chapter 27

El Tigre

He was a killer, a thing that preyed, living on the things that lived, unaided, alone, by virtue of his own strength and prowess, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survived.”

—Jack London, The Call of the Wild

Still shaky from the fever, William stood alongside Nate in the lodge. The lean gray dog sat at their feet. Following Nate’s advice, William had Sarah’s silver locket and the gold Saint Christopher medal hanging from his neck where they could be seen, trying to look every bit the dangerous warrior-healer the chief and the shaman respected.

Cusi translated while William outlined their proposition. The two men would rid the village of the voracious otorongo if the chief and the shaman would give them information on the location of the black orchid and the emerald.

Nate warned that if the white shaman left, the big cat would once again begin to prey on the tribe. It was providential that the previous night the deep-throated roar of the jaguar could be heard throughout the village. The animal had only quieted with the approach of dawn.

The chief agreed to help them with the search for the black orchid and the emerald, fully expecting both men’s bodies to be decorating the jaguar’s perch before long.

The shaman sat bad-tempered and silent.

In the middle of the night, William woke to the roar of the man-eater. Considerably closer and of a higher timbre than the previous night, the deep-chested tremor would rise and then end abruptly in a heavy rasping groan. The sound didn’t frighten him as he supposed it might. Instead, with Tommie’s death, he felt fate had pushed in and was now presenting an opportunity to even the score—a reckoning of sorts.

The hunters rose early the next morning while it was still dark.

“It was just pure luck I found your pack donkey wandering in the bush with your rifle and pistols still intact,” Nate said. “They’ll come in handy today.”

“When exactly were you going to tell me you had my donkey?” William asked.

Nate shrugged. “Right now we need to focus on the hunt. We’ll head for where the man-eater was last heard—that will be the best place to pick up his spoor.”

They finished packing, and William followed the American down a barely visible track.

“Are you as good with that as you are with a pistol?” Nate asked, indicating the rifle.

“Passable. Why?”

“Well, if you’re not too sore to shoot, that Baker’s the best weapon we have for what we’re doing. So, if you’re comfortable with it, you take the shot while I cover you.”

“Pain’s not too bad, I think moving about is helping.”

“There’re a few things you should know, Commodore,” the American said softly over his shoulder. “The jaguar’s fearsome—the largest beast of prey in the New World. They can easily outweigh two grown men and have been known to drag an eight-hundred-pound bull through the jungle. It usually hunts on the ground, but watch the trees and even the water—it can kill virtually anywhere. If you’re its prey, Gunn, you won’t escape.”

William asked, “Is a yaguareté the same thing as the creature we’ll be hunting?”

Nate stopped and looked at him curiously. “Yes. You know the animal?”

“Coming up the Magdalena, my Tupi guide found the body of one of my men—well, just a boy actually—who had been taken one night by an animal while we were on shore. The next day”—William hesitated, attempting to separate himself from the raw emotions still surrounding the incident—“we found what remained of him hanging high in a tree. The Tupi called the killer a yaguareté.”

Nate continued walking. He uttered quietly, “That’s what the big cats do—hide what’s left of their prey in a tree, so they can come back later and finish.”

“I’ll take the shot,” William said decisively, “I’m a fair hand at shooting game.”

“This is not a bird hunt. Pheasants don’t turn around and eat you. It’s important that you don’t underestimate the danger. From a hidden crouch, this animal can leap thirty paces in one bound and be on you before you know what’s happening.

“And a jaguar kills differently than any other predator: it crushes the skulls of its victims. I’m not trying to frighten you—it’s important for you to know exactly what we’re facing. It wouldn’t help to have someone along with a tense trigger finger.” Nate paused briefly. “But then again, the British skull is probably thicker than most.”

“Then there’s no doubt about the American ability to withstand a jaguar attack,” William countered, “seeing as there’s so little between the ears to crush.”

“Just remember, Gunn,” Nate said, unamused, “to the Indians, this animal’s godlike, almost supernatural.” He stopped again and rested the blunderbuss on his shoulder. “But it’s just a big cat, and it can be slain.”

“How do you know so much about all this?” William asked. “From what I can figure, you’ve been here maybe a little over a year longer than myself.”

“If you must know, Admiral, as a child I spent most of my free time with the local Wampanoag Indians. They took a liking to me and taught me a great deal. When I arrived in South America, I got along well with the Indians, especially in the wild places in the north.

“I learned a lot in a year, Gunn. So pay attention to my instructions. We’ll follow the big cat’s tracks, with me in the lead.” Nate spied the gray dog trotting alongside William. “He’ll be useful for catching the animal’s scent.”

William scratched the dog behind the ear. “High time you had a name. Perhaps ‘Paxon’ would be fitting,” William said, recalling the name of a very young master gardener from another estate, still in his teens, who had impressed William with his extensive knowledge of exotic plants. “Though Pax is easier.”

The dog looked up and wagged his tail.

“Looks like Pax it is,” William said.

“Gunn, don’t move.”

“What is it?” William whispered. He stood stock-still. He hadn’t heard or seen anything.

“I thought as much.” Nate then called in Spanish, “Come out! Now!”

From behind a nearby tree, Cusi emerged sheepishly, blowgun in hand.

“What do you think you’re doing?” William asked. “Does your father know you’re here?”

“I go with you to kill otorongo,” the young Indian said. “I, too, am a man and a warrior. The animal took Radiant Dawn, she was my closest friend. I will not go back.”

