Without a Hiding Place

The sun shone down on his back, slightly glimmering across his bare scalp. His grip steadily tightened on the hard walnut grip of his rifle, the sweat making it harder with every bead to hold it. The dry grass brushed against his shins, his eyes squinting to hide from the sun. He took off his akubra, it was worn smooth, old leather, and it revealed a long rough pattern down the centre of his scalp. Three long marks from the top of his head to the top of his spine. The wound had only healed recently, a battle wound from his prey. The man glanced up into the nearby sky to see several vultures circling a large patch of thorn bushes ahead. He raised his hand gesturing for his tracker to stay by the tree while he entered the thicket. As the man crept towards the opening in the tangle of thorns he raised his rifle to his shoulder,