Read Online The Devil's Horn by David L. Robbins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David L. Robbins
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barrel, the tail of an eland, a muti. Neels settled to his knees.
“Who sent you?”
The Mozambican pulled his hands from his stomach. The bullet had taken him just above the belly button, in the bowels. His palms dripped, the waistband of his shorts sagged, sopping with his blood. He wore no underwear. His life pulsed out between his shaking legs into the drinking dust. One sandal had fallen off, and the bottom of his foot was almost white with calluses. He muttered in accented English.
“I’m going to die?”
Neels inched closer, into the smell of copper.
“Who sent you?”
The poacher began to rock, holding his stomach again. Neels poked him in the shoulder.
“Hey. Look at me. A big man, right? He sent you.”
“Ranger, don’t let me die.”
“I won’t. Who sent you? His name.”
The poacher gazed deep into Neels’s face to see if he could trust him. Neels poked him again.
“I won’t let you die. Now tell me who sent you.”
The poacher coughed, and the pain of it wrenched his thin features.
“Juma.”
Neels leaned closer now that he had a name, to let the poacher see in his eyes that he would not find there what he was looking for.
Covering his belly once more, the poacher lay back in the dust. He moaned. Neels stood over him.
“How many have you killed? Jou poes .” (You cunt.)
The poacher shook his head in the dirt, denying, eyes shut.
His blood coursed down the furrows of his ribs, soaking his black shirttail. The moon gleamed in his tears and sweat. Daai bleerie fokken ding (This bloody fucking thing), this poacher, looked shiny dying in the dirt.
Neels rested the muzzle of his F-1 over the Mozambican’s heart. The racing beat throbbed through the gun into his hand.
“You sneak into my park. Shoot my animals. Hack them to pieces.”
The poacher opened his eyes. He gazed not at Neels but beyond him, to the ageless stars.
Neels spit onto the man’s heaving chest. The gob landed beside the muzzle of the F-1.
“You ruin my life.”
Neels pulled the trigger. Again, somewhere, the mad hyena cackled.
Neels dumped the body off his shoulder. The poacher landed on his back, arms splayed, bloody palms turned up as if to show what Neels had done to him. Old Opu sat beside a corpse of his own, another skinny bastard. Opu looked unhurt, so Neels did not ask how he was. Opu pointed into the dark east.
“One got away.”
Neels handed Opu the poacher’s Remington. The rifle’s ballistics would be compared to bullets pried from rhino carcasses going back two years, searching for matches. The gun itself was most likely stolen, and that record, too, would help the computers at Skukuza create their mosaic of evidence. Opu checked the chamber to see that the gun was unloaded. He fingered the eland-tail muti, then tossed the rifle across the poacher’s bare legs.
Neels leaned down to Opu’s kill to see the story. Two rounds to the chest. This one died fast. No weapon lay near him in the dirt; he’d been unarmed. A flat, empty knapsack hinted that this team of poachers hadn’t found a rhino before they’d stumbled on Opu in the dark.
Opu did the same to Neels’s corpse, reading the death there. One bullet in the gut, one clean in the heart. Opu would have heard Neels’s two shots, the pause between them.
The old man’s white teeth split his black features in a grimace. Both he and Neels had put down men they could have taken alive. Neither poacher had been a threat at the moment he was killed. It remained unsaid between Opu and Neels, and among all the Kruger rangers, chopper pilots, police, prosecutors, sector bosses, intel teams, and office staff, that this was the same bad deal the rhinos got.
Opu jerked a thumb at Neels’s dead poacher.
“What did he tell you?”
“A name. Juma.”
“Juma?” Opu shook his head at the dark veld.
“You know him?”
“No. Did you follow the tracks?”
Squatting beside the dead men in the dust, Neels told the old man what he’d found
“Who sent you?”
The Mozambican pulled his hands from his stomach. The bullet had taken him just above the belly button, in the bowels. His palms dripped, the waistband of his shorts sagged, sopping with his blood. He wore no underwear. His life pulsed out between his shaking legs into the drinking dust. One sandal had fallen off, and the bottom of his foot was almost white with calluses. He muttered in accented English.
“I’m going to die?”
Neels inched closer, into the smell of copper.
“Who sent you?”
The poacher began to rock, holding his stomach again. Neels poked him in the shoulder.
“Hey. Look at me. A big man, right? He sent you.”
“Ranger, don’t let me die.”
“I won’t. Who sent you? His name.”
The poacher gazed deep into Neels’s face to see if he could trust him. Neels poked him again.
“I won’t let you die. Now tell me who sent you.”
The poacher coughed, and the pain of it wrenched his thin features.
“Juma.”
Neels leaned closer now that he had a name, to let the poacher see in his eyes that he would not find there what he was looking for.
Covering his belly once more, the poacher lay back in the dust. He moaned. Neels stood over him.
“How many have you killed? Jou poes .” (You cunt.)
The poacher shook his head in the dirt, denying, eyes shut.
His blood coursed down the furrows of his ribs, soaking his black shirttail. The moon gleamed in his tears and sweat. Daai bleerie fokken ding (This bloody fucking thing), this poacher, looked shiny dying in the dirt.
Neels rested the muzzle of his F-1 over the Mozambican’s heart. The racing beat throbbed through the gun into his hand.
“You sneak into my park. Shoot my animals. Hack them to pieces.”
The poacher opened his eyes. He gazed not at Neels but beyond him, to the ageless stars.
Neels spit onto the man’s heaving chest. The gob landed beside the muzzle of the F-1.
“You ruin my life.”
Neels pulled the trigger. Again, somewhere, the mad hyena cackled.
Neels dumped the body off his shoulder. The poacher landed on his back, arms splayed, bloody palms turned up as if to show what Neels had done to him. Old Opu sat beside a corpse of his own, another skinny bastard. Opu looked unhurt, so Neels did not ask how he was. Opu pointed into the dark east.
“One got away.”
Neels handed Opu the poacher’s Remington. The rifle’s ballistics would be compared to bullets pried from rhino carcasses going back two years, searching for matches. The gun itself was most likely stolen, and that record, too, would help the computers at Skukuza create their mosaic of evidence. Opu checked the chamber to see that the gun was unloaded. He fingered the eland-tail muti, then tossed the rifle across the poacher’s bare legs.
Neels leaned down to Opu’s kill to see the story. Two rounds to the chest. This one died fast. No weapon lay near him in the dirt; he’d been unarmed. A flat, empty knapsack hinted that this team of poachers hadn’t found a rhino before they’d stumbled on Opu in the dark.
Opu did the same to Neels’s corpse, reading the death there. One bullet in the gut, one clean in the heart. Opu would have heard Neels’s two shots, the pause between them.
The old man’s white teeth split his black features in a grimace. Both he and Neels had put down men they could have taken alive. Neither poacher had been a threat at the moment he was killed. It remained unsaid between Opu and Neels, and among all the Kruger rangers, chopper pilots, police, prosecutors, sector bosses, intel teams, and office staff, that this was the same bad deal the rhinos got.
Opu jerked a thumb at Neels’s dead poacher.
“What did he tell you?”
“A name. Juma.”
“Juma?” Opu shook his head at the dark veld.
“You know him?”
“No. Did you follow the tracks?”
Squatting beside the dead men in the dust, Neels told the old man what he’d found
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