perfect aiming point in the field of the telescopic rifle sight.
Then suddenly the rifle blast, shocking in the silence, and the long
licking flame of the muzzle flash. The beautiful head snapping back at
the punch of the bullet and the soft thump of the falling body on the
hard earth, the last spasmodic kicking of hooves and again the silence.
He knew it was useless to attempt pursuit now, the gunman would have an
accomplice in the hills above them ready to flash a warning if any of
the homestead lights came on, or if an auto engine whirred into life.
Then the killing lamp would be doused and the poacher would creep away.
David would search the midnight T expanse of Jabulani in vain. His
quarry was cunning and experienced in his craft of killing, and would
only be taken by greater cunning.
David could not sleep again. He lay awake beside Debra, and listened to
her soft breathing, and at intervals to the distant rifle fire. The
game was tame and easily approached, innocent after the safety of the
Park.
It would run only a short distance after each shot, and then it would
stand again staring without comprehension at the mysterious and dazzling
light that floated towards it out of the darkness.
David's anger burned on through the night, and in the dawn the vultures
were up. Black specks against the pink dawn sky, they appeared in
ever-increasing numbers, sailing high on wide pinions, tracing wide
swinging circles before beginning to drop towards the earth.
David telephoned Conrad Berg at Skukuza Camp, then he and Debra and the
dog climbed into the Land Rover, warmly dressed against the dawn chill.
They followed the descent of the birds to where the poacher had come on
the buffalo herd.
As they approached the first carcass, the animal scavengers scattered,
slope-backed hyena cantering away into the trees, hideous and cowardly,
looking back over their misshapen shoulders, grinning apologetically
little red jackal with silvery backs and alert ears, trotting to a
respectful distance before standing and staring back anxiously.
The vultures were less timid, seething like fat brown maggots over the
carcass as they squawled and squabbled, fouling everything with their
stinking droppings and loose feathers, leaving the kill only when the
Land Rover was very close and then flapping heavily up into the trees to
crouch there grotesquely with their bald scaly heads out-thrust.
There were sixteen dead buffalo, lying strung out along the line of the
herd's flight. On each carcass the belly had been split open to let the
vultures in, and the sirloin and fillet had been expertly removed.
He killed them just for a few pounds of meat? Debra asked
incredulously.
That's all, David confirmed grimly. But that's not bad, sometimes
they'll kill a wildebeest simply to make a fly whisk of its tail, or
they'll shoot a giraffe for the marrow in its bones. I don't
understand, Debra's voice was hopeless. What makes a man do it? He
can't need the meat that badly. No, David agreed. It's deeper than
that. This type of killing is a gut thing. This man kills for the
thrill of it, he kills to see an animal fall, to hear the death cry, to
