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by Jan Hurst-Nicholson
Originally published by on 03/03/2017

The poacher tracked the spoor for many kilometres. He knew the terrain from his years as a terrorist in the Rhodesian bush war. Emerging from the thicket of thorn trees he spotted his quarry across the open plain. A rhino and her calf. Her horn was worth a year’s pay.

He readied his rifle. A few paces forward and he took aim. The explosive sound was followed by the terror-stricken cry of the calf. It fled into the bush, followed by its panicked mother.

The poacher’s blood seeped into the dry earth, his body blown apart by the forgotten landmine.

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