”You stupid English!” Koot van Beek muttered, rising from the grass behind them. “You cannot stop a Cape Buffalo with children’s toys.” He raised the Winchester Model 70 African Special he’d brought along. “This is why I brought my own rifle, English.”
Margo gulped. “I-I see. Yes. I- Thank you.”
Koot grunted once then jerked a thumb back toward camp. “I have fish for supper.” The scathing way he said it made Margo wish she could crawl into a hole and pull it in after her. Maybe hunting did have its place…
The Welshman slowly, carefully, replaced his arrow in the quiver at his side.
”You were very brave,” Margo told him, wondering if he knew enough English to understand her.
Kynan turned to face her. Margo gulped. His whole face was pasty white. He glanced at his bow, stared for a moment at the dead Cape Buffalo, then looked past her to Koot. He said in broken English, “Koot? You show gun?”
Koot grinned. “Sure. Come to camp. I will teach you to shoot.”
The look in the Welshman’s eyes was one of vast relief
Wordlessly, Margo followed the men back to camp. Next time, she promised, to bring a gun powerful enough to stop anything I’m likely to encounter: She’d made a mistake. A bad one. Fortunately, it hadn’t proven fatal. This time, she’d been lucky.
Margo’s second mistake was far more serious than not choosing a powerful enough rifle. Watching the falling fuel gauges-and searching the inhospitable terrain below for nonexistent landing sites–did nothing to slow the alarming rate at which they burned fuel. Far sooner than they should have, the ducted engine fans sputtered and went silent. Terror choked Margo into equally profound silence. We’re out of fuel. Dear God, we’re out of fuel … .