We cast for tracks, but along this stretch of the Lukwika there was a lot of thick grass and too many elephant tracks. Even old Sengi was stumped. This bull that we thought we had seen had vanished. Our scouts had told us of yet another group of bulls, last known about a mile away, with less than an hour of light remaining. We hoofed it hard, working against the falling sun, and we found their tracks easily--at least a dozen bulls.

Once an elephant is taken, there's a lot of work to be done. Local villagers almost always participate.

They had rested and fed through the afternoon, and as we hit them at sundown they were starting to leave their lair, heading for distant cashew orchards. We hit them in the middle, with several stationary bulls to our left and, 200 yards to our right, a half-dozen bulls stepping out with succulent cashews on their minds. The bulls to the left were the obvious targets, but I glanced to the right and, between the trees, I saw the slanting rays of sunlight glint off wonderfully long ivory. Sengi saw it at the same time, and both of us grabbed Michel and pointed.

The wind was good, the country burned and open. The bulls were following an elephant path, the big bull in the lead. We took a parallel path thirty yards to their right, almost trotting, feeling the breeze in our faces as we caught up to and passed them one by one.

The paths converged, and as we came up on the big bull Sengi dropped behind, then Michel, and I had the lead, with burnt ground to my front left quarter. My .450 Rigby came up and was steady as the bull stepped into the opening. As he stretched his right foreleg forward to take a step I fired into the deep crease behind his shoulder, then again with the second barrel.

I have no idea where the other elephant went. Our bull, rocked by the double impact and already unsteady, turned back. I ran with him, reloading, and fired both barrels again into his left shoulder. Another dozen steps and he was down, a huge bull carrying 61?2 feet of beautiful tusks on each side. That night, in the East African tradition, I was carried to the fire, and our crew danced and sang the elephant song. The fire the next day belonged to the elephant, and when the embers died his memory was left with me.