To her surprise, she found she had both blankets over her, and she felt round in sudden terror for Sammy. Then she saw him sitting behind one of the rocky krantzes, holding the Mauser, his eyes calm with the bland blankness of a dog in the sun, the same controlled fatalistic expression on his face that she’d seen often on the faces of the backveld Kaffirs, unmoved and faintly touched with boredom.She sat up, turning eagerly towards him, then she remembered with horror the events of the previous evening, the picture of the big raw-boned ginger man spread-eagled against the plain, teetering backwards, and finally crashing to the rocks, the red stain spreading across his smashed chest, and she drew her feet up under her and pulled the blankets tighter round her, staring at Sammy, sick and confused.Sammy had opened the Mauser now and was cleaning it. As she watched, still in the blankets, she saw him pick up the bullets, wipe them on his shirt and reinsert them. Then he laid the weapon down, wiping the barrel carefully.As he picked up the Henry, he saw her staring at him.
