Tom Murphy’s One Minute Buffalo

The bullet entered the left hip, travelled through the lung and heart, and came to a stop in the chest just under the hide. It was the last minute, of the last hour, of the last day of the safari.

Many hunting stories start out with the hunter in a tight situation with an unhappy animal off the barrel of his rifle. Our adventure began when the hunting truck broke down for the second time in six hours.

It was dawn of Day 6 of a 15-day hunt for plains game and Cape buffalo. During the first five days in South Africa, we’d collected zebra, kudu, warthog, and a very nice gemsbok. Now it was time cross into Zimbabwe at Beitbridge and hunt buffalo on a concession on the Gwai River south of Victoria Falls. There were five of us in the hunting vehicle – our PH Peter, and his tracker Willi, my nephew PJ, his dad Sean, and me.

The results of the very last moment of the last hour of the last day of the hunt.  I had wanted to use my S&W .500, but the distance required the Ruger .458 Lott.

About 10 miles south of Beitbridge the exhaust pipe broke off the header. Once the truck was repaired at a muffler shop we proceeded to the border.

I’ll spare the details of the border crossing nonsense, but it ate up more than five hours. We still had 500+ km to travel, so we expected to hit camp about 1 a.m. Not so. The sun set as we clocked 250 km, and 15 minutes after we passed through Gwanda, the clutch pedal sank to the floorboards - a broken hydraulic line going to the clutch slave cylinder. Not only did we have no clutch, we weren’t going to have any clutch anytime in the near future.

The side of the road in Zimbabwe is not a place I really wanted to spend the night. Villagers and others were appearing out of the darkness, and within 20 minutes we had an audience watching our travails.

A quick consultation, and Sean, who'd been a racing car driver, jumped into the driver's seat. We all pushed while he hit the starter and the truck lit off in first gear. He was able to operate the truck, shifting the five-speed transmission without the clutch by double-declutching and matching the transmission speed to engine rpm, until we made it into Bulawayo where we spent a very thankful night at the only Holiday Inn within 500 km in any direction.
We departed Bulawayo until the engine blew up 10 miles before our destination. We sat until rescued.

What has all this to do with hunting? Between the truck and some paperwork problems in SA, we’d lost three of our seven hunting days. The plan had been that PJ would take a cow buffalo, and I’d go after a big bull with my handgun, a Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum shooting 500-grain bullets. With only four days to get both animals, we were going to need to be up early, out late – and very lucky.

Our camp was called Malindi, and was constructed from railroad cars arranged in a 'V' around a central fireplace. There was a waterhole about 130 yards in front of the camp where many animals usually came to drink, including buffalo, but about all we saw were a few sable.

The patio at Malindi where I took the shot at the buffalo bull.  The table I used is in the middle of the opening.

Next day we were backtracking tracks and busting a lot of bush that contained some of the nastiest thorn bushes known to man. Their needles resembled #24 hypodermic needles and would probably penetrate more Kevlar than a .44 Magnum. Plus, they break off and fester in the wound.

In late afternoon we got on some fresh buffalo tracks and followed them, but the buffalo heard us and kept moving away, leading us in a big circle. So we jumped into the truck to head ‘em off. We’d covered less than half a mile when Peter slammed on the brakes, bailed out of the truck, and pulled PJ with him. “Cow,” he whispered. “Get your rifle.” PJ pulled out his Ruger No. 1 .458 Lott. Peter motioned him forward and pointed down the trail at the cow standing sideways at 75 yards.

The .458 Lott is a .404 Jeffery necked up to .458. It‘s a great deal more powerful than the better-known .458 Win. Mag – 5873 ft-lbs of muzzle energy vs. 4622 ft-lbs. Muzzle velocity is also up – the Lott at 2300 fps, the Winchester at 2040fps. Both shoot a 500-grain bullet, but the Lott takes the fight out of dangerous game better than the Winchester, although it does kick a trifle harder.

The cow was offering a good shoulder shot but was starting to get antsy. Peter said something as PJ brought the rifle to his shoulder and flipped off the safety. Booom! The recoil drew him back a step. I heard bullet hit buffalo. The cow disappeared into the bush.

