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I ‘There they are Mr Masterson, the Mountains of the Moon,’ the compact middle-aged man beside Hawk said softly in a Scot’s lowland burr. As he spoke he pointed to the green clad slopes before them. Hawk Masterson drew his eyes away from the jagged tree clad ridges that were in the near distance, their tree clad slopes. Behind them were the majestic and awe-inspiring peaks, the clouds covered much of the blue grey stone though every now and again he saw the white covering of snow on some of the slopes. Then he looked at the man beside him and sighed in frustration. The man beside him was in his forties and was relaxed on the brown gelding he rode. He chomped on a black briar pipe and looked to the to the slopes that were so near and yet so far. He was smaller than the muscular Texan but with a rugged hardness about him that spoke of life on a frontier. When you learnt he was the guide to this expedition and was a renowned Big Game Hunter of over twenty years experience in Africa it.

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