Read Online The Devil's Horn by David L. Robbins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David L. Robbins
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way a man understands not a map but a brother. Here, Neels could think like a human or a beast, whichever he chose.
For an hour, he forged southeast toward the streambed where he’d sent Opu. He saw and heard no animals along the way. This was normal soon after the death of something the size of a rhino. The jackals, wild dogs, lions, and hyenas, the night noisemakers of the bush, had gorged their fill over the past day on the carcass. Little hunting was going on. Neels cruised undisturbed through the dark. Anything peering at him did so silently, like the moon rising at his back.
On a flatiron plain dotted with marula trees and dung heaps, Neels stopped for a swallow from his canteen. He spit out the first mouthful, an old soldier’s habit, to wash the dust off his tongue. He was only minutes from the ravine and Opu. The southern constellations shone limpid, the moon hadn’t yet crowded them out. The stars were the stars of his youth. He was sixty-one now, and his knees ached. He was alone, wifeless, drinking too much. Neels drained the canteen, feeling needy and deserving. Time for something else in his life, but what was there? Since she’d left, he’d asked this question over liquor and water, under sun and moonlight, at work and in dreams. No answer he could give himself was honest. No tracks led Neels inward.
A rifle report rang out of the night, from the direction of the streambed. Neels stowed the canteen, clicked off the safety on his R-1, and bent low.
He sped toward the sound, conscious of moving without revealing himself. Who had fired, one of the poachers?
The reply came fast. Another shot, then another scored the dark, this time a different sound, not the same caliber. One more report and Neels had his answer. This was no poacher taking down a beast. This was combat firing. Either the ECP had made contact or Opu had.
Neels dodged through the scrub, staying concealed as he hurried. The earth sloped downward. He’d entered the dry ravine. The ground turned to sandy clay; the undergrowth thinned. Straight ahead, one more gunshot popped. This was the final bang. The echo faded over the veld. Neels ducked beside a thicket of thorny branches. Here, in the center of the streambed, he caught his breath and saw the dust kicked up by a running poacher.
The man hurtled straight at him, fifty meters off. Neels stood from hiding to put himself in the open, lit by the measly light. He raised the rifle stock against his cheek and swung the sight to the poacher, leading him.
The black man did not see Neels, who, motionless, might have been just a tree in the ravine. The noises of his hard breathing and flapping sandals traveled far ahead of him. In one hand he gripped a rifle. Neels had little trouble following him with his own long barrel. He widened his stance, knowing how this would end.
When the poacher had sprinted within twenty meters, he filled Neels’s gun sight. The man wore dark clothes, a shirt flapped unbuttoned over short pants. He was thin; sweat glistened on him.
“Stop! Drop your weapon!”
The poacher skidded, raising more dust around his ankles. Panicking, he scanned the gray ravine, but with the moon low behind Neels, he did not see the ranger quickly enough. He did not drop his gun.
Neels fired once to put him down, not kill him. The round struck where he’d aimed, in the gut. The poacher staggered backward, arms flung wide, then tripped and landed on his rear, sitting up. Neels, F-1 still to his cheek, took long strides. He glared down the barrel as he approached, both eyes open.
“Take your hand off your weapon. Now.”
The poacher let the gun clatter from his grasp. He reeled in both skinny arms to press palms against his leaking belly. His shrieks were in Bantu, he was Mozambican. In English, Neels told him to shut up. The poacher whimpered.
Neels lowered the F-1. With a toe, he nudged the poacher’s Remington hunting rifle out of reach. A brushy tuft hung from the gun’s long
For an hour, he forged southeast toward the streambed where he’d sent Opu. He saw and heard no animals along the way. This was normal soon after the death of something the size of a rhino. The jackals, wild dogs, lions, and hyenas, the night noisemakers of the bush, had gorged their fill over the past day on the carcass. Little hunting was going on. Neels cruised undisturbed through the dark. Anything peering at him did so silently, like the moon rising at his back.
On a flatiron plain dotted with marula trees and dung heaps, Neels stopped for a swallow from his canteen. He spit out the first mouthful, an old soldier’s habit, to wash the dust off his tongue. He was only minutes from the ravine and Opu. The southern constellations shone limpid, the moon hadn’t yet crowded them out. The stars were the stars of his youth. He was sixty-one now, and his knees ached. He was alone, wifeless, drinking too much. Neels drained the canteen, feeling needy and deserving. Time for something else in his life, but what was there? Since she’d left, he’d asked this question over liquor and water, under sun and moonlight, at work and in dreams. No answer he could give himself was honest. No tracks led Neels inward.
A rifle report rang out of the night, from the direction of the streambed. Neels stowed the canteen, clicked off the safety on his R-1, and bent low.
He sped toward the sound, conscious of moving without revealing himself. Who had fired, one of the poachers?
The reply came fast. Another shot, then another scored the dark, this time a different sound, not the same caliber. One more report and Neels had his answer. This was no poacher taking down a beast. This was combat firing. Either the ECP had made contact or Opu had.
Neels dodged through the scrub, staying concealed as he hurried. The earth sloped downward. He’d entered the dry ravine. The ground turned to sandy clay; the undergrowth thinned. Straight ahead, one more gunshot popped. This was the final bang. The echo faded over the veld. Neels ducked beside a thicket of thorny branches. Here, in the center of the streambed, he caught his breath and saw the dust kicked up by a running poacher.
The man hurtled straight at him, fifty meters off. Neels stood from hiding to put himself in the open, lit by the measly light. He raised the rifle stock against his cheek and swung the sight to the poacher, leading him.
The black man did not see Neels, who, motionless, might have been just a tree in the ravine. The noises of his hard breathing and flapping sandals traveled far ahead of him. In one hand he gripped a rifle. Neels had little trouble following him with his own long barrel. He widened his stance, knowing how this would end.
When the poacher had sprinted within twenty meters, he filled Neels’s gun sight. The man wore dark clothes, a shirt flapped unbuttoned over short pants. He was thin; sweat glistened on him.
“Stop! Drop your weapon!”
The poacher skidded, raising more dust around his ankles. Panicking, he scanned the gray ravine, but with the moon low behind Neels, he did not see the ranger quickly enough. He did not drop his gun.
Neels fired once to put him down, not kill him. The round struck where he’d aimed, in the gut. The poacher staggered backward, arms flung wide, then tripped and landed on his rear, sitting up. Neels, F-1 still to his cheek, took long strides. He glared down the barrel as he approached, both eyes open.
“Take your hand off your weapon. Now.”
The poacher let the gun clatter from his grasp. He reeled in both skinny arms to press palms against his leaking belly. His shrieks were in Bantu, he was Mozambican. In English, Neels told him to shut up. The poacher whimpered.
Neels lowered the F-1. With a toe, he nudged the poacher’s Remington hunting rifle out of reach. A brushy tuft hung from the gun’s long
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