After two hours of walking, we finally came to a long line of low, skeletal brush. The women spread gathering cloths on the ground and set to breaking down the brush. Adanne and I pitched in while Emmanuel kept watch for Janjaweed patrols on the horizon.

Without translation, we were mostly reduced to eye contact and gestures as we worked side by side with the gatherers. The women seemed oblivious to the scratches that appeared up and down their arms. They easily outpaced us newcomers and tried not to laugh at our clumsiness.

One young mother and I fell into a kind of unspoken communication, making faces at each other like little kids. She stuck out her blue-tattooed lip. I held up two sticks like antlers. That one got a real laugh out of her. She put her hand up to her mouth, not quite hiding a brilliant white smile.

But then the mother stopped short.

Her hand came down slowly as her eyes fixed on something in the distance.

I turned around-but all I could see was a far-off dust cloud.

And then Emmanuel started shouting for everyone to run!

“Go quickly! Now! Get out of here! Go back to camp!”

Chapter 85

JANJAWEED!

I could see them now. Maybe a dozen armed killers were riding toward us on horseback.

There was a vapor, a kind of mirage that made it hard to tell the exact number. Either way, their pace didn't leave much to the imagination. They were coming for us-fast.

Two of the women, one with a child fiercely holding on to her blouse, were still unhitching the communal donkey.

“Get them out of here!” I shouted at Adanne. “You go with them. Please, Adanne.”

“Is there another weapon?” she yelled back.

“No,” Emmanuel answered. “Distance is your weapon right now. Go! For God's sake, go! Take them back to camp.”

Emmanuel and I had to make a stand.

We took up a position behind the abandoned donkey cart. I was using it as a brace for the rifle more than as cover.

Our best hope was that we were on the ground-while they would be firing from horseback.

I could see them through my scope now, eleven killers, bearded males in baggy fatigues, waving Kalashnikov rifles.

Just coming into range.

The first shots came from them.

Sand kicked up on either side of us. They rode a little wide of the mark, but still too close. They weren't amateurs. They were already yelling threats at us, confident about the final result. Why not? They outnumbered us eleven to two.

“Now?” I finally said to Emmanuel.

“Now!” he shouted.

We fired back four shots, and two were hits. The killers slumped on their horses-like someone had dropped their puppet strings -then fell to the ground. One of them was trampled under his own horse. It looked like his neck had snapped.

Even as I pulled the trigger again, it registered with me: