We could see flattened, bloodstained grass from where two nyala carcasses had been dragged to and through a hole in the fence. It was pitch-dark when we arrived at the eastern edge of the reserve and traced the scene with our flashlights. How else could they have timed everything so perfectly? I now knew, though, that this was a well-organized criminal operation led by someone who followed our every move. The poachers would be off the reserve before we even got close. We jumped back into the Land Rover and sped off, but I knew it was pointless. Now the poachers were shooting nyala-beautiful antelopes-on the far side, at least a forty-five-minute drive away. Someone had shot off a gun outside the western edge of the reserve to get us to come this way. These came from the eastern edge of the reserve. And there were no tracks or blood trail to indicate that an animal had been killed and dragged off. There were no cuts in it, no holes made by a poacher to get in. In Africa, the animals in the bush are only quiet after gunshots.Īfter a few minutes of absolute stillness, I switched on my flashlight and swept its beam up and down the fence.
The smell of gunshot spiced the evening air. He would keep watch while I crawled to the fence to cut off the poachers’ retreat if a firefight broke out. Poachers like to have their escape route open. As any game ranger in Africa knows, professional poachers will shoot to kill. We eased through a cluster of acacia trees, our nerves on edge, trigger fingers tense, watching and listening. I slowed as we approached the western fence, killed the headlights, and pulled over behind a large anthill.
I had found our employees to be extremely loyal. They also claimed our problems were coming from inside the reserve, but I didn’t think that could be true. They firmly stated that their people were not involved. I had spoken with the izinduna, the headmen, of the surrounding Zulu groups. I couldn’t work out who they were or where they were coming from. Poachers had been our biggest problem ever since my then-fiancée, Françoise, and I had bought Thula Thula. But only static greeted David’s attempts to contact him. Ndonga was the head of my Ovambo guards and a good man to have on your side in a gunfight. Max, my Staffordshire bull terrier, scrambled onto the seat between us.Īs I turned the ignition key and floored the accelerator, David grabbed the two-way radio. I grabbed a shotgun and leapt into the driver’s seat. Flocks of squawking birds flew off.ĭavid, my game ranger, was already sprinting for the Land Rover.
Crack! I heard a rifle go off in the distance.
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