Some time later staff rations were again needed, and I decided to use the little Rigby once again. But this time, I selected a large bull to see how the 173-grain Kynoch solid would perform. The bull stood broadside at about 60 yards and I aimed a little back on the shoulder to avoid having the bullet strike the large shoulder bone, possibly preventing it from penetrating into the heart cavity. At the shot the bull stumbled, but quickly regained himself and took off with the rest of the herd into thick mopani scrub engulfed in a dense cloud of dust.

Following a wounded buffalo in thick bush with a scope-sighted .275 did not appeal to me, so I exchanged it for my Rigby .416 and took up the tracks of the retreating herd. Tracking carefully through the dense scrub, which was about shoulder high, we found little blood but did discover after several hundred yards where the wounded bull had separated from the herd. We now became even more cautious, because from experience, I knew that wounded buffalo will often run a short distance after separating from the herd. Then, if the bush is thick, he’ll lie down, and you’re on top of him before you realize he’s there. Fortunately, after another couple hundred yards of slow tracking, we could see a small clearing ahead and in the middle of this clearing lay the buffalo—stone dead. He’d collapsed at full gallop.

Careful tracing of the bullet’s path established that the long, pencil-thin .275 Kynoch bullet had creased the heart, but had failed to penetrate its large internal chambers. The fact that this bull was able to gallop for nearly a half-mile with such a wound before collapsing is an indication of the vitality and tenaciousness of a buffalo.

The KDS Khwai concession area, located northwest of the Okavango Delta, had an extremely large population of elephant, and the company’s elephant quota was very generous in those days. During the 1970s, at a time when the price of ivory was increasing considerably, I’d agreed that any members of the company who wished to hunt an elephant at the end of the season, after all our “client safaris” had left the field, were welcome to do so.

My daughter Gail, then in her late teens, expressed the wish to hunt an elephant, which surprised me somewhat. I knew Gail had a very deep-rooted respect for elephants, having witnessed some noisy demonstrations when she had accompanied me while I was doing some photography. She was very familiar with the handling of firearms, though, and had bagged a number of plains game without incident.

I agreed that she could hunt an elephant with the proviso that she accompany me on the hunt all the way, and that she shoot the elephant herself. I would assist only if it were absolutely necessary. To this she agreed, and again, I was somewhat surprised, knowing her feelings about pachyderms. With no caliber restrictions on the use of small-bores in those early days, I figured the little Rigby .275 would be the ideal rifle for her to use.

When all the safaris had been wrapped up, it was time for Gail’s hunt. We still had a couple of weeks before the season closed, and I decided to try our luck in the Mababe Depression where some early rains had filled some backcountry waterholes. We commenced the hunt and looked over several breeding herds accompanied by young bulls, the odd one carrying ivory, which appeared quite nice, but with thin tusks and long nerves they would not meet our weight expectations. We also encountered our share of one-tuskers and broken-tuskers, not to mention numerous groups of young bachelor bulls.

Finally, I decided we should have a look at a distant water hole about a two-hour drive from camp. It had rained during the night and as we approached the water hole we came upon the tracks of a large bull elephant, which had crossed the road not long before our arrival. Leaving the car under a tree we shouldered our rifles and, with a water bag carried by one of the trackers, we hurried off in pursuit.

Tracking was ridiculously easy due to the rain the previous night, and after some two miles of tracking through thick mopani woodland, we spotted the bull ahead in the middle of an open plain feeding on small shrubs. It was moving slowly toward a thick mopani forest on the far side of the plain. The binocular showed both tusks to be intact and evenly matched. I judged the tusks to scale about 50 pounds apiece.

We now deviated with the wind in our favor to get ahead of the bull and be in a position to intercept the elephant before it reached the heavy bush on the far side of the plain. Having accomplished this maneuver we strode toward the bull. When we were some 200 yards from him, Gail said in a quavering voice, “This is close enough, dad!”

I said, “No we must get a lot closer,” and continued to approach the bull. Gail’s protests became more urgent as we got nearer, and when we were within about 80 yards, I realized I would not get her any closer unless I picked her up and carried her. There was a nearby tree, which provided a decent rest, and I said, “OK take him from here.”

I explained again where to aim for the heart as she sighted through the scope. Gail fired and by the bull’s reaction I felt she had got it right, so I did not fire. There was sufficient open country between it and the bush for me to take a hand if it did not collapse. The bull ran for about 40 yards then stood, swayed and collapsed.

Gail was elated with her prize, and I congratulated her on a fine shot and having gone through with it. At the same time I could not help feeling a sense of nostalgia as this was the first elephant the little Rigby had laid low since it was used by “Karamoja” Bell so many years before. In retrospect Gail’s bull will almost certainly be the last elephant the little rifle will account for as in most, if not all African countries, calibers of .375 or larger are mandatory for the hunting of elephant.

Mark eventually decided to dispose of the Rigby .275 through Holland & Holland of London, and we lost all trace of it for nearly 20 years until quite recently when someone phoned Joe Coogan to say that he currently owned the rifle and wished to sell it. Mike Evans now owns “Karamoja” Bell’s Rigby .275, and he brought it back to Botswana to use on safari in 2009. How wonderful to think that this unique little rifle returned to Africa yet again, and that its voice echoed through the African bush once more.