Read Online The Devil's Horn by David L. Robbins - Free Book Online
Authors: David L. Robbins
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as if it were a graveyard.
In the gray dregs of daylight over the stony earth, Neels did not lose the track again. He followed straight for the border. He didn’t expect to find the killers; surely they were gone. But every bit of evidence was valuable. If he found the spot where they’d crossed, the ECP rangers could keep a closer eye there. The intelligence gatherers at Skukuza would record the place, mark their maps, check the number and locations of crossings against the carcass count and sectors trespassed.
With the sky purpling to the west, Neels approached the border. The tracks had lost their shyness and led him openly over rusting wires and steel poles wasting in the dirt. All three poachers had walked into Mozambique. Neels followed.
He had the authority to do this. A South African National Parks ranger was permitted to cross the international border in pursuit of poachers, while even a policeman could not. He stepped into Mozambique, onto the dirt border road.
The red-brown dust kept a memory of what happened here. A bakkie had stopped, driven from the south. The poachers had climbed in. But someone stepped out of the passenger side. A heavy man who made broad, prominent treads in the road. He wore leather shoes with heels.
The first stars twinkled in a sky that, had it rained or blown during the past twenty hours, would have hidden this part of the story. Neels uttered a thank-you out loud; he took note that he was doing this more recently, talking to no one.
He lowered his face to the new prints to get the best look in the final light. Was this the spoor of one more poacher? No, these marks in the dust might be much more than a poacher. Someone in leather shoes, in a truck driven by another . . . Could this be a moneyman? A boss who ran a network? A big fish? A transporter? Elusive, rare, to see this.
Why had this one come out last night? If he was, in fact, a level up from the miserable, disposable poachers, he’d almost never show himself like this. He’d stay in the background, handling the cash through intermediaries, holding his identity secret. What was it about these three poachers, or the horns they brought him, that made him visible last night? Why did he get out of the truck?
Neels folded to his hands and knees in the road. He crawled beside the great shoe prints that had stepped out of the bakkie. Somewhere in the park, a hyena laughed like a madman, rousing the Kruger now that dusk had ended. Neels found a spot in the road where the leather shoes came toe-to-toe with one of the smaller poachers’ sandals.
He sat up on his knees, startled. What had happened here? A disagreement, a fight? An embrace?
Seemingly out of nowhere, a fourth set of tracks appeared in the road, barefoot, small feet.
Neels stood, excited. In the first stains of night, he trailed the bakkie’s tire marks southward on the dirt road. Not far from the border crossing point, the truck had clambered down out of the kopje, the small hills on the Mozambican side of the border. The vehicle had been up there waiting for a signal, for a meeting.
Why? Who was among the poachers to merit this kind of attention? Who wore the smallest of the sandals? Who arrived barefoot?
Neels said to the hills, “Who?”
He pushed off his hat to let it hang behind him, opening his view of the sky. He chose a western star and walked to it with his rifle in hand to keep it quiet. He lay his boots down flat to stop his heels from striking. The bush would know he was here, not the men.
Neels moved quickly, guided not by the game trails or plants; these were just ripples on the veld, seasonal and changing. Elephants would knock down scrub, giraffes and the other big beasts would wear new paths, lightning blasted trees, herds grazed down the grasses. After thirty years, Neels could feel the unchanging parts of Shingwedzi, the rises and plains, watering holes and dry gullies, the river valley, the bones of the place. He knew his sector the
In the gray dregs of daylight over the stony earth, Neels did not lose the track again. He followed straight for the border. He didn’t expect to find the killers; surely they were gone. But every bit of evidence was valuable. If he found the spot where they’d crossed, the ECP rangers could keep a closer eye there. The intelligence gatherers at Skukuza would record the place, mark their maps, check the number and locations of crossings against the carcass count and sectors trespassed.
With the sky purpling to the west, Neels approached the border. The tracks had lost their shyness and led him openly over rusting wires and steel poles wasting in the dirt. All three poachers had walked into Mozambique. Neels followed.
He had the authority to do this. A South African National Parks ranger was permitted to cross the international border in pursuit of poachers, while even a policeman could not. He stepped into Mozambique, onto the dirt border road.
The red-brown dust kept a memory of what happened here. A bakkie had stopped, driven from the south. The poachers had climbed in. But someone stepped out of the passenger side. A heavy man who made broad, prominent treads in the road. He wore leather shoes with heels.
The first stars twinkled in a sky that, had it rained or blown during the past twenty hours, would have hidden this part of the story. Neels uttered a thank-you out loud; he took note that he was doing this more recently, talking to no one.
He lowered his face to the new prints to get the best look in the final light. Was this the spoor of one more poacher? No, these marks in the dust might be much more than a poacher. Someone in leather shoes, in a truck driven by another . . . Could this be a moneyman? A boss who ran a network? A big fish? A transporter? Elusive, rare, to see this.
Why had this one come out last night? If he was, in fact, a level up from the miserable, disposable poachers, he’d almost never show himself like this. He’d stay in the background, handling the cash through intermediaries, holding his identity secret. What was it about these three poachers, or the horns they brought him, that made him visible last night? Why did he get out of the truck?
Neels folded to his hands and knees in the road. He crawled beside the great shoe prints that had stepped out of the bakkie. Somewhere in the park, a hyena laughed like a madman, rousing the Kruger now that dusk had ended. Neels found a spot in the road where the leather shoes came toe-to-toe with one of the smaller poachers’ sandals.
He sat up on his knees, startled. What had happened here? A disagreement, a fight? An embrace?
Seemingly out of nowhere, a fourth set of tracks appeared in the road, barefoot, small feet.
Neels stood, excited. In the first stains of night, he trailed the bakkie’s tire marks southward on the dirt road. Not far from the border crossing point, the truck had clambered down out of the kopje, the small hills on the Mozambican side of the border. The vehicle had been up there waiting for a signal, for a meeting.
Why? Who was among the poachers to merit this kind of attention? Who wore the smallest of the sandals? Who arrived barefoot?
Neels said to the hills, “Who?”
He pushed off his hat to let it hang behind him, opening his view of the sky. He chose a western star and walked to it with his rifle in hand to keep it quiet. He lay his boots down flat to stop his heels from striking. The bush would know he was here, not the men.
Neels moved quickly, guided not by the game trails or plants; these were just ripples on the veld, seasonal and changing. Elephants would knock down scrub, giraffes and the other big beasts would wear new paths, lightning blasted trees, herds grazed down the grasses. After thirty years, Neels could feel the unchanging parts of Shingwedzi, the rises and plains, watering holes and dry gullies, the river valley, the bones of the place. He knew his sector the
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