The plane was really near now. But as I flung myself over the wall I saw Rankin kneeling, rifle to shoulder. The range was down to point-blank; there was nothing I could do.

The plane's engine drowned the sound of the shot, but I knew Rankin had fired-and hit his target.

"Rankin! You bloody murdering bastard!"

But my words were swamped by a tearing crash as the plane hit the side of the mountain...

"His story-telling has a drive that is compulsive."
Scotsman