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Chapter 1
The file containing reports of two recent tiger attacks sat on Sasha’s lap. One from Indonesia and the other from Nepal. The reports were slipped in with his mission plans from the Department of the Environment. As one of only three Rangers in the Russian Far East, he could identify with the rangers in other regions of the world, tracking tigers, trying to protect both the animals and the people with whom they shared the land
The cabin was rudimentary at best. A fireplace, a stack of logs belt high, two chairs and a small table. One window. No running water, no electricity and no outhouse. A smile crossed his face as he untied his boots. The lack of amenities did not bother him. He considered himself an outdoorsman. He massaged the instep of first one foot and then the other until the sensation returned. Moving the chair closer to the fire so that his feet were only a few inches from the screen separating the fire from the rest of the cabin, he twisted his neck until it cracked and then rolled his shoulders to loosen his spine. This is what they had taught him years ago when training to be a ranger. “Helps the blood circulate after a long day spent outside in freezing temperatures.” He continued to smile, eyes closed.
He reached over to the table and into his backpack and felt for the bottle of vodka. Placing the bottle between his legs, the metal tab pulled away with one quick, experienced tug. He reached in to the backpack again for the cup. He was civilized, not the type to drink out of the bottle if he didn’t have to. His fingers touched metal and he took the cup out with one hand as his other hand retrieved the bottle from between his legs. He poured himself a generous amount, about four fingers worth and placed the bottle within reach on the floor. He took a sip. Then another and finally downed the entire cup. Breathing sharply through his nostrils to fight the sting; then a mouthful of dried bread cubes. The logs crackled as the moisture evaporated and air pockets exploded within the wood.
He turned to the first page.
"Dozens of forestry labourers in Indonesia are refusing to work in an area of southern Sumatra hit by a recent series of tiger attacks that have left at least three people dead. An Indonesian official was quoted as saying that it is possible that the tigers will continue to kill the laborers. One or more tigers had driven forestry workers off a 3,600-hectare area that was to be reforested with over 1.2 million mahogany, teak and other seedlings worth several million dollars. At least three people have been reported killed - including a mother of two - while three forestry workers have been badly hurt. According to some reports the man-eating big cats may have killed as many as five people.
He turned to the next report from Nepal taken from a Reuter’s Wire, which reported that a tiger had killed 35 children. "Villagers in western Nepal's Baitadi district have been terrorised by a man-eating tiger that has killed 35 children in recent days, news reports said. The state-owned RSS news agency said the wild cat in Baitadi has been attacking people at the "slightest chance" in the evenings. It did not say when the attacks began. 'People...do not dare to venture out from their houses due to the terror unleashed by the man-eater tiger,' RSS quoted a resident in Kumaun village in west Nepal, as saying.
Sasha closed the notebook. He rose from the chair and threw another log in the fire then returned to the chair and poured a second glass of vodka. “To Russia”, he toasted, holding the cup in an outstretched arm in the direction of the fire, which continued to crackle, sparks shooting onto the screen. Rubbing his hands together out of habit, he realized that they were no longer cold. The combination of vodka and the warmth generated by the fire brought him back to a level of comfort he had not felt since entering the taiga three days earlier.
He poured another vodka. This time he did not drink it right away. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. The stories from Nepal and Indonesia brought back memories of last spring here in Russia. “What ever happened to that woman?” It had been a nightmare. The woman had been waiting at the Partizansk train station with her husband. Married only three weeks. A 500-pound female tiger had attacked, severely injuring the woman and then carrying off her husband into the nearby forest. Sasha found the husband’s body behind a deserted cabin 500 meters from the train station. He had tracked the tiger easily by the prints in the mud and snow and shot it while it slept off the feast. He had heard that the woman spent three months in the hospital. There didn’t seem to be enough room for tigers and man to live side-by-side he thought as he drank from the cup. As man’s living space increased, the tiger’s diminished. The big logging companies and their foreign partners were destroying the habitat, clearing out and chasing away the deer, elk and wild boar that the tigers depended on. He drank again from the cup and then placed it empty on the table.
