knee on the nearest animal and his rifle at the ready, prepared to either duck down or fire his remaining two shots. The charging animals passed on both sides of Henry and the three buffalo he had killed, like water flowing around a boulder sitting in the middle of a stream. It seemed to take a very long time, but in fact the process took less than fifteen seconds.

After the last of over two hundred animals had passed the obstruction he had created, an adrenaline-filled Henry Bowman stood up and turned around to look for the lead tracker. He half expected to see Banda's body lying trampled and lifeless five or ten yards away. Instead, he saw nothing but hoofprints in the dry dirt.

The air was filled with dust, but as it settled, Henry could still see no sign of the lean native. Henry opened the bolt of the Enfield, replenished its magazine with three cartridges from the S.D. Myers' leather carrier he wore on his belt, and engaged the safety. He stared around the immediate area, searching for the man.

He must have gotten farther than I thought Henry said to himself as he widened the scope of his visual search. There was a fourth buffalo carcass lying fifty yards away. Looks like at least one round exited. Later investigation would reveal that it was Henry's third shot which had struck this animal, a cow, in the lungs after exiting the skull of the second bull Henry had killed.

Henry Bowman suddenly realized his legs were quivering. He sat down on the carcass of the first buffalo he had killed, and waited for his heart rate to return to normal. That was when he heard the sound of the Land-Rover's engine approaching.

Ray Johnson could scarcely believe what he was seeing as he drove past the carcass of the dead cow. A massive jumble of dead buffalo was up ahead, and Henry Bowman was sitting on one of them, waiting to be picked up. He was actually smiling!

"Did I pick out the four biggest ones, Ray?" Henry asked with an unsuccessful attempt at a poker face when the vehicle pulled up alongside. Ray was driving, and Banda and the other two trackers were in the back. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" his guide demanded. Henry looked sheepish. "I guess Banda can run faster than I thought," Henry Bowman said as he stood up. He stared at the four dead buffalo, the smallest of which weighed fifteen hundred pounds, and shook his head. "You need a bigger truck, Ray. We'll never get all four of these in the back of that thing."

Cape Buffalo taken with shoulder shot from Henry Bowman's R.B. Rodda 4-Bore. Over entrance hole are 4-bore cartridge, fired case, and cartridges for .500 Buhmiller and .375 Ackley.

December 21,1978

Cindy Caswell was building a snowman in the back yard. Helping her were two nine-year-old twin brothers whose father had just been transferred to nearby Ft. Leonard Wood. The boys were new to the neighborhood. Cindy always seemed to get along well with boys, especially ones that were a little older, unlike some of the other seven- and eight-year-old girls in her grade school class.

"God damn it! That goddamn kid's pissed on the couch again!" Boone Caswell yelled as he jumped up from where he'd just sat down. He ran through the kitchen and out the back door. Cindy heard him coming and cringed. Please don't let him say anything Cindy prayed. It was bad enough to have her father discipline her in front of her peers, without having them know exactly why he was so angry. Caswell grabbed his daughter by the arm and dragged her towards the house.

Boone Caswell's head still hurt from the previous evening's excesses, and at ten-thirty on a Friday morning, he had intended to see what was on television. There wasn't any work to be had around the holidays, at least none that Caswell was willing to do.

"Fucking brat!" he screamed as he dragged his daughter in front of the couch. "How old you going to get before you quit doing this?" He slapped Cindy hard across the face, then grabbed her by the hair and shoved her face down into the soiled cushion. "You like that smell?" he demanded. "That what you want the whole house to smell like, huh?" Caswell held his daughter's head in that position for about ten seconds. Cindy held her breath and remained motionless. She had learned from experience that whenever she resisted, the punishment increased.

Tears welled up in Cindy Caswell's eyes. / wish he had punched me in the stomach instead of the face. Christmas is only five days away. There were several family gatherings, and the marks would definitely show. Mom can use some of her makeup again she told herself. No one will know. But she knew that everyone would.

