It was for his usual circuit of the minerals’ map, Geiger counter crackling, radio direction-finder turning as he rotated its small black handle through a hole in the vehicle roof. At four that afternoon Veronica, a decade younger than he was, a stringy old bird, active physically and mentally sharp, banged off the shot letting Buckler know she was impatient for her canvases to be bundled and the camp ordered for the night – water drawn, wood fetched – these being their afternoon routines on their desert forays, all of which she was mostly capable of continuing on her own except their bargain was otherwise. She made coffee and waited, the quart pot simmering in the ashes. It wasn’t the .410 gauge bird gun gifted from her father she used; it was the heavy centre-fire rifle of American make that Buckler employed against bull camels entering the camp. She lugged it between rocks, holding the butt against a buried stone and boomed the signal in the direction he’d gone.
