Joshua, an eleven-year-old and a good buddy of mine, had
asked me to write a story of an important hunt I had been on so he could read it
to his class. The following is a
result of that request.
“A Story for Joshua”
The alarm went off and woke me well before the first
light of the day. While I waited
for the early morning sun to brake the nights hold on the darkness, I walked out
to meet my long time friend and professional hunter, Todd.
My equipment had been left next to
the door, so all that was needed was to grab it and jump into an old Jeep.
After a warm drink and some toast, that’s just what we did.
Driving down a dirt road and feeling the warmth from the heater, I knew
all was good. Todd and I were on
our way to meet some local farmers, who had been complaining to the powers that
be, that elephants had been destroying their farms, tearing down fences, ripping
up crops, and making a general nuisance of themselves.
Just two nights before, a rogue elephant had chased a young girl.
Lucky all that happened to the girl was that she had been scared.
The farmers wanted the elephants
dead. The local government had
granted the farmers their wish. Todd’s
job was the control of wild game in the area and had asked me if I wanted to go
along for the hunt. He did not have
to ask me twice.
Todd had a rifle that had been
given to him by an old friend. His
friend, a professional hunter, had used the rifle for many years, but had now
retired. The friend had felt Todd
would enjoy the rifle more than he would leaving it in a display case.
Todd was excited, as the rifle was an old double in 600 Nitro Express,
just what you needed for rogue elephants.
Several locals were waiting for us
at a patch of land that was being farmed. As
we left the Jeep and walked toward them, they told us that the elephants had
destroyed fences and one farmers entire crop the night before.
Todd, a local man who knew the
area, and I started out following the wide trail that the elephants left on
their way back into the jungle. Tracking
the elephants was not a hard chore with the damage that had been done to the
landscape. The three of us had
walked for a few hours, and in the closeness of the jungle and the passing of
time, it had become hot. The sweat
was flowing freely, as our shirts and pants were badly stained.
We had brought lots of water, but we were losing it as fast as we could
drink it. As we were approaching an
area that held standing water, we knew the elephants could be near.
In a heartbeat, the constant noise
within the jungle ceased. The sound
from bugs, birds, and movement was gone. All
you could hear was our breath and the dripping of water off the foliage.
When I looked forward, what I saw
shocked me. Not two or three
elephants, but four bull elephants. Todd
had frozen. He looked as if he had
become a statue. His only movements
were his chest and eyes. They were
the only signs that he was still alive. Not
surprisingly, the local farmer had disappeared into the underbrush.
Todd and I were all that were there to stand up to the threat.
The elephants were looking directly at the two of us.
We had not walked up unannounced.
Todd raised his rifle and slowly
squeezed the trigger. The sound
that came forward was not only a surprise, it was a shock. “Click.” The
old double had misfired. Todd did
not lose his cool. Slowly, he
pulled the second trigger. Once
again. “Click.”
The old gun had failed. A
glance by Todd toward me had spoken volumes.
The lead elephant raised his trunk
and bellowed a warning to all that were within the range of its sound.
As the warning echoed off the trees, the four charged as one.
My rifle sprung to my shoulder.
The front sight rested lightly on the lead bull’s forehead, just above
the line between its eyes. The
rifle pushed against my shoulder, and the bullet flew forward.
The lead bull went down. The
rifle moved freely and smoothly to the nearest remaining elephant.
I shot, again and again as my targets changed. The echo of my gunfire faded, and I looked upon a sad sight.
The bulls were on the ground, dead or dieing.
My shots had found their mark.
The threat was over. As Todd
reached for my hand and the local crawled from the underbrush, I heard a call
from a distance. “Ron, Ron.
Its time for lunch.”
It was my mom. I
blew the smoke from the barrel of my Daisy BB gun and ran toward my home.
A hot lunch was waiting. There
would be more hunts in the future.
Ron Machado, summer 1949
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