The two newcomers to the neighborhood could hear the man yelling inside the house. His words were muffled, but there was no mistaking his rage. They ran out of the Caswells' back yard and down the street. They had just learned what everyone in their new school would tell them as soon as the second semester started: Don't ever go over to Cindy Caswell's house. Her Dad's meaner than a snake and half crazy. That's why both her sisters live with relatives, not at home.

February 17,1982 "The so-called leaders in the White House have an agenda that can be summed up in one sentence: Enact spending cuts to abandon the Americans who most need our help, and precipitate a world war with a massive arms buildup.

"Fellow members of Congress, this is unconscionable! We must fight to ensure that our less-fortunate citizens are not forced to starve to death because of callous disregard from some of our elected officials, under the false promise of 'tax reform'.

"We must safeguard our workers from the unfeeling devastation wreaked by the 'invisible hand' the White House so unashamedly admires.

"We must stop provoking the leaders of the Soviet Union with name-calling and blatant aggression in the form of weapons buildup! These policies can only lead to a nuclear holocaust!" Richard Gaines stopped to take a breath. His aides had advised him against the use of the word 'holocaust', but he went with it anyway.

"It is time that we accept our role as keepers of the public trust and enact legislation that meets human needs. For this reason, I am introducing House Bill number..."

Congressman Gaines went on to explain the piece of legislation he had crafted to reverse the lower-tax, free-market, strong-defense philosophy which President Reagan perpetually championed. Gaines' bill mandated additional outlays for government entitlement programs, an expanded welfare state, tariffs and other protectionist trade restrictions, and increased Federal control over the American public. Every member of Congress who heard him describe it knew that Gaines also had higher taxes in mind, although he could not put that in the bill.

Democrats held a clear majority in Congress, and most of the members of that august body would actually have liked Dick Gaines' bill to become law. The President's philosophy of self-determination held strong sway over the American public, however. Most members of Congress were loath to support a blatantly taxand-spend measure in the current political climate. Gaines' proposal and others like it went nowhere.

The problem would be made doubly vexing to the congressman by what soon began to happen around the globe. The results of low-tax, free-market policies and a strong military were very discomfiting to Richard Gaines and those who shared his beliefs. In the ensuing six years, the United States saw its own Gross National Product rise by an amount equal to the entire economy of Germany, the wealthiest nation in Europe. It was the largest peacetime expansion in living memory. The U.S. stock market tripled in value, the U.S. dollar showed record strength, and U.S. inflation fell to a 20-year low. The Berlin Wall was torn down, the Soviet Union collapsed, and Socialist regimes in country after country toppled and were replaced by ones which embraced many of the free-market principles which America had demonstrated.

Richard Gaines and legislators with similar priorities had to wait until 1988 before they had a president to work with who was amenable to the idea of higher taxes, bigger government, and reduced individual freedom. The congressmen's jobs were secure, however. Federal regulations gave Congressional incumbents a tremendous advantage in the polls, so Richard Gaines and his friends in the House all collected substantial paychecks while they waited.

April 10,1982 "Hey! The gang's all here. Anything interesting arrived lately in the used section, Stoke?" Henry Bowman had just walked into Kelley's Sporting Goods, seen that several of his friends were there, and hailed the store's resident gunsmith and double rifle expert. Stokely Meier had many qualities that endeared him to Henry, three of which were that he had been to Africa, liked big rifles, and was the most creative swearer Henry had ever known.

"Only little stuff-.338s and smaller. Not even a decent medium-bore in the rack. The tea-baggers that come in here tend to be a bit 'recoil sensitive', shall we say," Stokely explained with an exaggerated stiffupper-lip British accent. A muscular man with a mustache who was standing at the end of the pistol case laughed. Rufus Ingram was one of the few Americans who had served in Britain's Special Air Service, which was considered by many to be the finest of the world's special forces units. He was standing next to Thomas J. Fleming. Henry walked over to greet his friends.

"Hey, Rufus, Tom. No Shanghai Municipal Police guns here either?" Henry asked, looking down in the pistol display case. Rufus Ingram collected handguns that had been used by the famous department, which were marked with the Shanghai crest.

"Not today. Got another safari planned anytime soon?"