“Potentially more dangerous.” He continued scanning the shore, then gave a slow nod and pointed. “There.”
“What?”
“A man.”
Jack searched—in the shadows, along the edges of the trees—seeing nothing.
“He’s moving toward the rhinoceros,” Samuel whispered.
Through the leaves, Jack could see the outline of the rhino, knee deep, head down, slurping up water.
Samuel dropped to all fours and crawled forward. He stopped and readied his rifle.
Jack fell back, then followed, stopping beside him. “What are you doing?”
Samuel parted the grass with his rifle. “I would try scaring him away, but there may be others. I think he will wait, let the animal return to shore. But is he alone?”
“What if he isn’t, and what’s wrong with a guy out here watching a rhino?”
“He is not simply watching. He is a poacher.”
“How do you know?” Jack turned, disoriented by the ruckus of sound, of birds in abundance. He noticed a head, bobbing in and out of view, moving laterally. “Are you sure?”
“He carries a rifle. He is not a ranger.”
The rhinoceros turned, lumbering toward shore.
The man stepped behind a tree, stopping or disappearing in the brush below it.
Samuel stared over the gun sights. “When next he shows himself . . .”
“Samuel, wait!”
Samuel scanned the shore. He reached, tapping Jack on the arm. “There are two.” He pointed. “Maybe more.”
Jack followed his point, spotting a profile in the brush.
“Can you use that?”
“The rifle?”
“Of course.”
“Yes . . . but . . . it’s a man.”
“Yes, and if he sees you, he will shoot you first.”
Jack picked up the rifle and slipped the caps off the scope. What if it’s not sighted in?
“Take the one to the right. He’s further away,” Samuel said. “Okay, this one has shown himself.” He leaned into the rifle, peering over the sights. “Quickly, Mr. Jack. He’s preparing to shoot.”
Jack chambered a round, shouldered the rifle, and put his eye to the scope, aiming where he’d last seen the poacher. Where’d he go?
“Quickly,” Samuel repeated.
He searched the shadows, then saw him. Dark skin. Red shirt, sweat drenched. “I see him.” Jack set the crosshairs on his chest.
“On two,” Samuel said. “One.”
He’s a kid.
“Two.” Rounds pulsed from the AK-47.
Jack lowered the crosshairs and squeezed off a shot. He watched the poacher go down.
Birds took flight, thousands escaping, all directions, the beat of wings horrific.
The sounds died away, leaving only screams of pain.
“The rhinoceros is gone,” Samuel said, sounding relieved. He craned his neck. “I do not believe they got off a shot.”
Jack lay staring through the scope. The boy rolled in agony.
“I know. It is difficult,” Samuel said.
Jack nodded.
“I am sorry to ask you to do that, but the rhinoceros lives.”
“How long? How long have you been doing this job?” Jack muttered.
“Twenty years. A long time for a warden.” He dug his radio from his pack, exchanged words with someone, then put the radio away. “It is easier for me,” he acknowledged. “But I have seen rangers killed. I have seen what is left of rhinoceros after slaughter. I have seen the population of rhinoceros decimated.” He got to his feet. “Do not let down your defenses, Mr. Jack. One lives. Scared men are dangerous.”
Jack stood, ejected the spent cartridge and chambered another round.
Samuel negotiated his way through the brush, circling the waterhole. No wildlife to be seen, the waters sat dark, no sound other than the moan of someone in extreme pain.
They neared the tree where Samuel’s target had stood. A man lay crumpled on the ground, having collapsed where he stood. The man, poor, likely in his twenties, maybe his teens. Old T-shirt, now blood soaked. Holes, not all from bullets. Pants, tattered. Sandals, worn.
Samuel kicked the man’s rifle away. An old one. A carbine. He prodded the body. No movement. He stooped and lowered a hand to the poacher’s neck. Without words, he moved on, toward the screaming.
Waving Jack to slow, Samuel raised his rifle, slipped past a tree, and stepped forward. He shouted, words Jack could not understand, and kicked the poacher’s carbine from reach. He gave the young man a once over, and abruptly looked at Jack. “His leg? You shot him in the leg?”
Jack shrugged. “Sorry. Couldn’t do it.”
Shaking his head, Samuel turned his attention to the boy. In terse words, he spoke. The poacher, writhing in pain, unloosened his belt and pulled it from its loops.
Samuel placed the belt around his leg, above the knee, then stood and put in a call on the radio. When finished, he turned to Jack. “I have rangers coming to get him.”
The boys eyes grew wide.
“His name is Ojwang,” Samuel said. “Interesting name. Infers having survived despite neglect.”
“Does he speak English?”
“He should. Ojwang, do you speak English?”
“Yes,” he said, cringing in pain.
“You are a lucky boy, Ojwang. You could be dead. This man chose to shoot you in the leg. You live. Your friend did not.”
He stared at Jack. Scared, hate-filled eyes, appreciation the furthest thing from his mind.
—·—
Two rangers arrived, both extremely tall. The bleeding now slowed, they dressed the wound, put the boy on a stretcher, and loaded him into the bed of their Land Cruiser.
Samuel and Jack stood watching as the vehicle pulled away, the boy screaming.
“Two