He rubbed his eyes with the edge of his knuckles and yawned. There is also the problem with the wealthy hunters from Moscow, willing to pay huge amounts to kill a tiger or leopard, both endangered. Telescopic rifles in hand, they scoured the Siberian snows in helicopters. “The pleasure of the kill they relish; not like a tiger who kills for survival.” He shook his head. The local mafia organizations control the cross-border trade in tiger carcasses - from Russian poacher via Russian customs officer to Chinese sellers and product-makers. For them this trade has become more profitable than peddling weapons or drugs. More than 70 tigers killed every year. “The tiger stands little chance,” he thought. He poured another glass. He wiped the edges of the cup and licked a few drops from his wrist. “Death to poachers!” he toasted to the fireplace and then downed the glass. The vodka no longer burned on the way down. Out of habit he tossed a few bread cubes into his mouth.
“Superstitious Chinese bastards.” he grunted aloud. “Creating the market for the bones, skins and teeth.” He poured the last of the bottle into the cup, careful not to spill any. He finished the last of the vodka and settled completely into the chair. He could hear the fire. He closed his eyes. The smell of the fire filled his head and he began to snore softly. Chapter 2
The tiger cocked its head; nose twitching to pick up the scent. Motionless. Then a step forward. The snow crunched. Silence. Another step. The cabin was within sight. Again still, soft breath misting in front of the whitish beard. Ears, black and invisible against the dark of the forest. Moonlight reflected in the thick layer of white fur around its neck. Red eyes, illuminated, watched for movement. Two dogs lay comfortable, curled together on a mat of grass inside their pen. The tiger took another step. Motionless again. One leg extended, the claws splayed wide then retracting like a street fighter cracking his knuckles before a brawl. The paw came down ounce by ounce until it supported the tiger’s full weight. Another step forward. A branch snapped and the tiger stopped. One of the dogs lifted its head. Silence for several minutes. The dog’s mane softened and its head returned to rest on its paws. The tiger crouched six feet from the pen. Metal cage-like walls, as high as a man’s chest surrounded the enclosure.
The tiger was airborne. Long white belly hair skimmed the top of the fence and then the thunderous silent impact of 800 pounds, front legs buckling as they hit the ground and then with the force of its back legs thrusting forward, the big cat lunged onto the nearest dog, biting down on the back of its neck and in a single motion, severed the spinal cord killing it instantly. The second dog growled and leapt at the much larger attacker. The tiger shook off the dog with a swat as if annoyed by the interference and turned. Backed against the corner of the pen, tail hidden under its body, fur standing erect, the dog uttered a painful howl. A paw shot out and connected with the side of the dog’s head lifting it into the air to crash against the fence. In a submissive pose the dog cowered, black lines formed where the tiger’s claws had cut through its hide. The tiger snarled. Whimpering, frozen with fear the dog’s eyes wildly searched for a way out. The tiger was atop the dog; its massive weight pressing the dog’s body into the fence while its teeth sought out the dog’s neck. The dog’s legs kicked out and then hung listless.
“Oh my God!” Igor yelled. He stood at the window in shock. His eyes followed the tiger inside the pen, his dog in its jaws. The tiger looked towards the cabin, the source of the scream. Grabbing his rifle Igor leapt for the door. He brought the rifle to his shoulder. The tiger crouched, eyes staring at the man ten feet away. He felt the tension of the trigger. He squeezed as the tiger sprang. Time stopped. He couldn’t remember if the shot went off or if the loud noise echoing in his head had been from the impact of the tiger knocking him down. A tremendous weight pressed down on his chest. He tried to turn his head. He saw the blood tipped whiskers, smelled the sour breath hot against his face. He felt the tiger scramble to get into a better position, then a vice clamped across his throat. Igor swung his free arm up, groping at the tiger’s head. He jammed a finger into an eye socket. The tiger released its grip and shook its head, then drove its massive jaws forward. Igor couldn’t move. The tiger’s front legs pinned his chest against the ground.
His arm, limp, slapped against the tigers flank with each step towards the forest. The tiger looked back over its shoulder at the cabin and then entered the blackness.
