AMMUNITION
Bully For The .405
Roosevelt's "big medicine" enjoys a revival.
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My daughter, Brittany, whispered, "Dad, he's getting closer." Her eyes were wide, and all her attention was focused on the buffalo. And he was getting closer. Much closer--About 25 yards out. I was certain he'd seen us, but the breeze was favorable, and the buff's body language suggested curiosity, not aggression. His head was down, covering his chest, and there was no reason to risk a tricky brain shot. At least not yet.
An eternity earlier--perhaps 15 minutes--we had stalked to within about 40 yards of the bull. Brush and movement had precluded a shot, and he had wandered off 100 yards or so, leaving behind one of his cows and her young calf. It took some time for the cow and calf to clear, and we had just started to move again when the big bull circled back, walking straight toward us. For darn sure, he had seen something and was coming back to check it (rather, us) out. We knelt quickly. Professional hunter Peter Harding held his ears and offered his shoulder for a rest, whispering to me to tell Brittany when to shoot. He didn't need to tell me to cover them if necessary.
The bull was still coming, one slow step at a time. He was old and huge-bodied, his flat, wide horns swinging slightly. "Dad," came a small, urgent voice, "he's really close."
"Yes, he is," I whispered back. Good observation. "Just wait." I snuck a sidelong glance. The rifle was ready, and the barrel was steady. I shifted the .458 I was carrying a bit. I had no idea whether I was going to need it, but I'd know in a matter of seconds.
One small sapling stood between us and the bull. When he reached it, he would turn one way or the other. I hoped. Peter had the same thought, and we were right. The bull quartered slightly to his right and, as he stepped around the spindly obstacle, lifted his head for the first time.
"OK," I told Brittany, "shoot him just under the curve of the horn, right on the point of the shoulder."
She did, almost instantly, and I saw dust fly on the exact spot I wanted her to hit. The little .405 Winchester seemed quiet in the dense eucalyptus grove, but the bull rocked back on his haunches, and I thought he was going down. Then he gathered himself, turned and ran heavily back toward his cows. The thick underbrush almost swallowed him, but just at the limit of our vision--maybe 80 yards--I was sure I saw him stop and then go down.
The Legend Begins
The .405 Winchester was developed for the Model 1895 Winchester in 1904. Firing a 300-grain bullet at the original velocity of 2,200 fps, it's the most powerful rimmed cartridge ever developed for a lever-action rifle. Actually, the Model 95 was not particularly popular. With its thin buttstock and (by today's standards) too much drop at heel, the '95 in .405 kicked like a fiend, and the cartridge wasn't nearly as versatile as other '95 chamberings--.30-40 Krag, .35 WCF, .30-03, .30-06.
It was, however, unquestionably the most famous chambering because it was Theodore Roosevelt's "lion medicine." Both he and his son, Kermit, used Model 1895s in .405 on their epic safari in 1909-1910. In their hands the .405 accounted not only for a number of lions (then considered pests) but also a host of other game up to rhino (both black and white) and buffalo. Over the next couple of decades the .405 was a fairly standard arm for Africa-bound Americans. Stewart Edward White, noted author of the day, swore by it. So did pioneer cinematographers and naturalists Martin and Osa Johnson.
Oklahoma lawman Charles Cottar was one of few Americans to ever really make it as an African PH. Legend has it that he started out shooting everything with a .32 Winchester Special. When he returned to the States to fetch his family to Africa, he obtained a a .405 and stuck with it to the end. Literally. In those days black rhino were common. Truculent and nearly blind, it's no great trick to get a black rhino to charge--just give him a whiff of your scent. This made them great subjects for early filming, although it was a bit hard on the rhinos: Film until the last moment, then shoot the rhino. Cottar had stopped many rhino charges during a long career, with and without a camera, but one day in 1940 he let the camera grind a bit too long before picking up his .405. He killed the rhino, but it ran over him and crushed his femoral artery. He died a few minutes later.
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