The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild by Lawrence Anthony (best motivational books .TXT) 📗

so it was not only a financial setback, it was even more of a blow to our pride. We had been out-manoeuvred and that really hurt.

But we knew the poachers were still out there somewhere and would come back. Everyone was itching to have a go at them. We wanted justice – not just for the poor rhino, whose horns would be smuggled to the Orient to satisfy the nonsensical belief that it harboured aphrodisiacal qualities, but for all the animals they had slaughtered.

It was early evening a week later when we heard a muted rifle crack and saw spotlights periodically blinking far outin the reserve. This was the mistake we had been waiting for. Within minutes we were armed and ready for hot pursuit. We now only tracked on foot as the headlights and diesel-growl of a Land Rover were a dead giveaway, providing poachers with plenty of time to melt into the bush. It’s a hard slog; done almost at a jog following the brief flashes of torches that the poachers flicked on and off to get their bearings.

Conversely, this meant we couldn’t risk giving away our position using flashlights ourselves. However, our trump card was that we knew the shortcuts and could find our way through the bush far better than them. It was pitch-black and the biggest danger, of course, was stumbling blindly into the elephants, or another rhino. I didn’t even want to think about that.

A shootout with poachers is called a ‘contact’, copying military jargon, and it can be as hairy as a war zone. Everybody is armed, it’s dark and both sides are overdosing on adrenalin. Our guards usually work in teams of two: one toting a .303 rifle and the other a pump-action shotgun loaded with heavy SG ball-bearing shot. I prefer a shotgun, as it’s more accurate at close quarters. At night it’s always close quarters.

However, this time I had my son Dylan and four men – including Bheki and Ngwenya – with me and silently we approached, eyes straining to pick up the glimmer of a torch. We were almost at the boundary and closing in fast when I felt something brush against my leg. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Somehow suppressing a yell I looked down and there in the dark was Max, his tail wagging madly. He had somehow got out and followed our trail; it was another adventure he was determined to participate in.

I obviously didn’t want him with us but it was too late, so I ordered him to heel and he dutifully fell in behind me.He was small enough not to be a target, I justified to myself, and may even be able to help.

Then we heard a suppressed cough, and a torch flickered briefly up and down the fence, searching for the hole they had earlier cut. We had them. They were coming along the fence in our direction.

I nodded at Bheki who touched two of the others, whispering to one to circle around to the fence behind the poachers and the other to go up to the fence in front of them to cut off their escape routes. Bheki, Dylan and I moved over and took cover behind some termite mounds. The trap was set.

Then I heard the soft scratch of Bheki’s safety catch being clicked off. We all did the same and waited. Tension was building, and the adrenalin-driven anticipation that every soldier in every war has felt in the seconds before battle, pervaded my senses.

The poachers moved silently alongside the fence, flashing their torches on and off as they looked for their exit until they were only thirty yards or so away.

Bheki reached over, touched my arm and nodded. We both leapt up, switching on our spotlights and shouting at them to lay down their weapons.

The megawatt beam illuminated at least eight men all carrying rifles. These were the professionals all right.

Then all hell broke loose as the startled poachers opened fire, most shooting wildly from the hip in their haste.

Bheki and I flicked off our lights as we dived for cover. I landed in some thorny scrub at the base of the termite mound, trigger finger twitching but I dared not shoot as they would see the muzzle-flash and target me. Impossibly I felt a wet lick on my face. Max, concerned as to why I was on the ground was checking on me. I grabbed him and held him down.

Ngwenya and the other ranger on the fence line had alsoopened fire and the gunmen knew they were well and truly cut off.

It was now a stand-off, both sides waiting for the other to fire first to give away their positions. They were trapped at the electric fence and although they outnumbered us almost two to one, they couldn’t know that yet as they had been blinded by the brief burst of flashlight.

I sensed Bheki a few yards to my right, an excellent man to have with you in a firefight: tough, loyal and ruthless. We had been in this situation before and I knew he was waiting for the exact moment as I was. The waiting would soon get to them and they would decide to run for it, firing wildly to deter pursuit. Then we could target them.

The black silence was stiflingly claustrophobic. Unbearable – but I knew it would be even more so for them.

Suddenly a fusillade of lead cracked and twanged above our heads and we instantly fired back. There were so many muzzle-flashes that you couldn’t tell who was who.

Then silence again.

I was sure we had got at least a couple of them. Shotguns at that close range are extremely effective, but there were no groans of the injured or the rasping breath of someone trying to choke intense pain.

Then one of the poachers called out: ‘Hey, amafowethu, why are you shooting your guns at your Zulu brothers? Why are you doing the white man’s work?’

Silence.

‘Amafowethu – my brothers. We do not want