Chapter 3
The early morning mist faded as the sun’s rays broke over the tree line. It took a few minutes, but slowly the line separating night and day moved up along Sasha’s body, from his stocking feet to his face. When the heat and light hit his eyelids, an involuntary action caused him to stir and eventually wake. He took a few moments to collect his thoughts and enjoy the warmth of the sun. His knees cracked as he pushed himself out of the chair. The fire had gone out long before and in the light of the day, he noticed the starkness of the cabin. He reached down and placed the empty bottle into his backpack. After changing his socks and tying his boots, he made his way outside to relieve himself.
He boiled water over a fire of twigs for tea and kasha and then retrieved the radio from the backpack. Flicking the on button, he spoke into the receiver, “Sasha Mikailov, calling base”. He repeated his name several times before he got a reply. “Base, got you loud and clear. Come in Sasha.” He gave his location and received the update. The tiger had been spotted yesterday near Novopokrovka, a small town about six miles to the west of where he now camped. Two loggers had been out smoking when they caught sight of the large tiger at the edge of the garbage dump. Sasha returned the radio to the backpack and took out his map. There was a river that ran a half-mile from Novopokrovka that bordered both the logging camp and the edge of the wildlife reserve. It was a straight walk and he thought he might make the camp by noon.
He strapped on the backpack while closing the cabin door, sliding the wooden bolt in place to prevent any wildlife from entering. It was several degrees cooler under the shade of the trees, but not unbearable. He inhaled deeply, the earthy smells of pine and birch made him smile. It was fresh. It was always harder for him to return to the city then it was for him to acclimate to the outdoors. Many of the rangers complained about the lack of comforts, but not Sasha. He pounded his fist against his chest.
Several miles into his trek he came across the recent tracks of a man and two dogs. It was unusual for anyone to be out in this area as hunting was restricted in the reserve. None of the loggers would dare venture out this far into the forest after the tiger attacks. Most likely a poacher he thought, spitting as if to cleanse his mind of the thought. This messed it all up. If a poacher was out here, he faced danger from two sides. He slipped his arm out of the backpack and removed his rifle, loading it. With the rifle and backpack secured, he followed the tracks. The poachers were more dangerous than the tigers. Tigers could hear you way before you could hear them and they would always keep their distance, except when they were starving or had developed a taste for human flesh. They killed for food. The poachers killed for greed. They faced severe prison sentences if caught, but the risk was obviously worth the reward. He no longer smiled, his eyes scanning in all directions. The sun reached its zenith and there were few shadows. He removed his sweater and removed a bag of dried salmon to chew on while he walked. He followed the tracks deeper into the taiga, winding along a valley, parallel to the river. The tracks eventually turned south towards the water and he stumbled down the bank to where the water lapped against the shore. Squatting down on his haunches he searched for movement both up and down the river. The current was fast, but not as fast as usual at this time since the snow had yet to melt higher up on the mountains. The tracks stopped at the water’s edge, but he could see where they picked up again on the other side. He made sure that his boots were tightly sealed and began to wade across the river. His foot slipped and in an effort to keep his balance, his ankle twisted and he stumbled, but did not fall. He steadied himself, testing the ankle’s strength and then continued; making sure that with each step, his forward foot was secure before he lifting the back foot. The current was powerful and he felt the cold through his boots. Occasionally he would step down into a hole and the water would reach his knees, unprotected by the boots. The air was colder over the river and he thought of the sweater in his backpack. He took longer strides as he approached the shore and when he had made it up onto the rocky bank, he exhaled and rested, hands locked onto his knees, back bent at an angle. He climbed to the top of the bank and sat down, removing his pack. He removed the cup and when he was ready, walked back down to the river, immediately bringing it up to his lips. Too cold to drink more than a few sips at a time. He finished the cup and had another and then retrieved the empty vodka bottle and filled it too. He found a piece of plastic in his bag and wrapped it around the top of the bottle and then tied it off with some string. The vodka bottles, at least the inexpensive ones that he bought, were meant to be finished in one sitting, no reusable cap. He filled his mouth with a handful of bread cubes and slipped back into the sweater, then slid on the backpack and strapped the rifle over his shoulder. He picked up the tracks along the top of the bank and got on his knees to examine them more closely. The coloring of the soil in the imprints had dried and was lighter than the soil immediately below the surface, which cracked when he broke through with his fingers. He estimated that the tracks had been made within the last day.
