8 x 60
AH enthusiast
I wasn't sure where to post this so dropped it in here.
Stuck in the Middle East waiting to get home for Christmas. The telly was rubbish (as usual) so I put a little fictional story together. It is somewhat derivative. How can it not be when you love reading Corbett, Hemingway and Capstick et-al?
A Dangerous Game
The Sun was now up..
We had been on the trail of Ingwe as soon as the Sun rose.
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It had been a perfect set-up.
The bait was in the tree. A Warthog we had killed.
We had picked a perfect tree. Long grass all round so Ingwe would feel secure approaching the Warthog bait which was wired to the horizontal branch, its guts hanging below as we had cut it to allow for that. Flies were busy swarming and laying eggs. The bait smelled good.
The branch was low and from our carefully built blind we had a perfect view of the tree against the Western sky.
Just before the Orange Sun dropped below the distant hills, about the time when others are tasting the first Sundowner of the evening Ingwe magically appeared in perfect silhouette
Giving the Big Tom time to paw at and settle into his meal we prepared for the shot.
“Now”.
Up until then the World was slowing and settling before the denizens of the Veld went about their nightly business of killing, or being killed.
The rifle barked and shattered the silence.
Ingwe leapt and vanished.
It was dark now. There was little spoor but enough to know that Ingwe had been hit.
As he was wounded we knew that to pursue now would be suicide .
There were no nearby habitations where Ingwe could settle the score so we anxiously waited ‘til dawn.
Picking up the scant blood trail we cautiously followed it. Eyes alert, bodies tensed.
Ready.
Through Stands of Mopane and long grass we went.
Long grass, Ingwe’s the favourite hunting ground and a most dangerous place to follow Ingwe when he is wounded.
Wounded, angry and set on revenge.
Even with grass that is low , with his floating collar-bones, and a spotted pelage developed over millennia, Ingwe can crouch lower than a Mamba and be more deadly. Ingwe was silent, invisible and hell bent on revenge
The blood-spoor got less and less. Then there was none. All that was left were the hardly visible changes in the grass stalks and some feint pad-marks on the occasional piece of sandy soil in between.
Senses now at an surreal state of awareness .. He’s here and watching us. We couldn’t see him but we knew.
Then he came.
From nowhere. Like a wraith. Silent and faster than lightening
No growl,.. No warning,
Two quick shots from the Double rifle and it was all over.
I missed.
Ingwe was on me.
He clamped my head with his front claws crushing into my brain and did what Leopards do with their back claws.
It was over.
It’s a dangerous game.
Stuck in the Middle East waiting to get home for Christmas. The telly was rubbish (as usual) so I put a little fictional story together. It is somewhat derivative. How can it not be when you love reading Corbett, Hemingway and Capstick et-al?
A Dangerous Game
The Sun was now up..
We had been on the trail of Ingwe as soon as the Sun rose.
---------------------------------------
It had been a perfect set-up.
The bait was in the tree. A Warthog we had killed.
We had picked a perfect tree. Long grass all round so Ingwe would feel secure approaching the Warthog bait which was wired to the horizontal branch, its guts hanging below as we had cut it to allow for that. Flies were busy swarming and laying eggs. The bait smelled good.
The branch was low and from our carefully built blind we had a perfect view of the tree against the Western sky.
Just before the Orange Sun dropped below the distant hills, about the time when others are tasting the first Sundowner of the evening Ingwe magically appeared in perfect silhouette
Giving the Big Tom time to paw at and settle into his meal we prepared for the shot.
“Now”.
Up until then the World was slowing and settling before the denizens of the Veld went about their nightly business of killing, or being killed.
The rifle barked and shattered the silence.
Ingwe leapt and vanished.
It was dark now. There was little spoor but enough to know that Ingwe had been hit.
As he was wounded we knew that to pursue now would be suicide .
There were no nearby habitations where Ingwe could settle the score so we anxiously waited ‘til dawn.
Picking up the scant blood trail we cautiously followed it. Eyes alert, bodies tensed.
Ready.
Through Stands of Mopane and long grass we went.
Long grass, Ingwe’s the favourite hunting ground and a most dangerous place to follow Ingwe when he is wounded.
Wounded, angry and set on revenge.
Even with grass that is low , with his floating collar-bones, and a spotted pelage developed over millennia, Ingwe can crouch lower than a Mamba and be more deadly. Ingwe was silent, invisible and hell bent on revenge
The blood-spoor got less and less. Then there was none. All that was left were the hardly visible changes in the grass stalks and some feint pad-marks on the occasional piece of sandy soil in between.
Senses now at an surreal state of awareness .. He’s here and watching us. We couldn’t see him but we knew.
Then he came.
From nowhere. Like a wraith. Silent and faster than lightening
No growl,.. No warning,
Two quick shots from the Double rifle and it was all over.
I missed.
Ingwe was on me.
He clamped my head with his front claws crushing into my brain and did what Leopards do with their back claws.
It was over.
It’s a dangerous game.
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