“Cusi,” Nate said, “you’re the chief’s only son. Once your father joins your ancestors in the other life, the tribe will depend on you to be their leader. This hunt is too risky.”

“A chief does not let other men hunt for him. If I must, I will follow you.”

William and Nate looked at each other. The American shrugged. “Follow us with the dog on a lead,” he said to Cusi. “If he makes a sound, you tell me. Don’t let him go, whatever happens.”

Nate checked that his pistol was secure in his belt. “The ancient Mayans had a saying, Gunn: ‘A brave man is always frightened three times by a jaguar; when he first sees his track, when he first hears him roar, and when he first confronts him.’”

William picked up the Baker rifle, buckling the extra ammo and provisions around his waist. “Guess I have one fright left.”

William and Cusi followed the American as he warily picked his way through the brush in a light mist.

Blood pounding, William used an old trick from his military days to slow his racing heart: He focused on details. Following Nate’s lead, they would take three or four steps, pause to regroup and mentally chart out their next steps, then continue on. The trodden vegetation underfoot enveloped them with a fragrant aroma like crushed rosemary.

The sweet fragrance immediately brought to William’s mind a vision of Sarah playing in the duke’s garden on a warm day; Nate was reminded of the last time he stalked a large predator, well over two years ago, back in Massachusetts. Both men consciously forced the distractions out of their minds to focus on the dangerous work at hand.

The sky was considerably brighter when they arrived at the small lake. Turtle shells littered the shoreline; old, faded jaguar tracks were everywhere.

Nate spotted the new tracks in the sand, the largest paw prints he had ever seen. Much larger than those of either a wolf or a cougar, they were half again the size of a grown man’s hand. Deep in the soft sand, they were the tracks of a killer. He followed them.

They carefully tracked the jaguar for almost half a mile before Nate spotted the animal on the opposite side of the lake in a clearing at the edge of the water, drinking. The hunters ducked in among the bushes to avoid being spotted.

Even from this distance, the jaguar was immense, his large head suspended on a massive neck, overdeveloped shoulder muscles bulging as he looked up, sleek strength rippling along his tawny rosette-checkered back and flanks.

Figuring this would be similar to hunting mountain lions back in New England, Nate hadn’t mentioned this was his first jaguar hunt. With difficulty he now hid his shock—the animal he was looking at was much larger than any cougar he’d ever seen. Judging by its massive physique, he guessed it must easily weigh close to three hundred pounds, if not more.

A crane alighted in the shallow water not far from the jaguar. The big cat finished drinking and, with a motion like a horse trotting, disappeared into the jungle. The crane continued fishing and moved slowly along the shoreline.

“The bird was unafraid,” Nate whispered. “The predator’s been here before.”

They carefully slashed and hacked their way through thorny vines in the steadily building humidity. Dripping sweat, they arrived in the early afternoon at the place where the beast had been drinking. A small sandy beach extended into the lake.

Pax sniffed around, walked into the water, and dipped to drink greedily.

Nate followed the jaguar’s vast paw prints for a few feet into the jungle. “This must be a popular watering spot. See here,” he said, pointing to the ground at their feet, “several recent sets of tracks come and go. But over there”—he pointed again, this time into the jungle—“the ground changes from sandy to hardpan, and the spoor quickly becomes difficult to follow.”

William squinted into the dim light of the jungle.

Nate walked several steps and knelt, examining something carefully. He stood. “To go in there would be suicide,” he said quietly. “Best we camp downwind. Right now, he’s resting somewhere. But they’re creatures of habit. When he comes to drink this evening, we’ll take him.”

They backtracked a good distance away, where the brush provided effective cover. They lay in the shade surrounded by the pervasive sounds of the tropical jungle until late in the afternoon when Nate said, “It’s time to make a blind closer to the beach, where we can get a good shot.”

Making their way through the thick brush, Nate abruptly stopped and crouched. Something was wrong. The sounds of the jungle had retreated.

Pax made a soft noise, not so much a whine as a quiet growl, deep in his throat. Nate glanced at the dog. Teeth bared in a snarl, Pax strained at the leash. Cusi’s cheerful expression vanished.

The American’s skin crawled. Damn. Somewhere close by, the deadliest predator on the continent was stalking them.

The British officer’s well-honed battlefield instincts blazed with alarm. Nate silently stepped sideways and waved him up. Rifle at the ready, William had just reached Nate’s side, when a quick movement in the brush to their right caught their attention.

The immense man-eater was already airborne, propelled by its massive hindquarters. William squeezed the trigger. Off its mark, the shot wounded the beast in the shoulder. An earsplitting explosion quickly followed, the medium-caliber shot from Nate’s blunderbuss catching the jaguar in midair, the tight spread slamming into the predator’s flank so close it knocked the beast several feet to William’s side, lifeless.

Gunfire still ringing in their ears, they considered the carcass at their feet, well over eight and a half feet from the nose to the tip of the tail. Before either could speak, Pax snarled again and, with a violent jerk, pulled the lead out of Cusi’s hand.

An enormous brown blur burst from a covert spot in the brush and leapt over Pax to pounce on Cusi. Its vast paws sank into his shoulders and pinned him to the ground with its great weight. A second jaguar had been lying in wait.

Nate struggled to free the dragon for a shot, but the pistol’s firing mechanism caught in his belt.

With both hands on the animal’s throat, the young man struggled to keep the enraged killer from crushing his skull. But the man-eater’s jaws—stretching wider than a person’s head and full of razor-sharp teeth and bone-crushing canines—sank relentlessly toward Cusi’s face.