of guilt. To a hunter, the nobler the quarry, the greater the compulsion to take the trophy. Job whistled again, pointing, diverting Sean's attention from the elephant, and only then did Sean see the poachers.
They were already closing in on the bull. He could see all four of them. They had just left the trees at the bottom of the slope and were moving in single file into the grassy meadow. The grass reached to their armpits, and their heads and shoulders bobbed like the cork line of a fishnet in the pale sea of grass. Each of them carried an AK-47 assault rifle slung over his shoulder.
The light swift bullets those weapons fired were not at all suitable for hunting massive-bodied species, but Sean knew the technique. They would get in close and all four would open fire together, blazing hundreds of rounds into the bull, riddling his lungs with copper-jacketed bullets, bringing him down under the sheer weight of automatic firepower.
The line of poachers was swinging out to flank the elephant, not heading directly toward him but keeping well below the wind, so that a fluke of the breeze would not carry their scent to him.
Despite this detour, they were running hard and gaining on him swiftly. The bull was still unaware of their existence, heading with long swaying strides down toward the river-bed, but Sean realized that at this rate they would intercept him and open fire before he could reach it himself.
The government directive from the game department to the concessionaires was in plain language. Unauthorized armed men in a hunting concession, if apprehended in what was clearly a hunting operation, were presumed to be poachers. Four game department rangers and one concessionaire had been murdered by poachers during the past four years, and the directive was that fire could be opened on poachers without warning. The prime minister, Robert Mugabe, made it even plainer. 'Shoot to kill' were his exact words. The.577 Nitro EWress was a devastating weapon at close quarters, but over a 1un dred yards the heavy bullet dropped away rapidly. The group of poachers was six hundred yards away across the valley floor. Sean jumped up and, crouching low, slipped across the face of the slope to where Job was lying behind a fallen tree trunk.
He dropped down beside him. 'Give me the Weatherby,' he ordered, taking the lighter weapon from Job's hands. Job was an excellent shot, but this called for Bisley championship-standard marksmanship.
Sean jerked the bolt open and checked that there was a cartridge in the chamber. It was a 180-grain Nosier, and Sean tried to drop over hundred yards, the range of six estimate how much the buffet would firing downhill with a light breeze on his left shoulder. He remembered from the ballistic table that the bullet drop at 350 would be six inches, while at 600 yards it would probably be four feet or more.
While he worked it out, he stripped off his shirt, rolled it into a bundle, and placed it on the fallen tree trunk behind which he and Job were crouched.
'Back me with the big banduki. Shoot very high with it,' he told Job. He settled behind the tree trunk, resting the fore end of the Weatherby on the pad of the shirt. He screwed the variable telescopic lens to full power and gazed through it.
He picked up the heads of the file of poachers. At this magnification, he could recognize two of the men as Matatu had described them from their spoor. The tall, lean one was leading. He wore a blue denim jacket, traditional guerrilla uniform from the days of the bush war. Behind him came the shorter, heavier man. He had a tiger-striped camouflage cap on his head and wore a plain khaki shirt.
Beyond them Sean could see the elephant. The magnification of the lens foreshortened the range so that the poachers seemed very close to their quarry. Even as he watched them, the leader of the column unslung the automatic rifle from his shoulder and made a gesture with his other hand. Behind him the other three poachers fanned out into a skirmishing line and slipped their rifles off their shoulders, holding them at high port.
Sean snuggled down behind the Weatherby, digging in his heels, regulating his breathing, his forefinger resting lightly on the trigger. He picked out the tall leader in the denim jacket and let the cross hairs of the telescopic sights drift over the man's head.
The image wavered and quivered in the heat. Sean watched the watery lines of mirage, for they were indicators of the strength and direction of the breeze; when they leaned over, the breeze was gusting, but they rose straight upward like smoke in the lulls between gusts.
He drew a long breath, let half of it out, and held the rest. The mirage steadied in a lull, and he took aim a full body length above the poacher's head. The image looked good, but he did not pull the trigger. He squeezed the grip of the rifle with his whole hand as though he were modeling clay. The butt plate slammed back into his shoulder as the barrel jumped high in the typically vicious Weatherby recoil, and he lost sight of the target.