The tracks led to the northwest; away from the logging camp. He walked carefully, right hand free to grab the rifle. He stopped every hundred feet to listen, waiting a minute before continuing. He heard crows and looked up to see several circling a few hundred meters ahead. He listened intently, but heard only the cawing. He walked on, his rifle now held in a ready position. There was a break in the woods and he saw the outline of a cabin roof. He moved with determined steps, ears and eyes straining for the slightest movement or sound. The screaming of the crows increased in volume and pitch. They showed no interest in him, if they had even noticed. He hid behind a clump of bushes and waited 50 meters from the cabin. He crept forward, leaving his backpack behind. The wind had died, the young leaves listless. He waited again, listening. Without any wind, it did not matter which direction he approached, so he continued forward toward the rear of the cabin, now on all fours. He noticed a window and headed for it. Getting to his feet, the rifle securely gripped and pointing forward. He made sure the safety was freed and took the last few steps to the cabin, standing upright, back against the wall. He leaned his head over so that he could see into the window, using his hand to shield the glare. The cabin appeared empty. Nothing moved. He scanned from wall to wall. An open bottle of vodka and a plate of bread and sausage on the table. “He must be close. The door open, food out.”
He made his way to the corner of the cabin, turning, the rifle following his line of sight. The crows watched him, stopping their bickering to follow his movements. The silence thundered within his head. Then he saw what had given the crows reason to congregate. Two crows bravely decided that he posed no threat and flew down from branches overhead to resumed picking at the piles of fur. His eyes moved professionally, taking it all in. His finger still held to the trigger. Blood speckled the cabin wall. A rifle lay partially covered by leaves to the right of the cabin door.
At first the crows tentatively returned and then flew off just as quickly, scattering among the branches overhead, screaming at him. He walked to the fence and saw the paw prints, at least 10 inches across. A gaping wound in one of the dogs buzzed with flies. He looked down at the bloodstain near the door and it was obvious where something had been dragged away. “Tiger, definitely the tiger” he said aloud. He picked up the rifle, a Saiga self-loading hunting carbine meant for big game hunting, a favorite of the poachers, and much more expensive then the Kalashnikov models that were given to the rangers. He stepped into the cabin. There was a backpack open on a table and he rummaged through it while keeping an eye on the door. There were two boxes of ammunition, a few bottles of vodka, a plastic bag with dried meat and fish and some clothing. He saw a small bed along the wall, a duffle bag taking up covering half the mattress. He walked over and unzipped the bag, his tongue searching for even a tiny bit of moisture.
He recognized immediately what he had discovered and instinctively his fingers released their hold. Taking a second to breathe deeply before reaching in again. He pulled out the skin, unrolling it so that it almost reached his knees. His hands shook as he pulled out another. “Babies; he killed the cubs.” The bag was empty. He sat on the edge of the bed, bringing his hands to his face.
He pushed on as the sun was on its descent and he did not want to be out after dusk. He knew that the tiger would be sleeping during the day, especially if it had feasted heavily the night before, but he was careful nonetheless. He had both rifles locked and loaded. The size of the paw prints indicated a large cat, a very large cat. The trail stopped at a clump of bushes and immediately sensing danger, Sasha moved behind the trunk of a birch tree. Aiming his rifle at the center of the bush he tossed a rock into the middle of the bush with his free hand. His right index finger lightly tapped the trigger of the rifle. If the tiger charged, he would only have one shot. The rock passed through the top of the bush and he heard it hit the ground and he waited. Was the tiger preparing to spring out of the bush? Nothing happened. He brought his forearm up to wipe the sweat from his brow. He reached down and picked up another stone and tossed it into the bush, never averting his eyes. Still nothing. He took two steps towards the bush and stopped to listen. He walked to the side, keeping twenty feet between himself and the unknown; his finger never leaving the trigger. He could see bits of clothing stained with blood and the sole of a boot. He glanced back towards the woods and then moved closer. He took a deep breath. There were a few flies. He stepped closer and kicked at the boot. It slid several inches and flipped over. He saw the body and gagged before stepping back towards the safety of the birch tree. Flashbacks of the skins found in the cabin eased his discomfort but did nothing for his fear. He took a final look at the corpse, looking for clues. Only one set of prints leading out of the bush and they led towards the mountains. He took a second to get his breathing back to normal and followed off in pursuit. With each of his first twenty steps, he turned his gaze to the left and right searching for any movement. Tigers rarely eat off the same kill a second time, unless game was scarce. Now was not such a time. During the winter months a tiger could go a week between feedings. This was spring.