More tracking, more thorns. Willi found blood on a branch, and after five minutes, we heard the cow moving about 20 yards ahead of us. But we could see nothing - the sun had dropped below the horizon.

We split up the next day – me to hunt for a bull and PJ to follow up on his cow. I saw exactly nothing, and PJ followed tracks for more than three hours until the blood trail dried up and the cow’s tracks merged with the rest of the herd.

After we returned to the States, we went over the video of his shot in slow motion. Both shot and impact were clearly visible, but the shot was too high, causing a flesh wound that would heal. Peter had instructed PJ to aim for the point of the shoulder, but PJ thought it was high on the body, like a human’s, which it isn’t. It’s down more towards the middle of the torso. A lesson learned the hard way.

Dawn of the last morning revealed we were out of coffee. I can put up with a lot, but no morning coffee? Time to go. Truck was packed, guns in their cases at the bottom of the truck bed. Not a happy group of hunters departing camp. Even the trackers were subdued.
I was riding shotgun, Sean and PJ in the back on the raised seats. Peter got in and pushed in the clutch, hand on the gearshift … then… The cook came running out to the truck, sputtering, shouting, and pointing over his shoulder: “Buffalo, buffalo! They come! They are to the waterhole.”

Out of the truck. Up on the patio. Sure as God made little green frogs, there they were. A herd of about 60 had come to drink. They were still in the bush, 300 yards from us, 150 yards from the water. Cows and calves in front, bulls in the back. Little movement. They were checking out the area.

“ Willi – Unloadthetruckgettheguns.” The binoculars magicked from a case to my hand. Check out the animals. Still too bunched up to make out the bulls. Peter scanned the herd. “There are some bulls way in the back. They’ll push the cows ‘n’ calves out, then drink last."

The gun cases were opened. This was going to be a 125-plus yard shot, so the S&W .500 was left behind. I fed the Ruger a 500-grain solid and cranked the scope up to its 4x max.

We moved to the front of the patio. I took off my jacket and used it like a sandbag between the gun and table. Peter joined me with his rifle. “Peter, this is going to be tough. When I shoot, as soon as I shoot, follow me up to drop him.”

One clear shot was all there was going to be. The cows were approaching the water, but milling in tight. Any bulls? Hell, I couldn’t see even one! My heart finally slowed down enough to where the cross hairs quit bouncing around.

“Tom, look on the far right. There’s a big bull right at the water. He’s got a cow directly in front of him, so wait. He’s going to finish, then turn to go. Wait. Wait until he’s clear of the cow.”

The 500-gr. bullet on the left was recovered from under the hide on the chest of my Cape Buffalo after passing from the left hip all the way through the vitals. Aside from the rifling, it could be loaded and shot again. The massive round on the right is a .22 Long Rifle for comparison.

The bull finished his drink and turned his rump towards us. He stepped back from the waterhole on his way to the bush. The cow in front of him turned and moved to the right. The bull started walking off. He stopped and turned to a nearby cow as if to say something. Turned back with a quartering step to the right and stopped. Open! It was going to be a Texas brain shot – but it was the only shot.

I pulled the trigger. The gun barrel lurched towards the ground! Dead silence. Did I mention releasing the safety? I hadn’t.

OK. Take a breath. Kick off the safety. Reacquire the sight picture. Same picture – same tail-end shot. The Ruger belched. The bull kicked high into the air and jumped to the side.

“He’s hit,” Peter said. “And damn well.”

The bull ran into the herd and they all took off into the brush. They got about 20 yards, stopped, then took off again.

They’d stopped because the bull had only made it that far before dying. He'd run strictly on nerves. The bullet had entered the left hip, travelled all the way up through the lung and heart, and came to a stop just under the hide on the chest. It was truly the last minute, of the last hour, of the last day of the hunt. My ‘One Minute Buffalo!

P.S. Apart from some rifling, the bullet was undamaged and could be reloaded!

Tom Murphy has taken everything from elephant to warthog on three safaris since 1995. Over 60 years old, he is a writer with 12 books published. Writing and motorcycling are his two main interests. Tom lives near Reno, Nevada, so far out in the desert that the coyotes still speak Spanish.