Frank Stone

Ivory Hunter Frank Stone

He once again reached down and lifted the ash bag at his side. Patting it gently the gray powder from the ash drifted straight back at him. The slight air movement was taking Rod and Handy?s scent away from the thicket, the stalk was proceeding well. Remaining downwind was critical, nothing could match the keen sense of smell that an elephant possessed.

Rod gave a quick glance over his left shoulder and with his index finger pointed toward the thicket. He shook the finger and nodded, signaling to Handy that the stalk would continue. The black tracker nodded his approval and shadowed him as he took a few short steps and stopped to study the thicket.

When he took another step a twig snapped under his foot and he froze. With all the noise that the bull was making in the thicket it was unlikely that he heard the twig break, but those big ears of his were as keen as his elongated nose. The Acacia continued to weave back and forth then crashed violently to the ground. Reassured that the bull hadn?t heard him Rod continued the stalk.