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The suspension is doing what it can, but we are still flung up and down into the air, Finlay somehow keeping us on track with his vision of the world jolting around like mine is.
We crest another hill, the herd stampeding, running at full tilt with their heads thrown back and their eyes full of terror, hooves thundering across the ground.
I hold my breath, but Finlay moves around them easily, the car bouncing over the rocky ground and staying on track as the herd passes by.
There is a screech and a revving sound as he flings the buggy sideways, bringing it to an abrupt stop that leaves it rocking in place.
Before I have time to register what is happening and loosen my tight grip on the seat, there is a slam – the sound of the driver’s side door closing.
Finlay is gone.
I sit watching with wide eyes as everything unfolds. He stalks around the front of the buggy, every line of his body full of anger and tension– realizing he’s holding his shotgun.
He must have grabbed it from the back seat when he left. Knowing it’s unloaded is a small relief, but I’m afraid, trying to figure out what is going on.
I glance to the side and catch sight of the herd, still galloping away, now starting to vanish into the distance, their thin legs flicking up into the air behind them as they leap from rocks and over the crest of the hill.
But to my side….
Coming over the nearest hill and into view are several men on foot, five of them at first glance, all of them holding guns just like Finlay’s.
My heart rate shoots through the roof as I watch them. They are armed, and most likely holding weapons that are loaded.
Finlay’s is not.
But they don’t know that.
I pray they don’t find out. Because if they do….
“This is private land,” Finlay calls out, loud enough that I can hear an echo bounce back from the highest ridge of the hills.
It’s a challenge, not a question because we all know they aren’t supposed to be here. It’s a chance for them to apologize and leave, maybe. And if they don’t, they will have to justify why they are here.
The men – four of them, I can now see from my vantage point on the top of the hill – stop, arranging themselves out across the land in front of Finlay.
All the guns are held across their bodies, including Finlay’s – no one aims at anyone else. Not yet. But there’s something in their body language that screams they aren’t going to back down.
“Says who?” one of them calls back in a thick Scottish accent that is much thicker than Finlay’s and harder for me to understand.
He sounds like the type who’s lived his entire life here and never had the reason or opportunity to have his natural accent watered down.
“Says the law,” Finlay shouts, shifting into a stronger stance, his legs planted firmly apart. It’s the kind of stance you might use if you need to take a steady aim and fire true.“This is private land and protected by the Wildlife act. So you’re not just trespassing. You’re shooting at protected animals.”
There is a low, scoffing laughter amongst the poachers and I realize that’s what they’re here for.
They were shooting at the deer.
I can’t even imagine why they wanted one – they don’t need to hunt for food, not in this day and age. And they are all dressed well, if only in muted and unstylish outdoor gear.
No, they have to be here for a trophy.
The thought makes me sick.
“Who’s going to stop us?” the same man who spoke first calls back, he was clearly the ringleader.“You and whose army?”
There’s a pause.
Finlay shakes his head, staring them down defiantly. “I don’t need an army,” he replies. “All I need is the dash cam mounted on the front of that buggy. Right now, it’s sending a live feed down to the security office at the house. Smile, lads. You’re on camera.”
