It was lunchtime the next day before Bwonqa and old man Mbele arrived at the house, with Will's father. Will had finished his packing, and was due, in a couple of hours, to drive in the old Landrover to the airstrip on the farm, a few miles from the house, for his short flight to Harare airport and the evening departure to London's Gatwick. There were sandwiches and fresh fruit ready for them, but Will had no real appetite. Neither did the other boy, who looked sad.
"Why don't you boys go down to the creek?" suggested Mrs. Bartlett. "Take some sandwiches and your fishing rods, and see if you have any luck. But mind you don't get dirty!"
Their rods were always on the balcony, ready made up. They wandered off, for once without any real enthusiasm. But it was always cool by the creek, and they had their favourite spot, on the rocks under the overhanging trees. There were birds there, and always fish in the crystal clear water.
"It may be some time before I see you again," said Will to Bonkers.
"I know, friend," replied Bonkers, casting his line into the water. It landed with a splash, which it never usually did - he was too good a fisherman for that. They watched as all the frightened fish shot off down stream. "Like you, I have my lessons again tomorrow, but holidays will be strange and lonely without you here."
"It might be all right," said Will. "We might be lucky, and be able to stay."
"No." said Bwonqa, shaking his head. "It will never be all right again. But I shall come here to fish, and think of you in your far away country."
They sat in silence, with only the whispering of the stream and the sounds of the bush to break the peace.
Suddenly, Tinker sat bolt upright, his nose taking in a strange scent drifting on the breeze. The boys heard a twig snap under foot not too far away, and Tinker tore off towards the sound, barking like a thousand demented hounds.
"It's the gang!" yelled Bwonqa.
Both boys leapt to their feet and chased after Tinker, shouting at him come to heel.
A shot rang out.
On the balcony, James and Beatrice Bartlett stood petrified, hardly daring to move. Old man Mbele stared into the bush towards the creek, ears straining as the startled parakeets settled again. Mrs. Bartlett rang the old brass bell furiously.
"It's all right," said Mbele, holding up his hand. "The boys are coming - I hear them."
Will and Bwonqa walked slowly up to the balcony. There were tears streaming down the black boy's dusty face, as he carried a small, lifeless bundle in his arms.