The Horns of Lord Derby

From the recovered journals of Caliber Jack

They call him Lord Derby’s eland, though I doubt the bull ever met a lord. If he had, I reckon he’d have stared at him the same way he stared at me — calm, steady, deciding whether I was worth the trouble.

The books say they’re the largest of the antelope, up to a ton of bone and muscle, with horns that twist like smoke. But the books never mention the sound they make when they move through tall grass — the low hum of weight and grace together. They never tell you that when one stops, the whole savanna seems to hold its breath.

We found this bull at the edge of the Isoberlinia woodland, where the trees grow wide and the light burns copper through the leaves. Mosi pointed to the track — a print deep enough to hold rainwater. “Old one,” he said. Not old in years, maybe. Old in soul.

For three days, we followed him — through thorn, across glades, down into a river hollow where water still hid under cracked mud. He didn’t run; he drifted. The kind of animal that trusts distance more than fear.

When we finally saw him, he stood alone, chestnut hide marked with pale stripes, a black crest running down his neck like the mane of a forgotten god. He turned, and the sun caught his horns — long, spiraled, near four feet each — the reason men name species after other men.

I could have taken him then. The shot was perfect — 150 yards, quartering away. But something about him stopped me. Maybe the way he flicked his tail, unbothered. Maybe the way he looked past me, toward the horizon, as if he already knew how the story ends.

The rifle felt heavier than usual. Not from the steel — from the knowing.

So I let him walk.

Mosi said nothing, but later by the fire he poured half his coffee into the dust. “For him,” he murmured. I nodded. I wasn’t sure which him we meant.

If you ever find yourself out there — where the woodlands thin and the wind smells of ash and grass — and you hear that low, deep bark rolling across the dusk, don’t mistake it for fear. It’s a voice older than ours, reminding us that strength and peace can wear the same skin.

I left the horns where they belonged — on the bull that earned them. Some trophies aren’t meant for walls. Some you carry in silence.

“Mercy leaves the heaviest trophies.”