It was still early, but the heat was already building up. It was the dry heat of the red centre. I had been marching for some time. Not marching exactly, rather focused tracking.

The prey was not far ahead, making for the high ground. My instructions were implicit, eliminate the target. I cautiously approached the foliage edge, easily spotting him trekking up the hill. With stealth I approach my platform. He is still oblivious of my presence. Conditions; no breeze, perfect visibility, target 300m.

Baboom...Baboom, Baboom, my heart rate quickens.

Soft points loaded. He fills the end of the blurry tunnel, a finely etched crucifix pinpointing his head. Breathe in, slowly. Exhale, then squeeze.

BOOOM!

His head twitches, suddenly, terribly aware. He knows as I do his only salvation lies in flight. Up and away he flies.* Sure footed, like a goat, he scrambles up the slope. My last shot is rushed, nearly intuitive, but effective. As he topples to the dusty red earth, I know I have passed a point from which I cannot return.

It is necessary to inspect the corpse, the carcass. The distance between us seems infinite. When I arrive he is still warm, but the flies are already contaminating the eyeballs. No pulse. A neat half hole through the ear lobe. The first shot, so close to a perfect head execution. Cursorily the photo is taken. I hike back with a lather of cold sweat duly earned.

* I was to wonder afterwards if this first shot was to give a sporting chance. It certainly wasn't Queensbury rules.