When they arrived, the camp seemed worse than Moo had left it. A vast wreck of trampled tents and knifed foodstuffs and gunshot livestock. Pigs, chickens, even the camp’s milk cow lay dead. Mud-caked figures stooped low over the ground, hunting for household belongings, poking sticks into the muck. Someone wailed over a dead dog. Flies were everywhere, dizzy with opportunity. Musa’s face knotted up. Doc Moo thought for a moment the boy would cry. “Who done this, Papa?” Doc Moo thought a moment.