Before he could collect himself, Job exulted, 'Shayile! A hit!'
so And when Sean brought the lens back there were only three heads showing above the grass.
All three poachers had turned and were firing their weapons back toward the slope where Sean and Job were hidden, blazing wildly on fully automatic, their AKs beating like the rattle of kettledrums.
Beyond them Sean saw the old bull elephant in full flight. His ears streaming back and his great black tusks lifted high above the grass, he crashed into the narrow ribbon of dark bush and out the other side.
'Run, my beauty,' Sean breathed. 'If I can't have you, nobody else will.' And he turned his full attention back to the band of poachers.
It was immediately obvious that they were a crack unit. Two of them were throwing covering fire at the kopJe, while the third had run to where the leader had gone down in the grass and dragged him to his feet. The blue denim-clad leader had lost his rifle, and he was doubled up and clutching his side.
'Nicked him!' Sean muttered. He fired again. Dust flew above the grass as his bullet fell close beside them. The poachers began to pull out, dragging their leader with them, placing an ant-hill between them and the kopJe. Both Sean and Job were firing deliberately, but the range was increasing every second, and although Sean saw dust fly very close to the scurrying figures, they could not claim another hit before the band disappeared into the grass and scrub and the clatter of automatic fire dwindled into silence.
Sean and Job waited fifteen minutes, peering down into the valley, but they did not get another glimpse of the poachers. Sean stood up. 'We'll go and take a look.'
'Careful,' Job warned. 'They could have doubled back to lay an ambush.' That was, another old guerrilla trick, and they went down the slope cautiously.
Matatu led them to where the poacher had fallen. It was an area of flattened grass. The man's weapon had disappeared; one of the other poachers must have retrieved it. Matatu picked one of the grass stems and held it out to Sean. The blood on it was almost dry.
However, the bleeding had not been profuse and they found less than a dozen droplets on the grass or balled on the dry earth.
'Flesh wound,' Sean grunted. The drift of the breeze must have pushed the bullet off the vital areas of the man's body.
'Who do we follow, Tukutela or the poachers?' Job wanted to know. 'The poachers will be halfway back to Lusaka by now.' Sean grinned. 'Follow the elephant!' he ordered Matatu.
They tracked Tukutela across the river-bed and up the farther side of the valley. After his first panicked rush, the old bull had settled down into that swinging stride that ate up the ground at a prodigious rate, and which he could keep up for days. He was boring away toward the east, toward the Mozambican border, deviating only slightly from his course to take a gap in a line of hills or to climb the easier gradient when there was no pass.
They ran hard on his spoor. Not having to take precautions against ambush, they could push themselves to the limit, but the elephant was pulling away from them and the day was wasting.
The sun was casting their long shadows ahead of them.
There was no defined border with Mozambique, no fence or cut line through the forest, but a sixth sense warned Sean that they had crossed.
He was about to give orders to halt when Job whistled softly and made a cut-out signal with his left hand. Matatu pulled up and nodded his head in agreement, and the three of them bunched up and stood looking along the faint spoor that ran ahead of them into the darkening eastern forest.
'Mozambique,' Job said. 'He has gone away.' And the others did not deny it.
'He still goes fast.' Matatu spat on the spoor. 'Faster than any man can run. We will not see Tukutela again this year.'
'Yes, but there will be another season,' Sean said. 'Next year, he will range back into the national park and come again in the new moon across the Chiwewe River. We will be waiting for him.'
'Perhaps.' Matatu took a pinch of snuff from the duiker-horn container that hung around his neck. 'Or perhaps the poachers will find him again, or he will walk onto a land mine in an old battlefield in Mozambique, or perhaps he will die of his own great age The thought filled Sean with melancholy. Tukutela was a part of the old Africa. Sean had been born too late fully to experience that era. He had been able to glimpse only vestiges of it, yet he had a deep, nostalgic reverence for the history and past of his continent.
It was all going so fast, trodden under the greedy rush for power