Chapter 4
Sasha scratched the stubble of a week’s worth of beard with a gloved hand. The past four days sleeping in a tent, making camp in the taiga with temperatures below zero during the night. He had been following the tiger steadily, but had yet to see the great cat. He had matched the prints so often that he saw them when he closed his eyes. The male tiger was a solitary animal, hunting alone. As was Sasha. He understood how a detective might feel when hunting down a serial killer. Trying to get into the killer’s mind, understanding the thought process. For him it was easier, the tiger’s only motive was survival.
Water boiling over his fire brought him out of his reverie and he emptied the packet of grains into the pot. He salivated at the thought of a real meal when this was over. A meal of potatoes and kielbasa, pelmenyi (Russian Ravioli) and galoopsi (stuffed cabbage). The Tiger Department of the State Natural Resources Committee had not thought to send him off with better tasting food, only high protein and easy to prepare carbohydrates and dried meat and fish. The conditions did not bother him. He felt at home living with nature, part of the system. His whole life had been dedicated to protecting the environment from both man and nature. This was the second time in four years that he had been called in to hunt down a tiger. It was a job he understood, but detested. He had joined the rangers to help the remaining 400 Siberian tigers, to keep them from extinction. Now he was coming to kill what he swore to protect.
This tiger had violated the balance of power, killing two loggers 40 miles north east of where he now camped. Every year, one or two tigers were hunted down and killed when they threatened people. He recalled from the report how the tiger had attacked a team of loggers on their way back to camp. How the animal had leapt out in front of the loggers, pursuing one terrified worker who had tried to run away. The cat pursued him and knocked him to the ground. Strangely, it sniffed the man, and then ran off as the other loggers approached. For 10 days the tiger was seen on the outskirts of the camp, always bounding off when spotted. On the tenth day it had again attacked, a man who was out alone around dusk was clawed and mortally wounded. Hearing him scream, several other loggers ran out and fought off the cat, but not before he had killed another man, dragging him into the forest. The next day, the entire team of more than 20 workers refused to go logging. The tiger no longer feared man.
The rangers were called in to guard the loggers and hunt down the tiger. Based on the claw marks and by the size of the paw prints left in the snow, they estimated the tiger to be a six-year-old male, weighing more than 700 pounds. Now, on the sixth day of his hunt, he wondered whether he would ever get close enough. He had lost the trail several times, but had always been fortunate in guessing the direction of the tiger’s movements. He followed the herds of elk and other prey and watched for the telltale crows marking a kill. Chapter 5
The last remnants of sunlight lit up the peaks of the Sikhote-Alin mountain range. The moon had yet to pass the range to the east and he relished this brief period when dusk settled in and the snow lost its sparkling shine becoming a dull purple. The wind would calm down momentarily as if stopping to enjoy the colors brought forth with the setting of the sun. He cleared enough snow from the ground to set up his tent. He threw his sleeping bag inside and zipped the door closed. He took out the tin pot and two packets of dehydrated pasta. Water was not a problem once a fire could be made. He walked several steps into the forest and gathered handfuls of moss from the base of the birch trees to start his fire. He returned for kindling and a few larger branches. Whistling, images of his childhood and the campfires he shared with his father gave rise to another smile. He had to walk farther into the forest for the larger branches, crossing a stream, still frozen. He tested his weight against the ice and when it held, he continued across. With arms straining under the weight of the branches he began his return, carefully crossing the stream in the same place. He was surprised by the speed in which darkness descended on the forest floor and as if to acknowledge this, he stumbled over a root, almost dropping the load. Looking down at the root, he noticed that his bootlace had come undone and he lowered himself against a tree trunk, setting the wood in front of him. It felt good to relax and he closed his eyes for several moments, breathing in the freshness of the air.
A cracking of the ice brought him to attention. The ice had been thick enough to hold his weight, thick enough that he had been able to walk across it without fear of his foot breaking through to the icy water. He turned only his head, fighting the urge to move more quickly. Head to tail, the tiger was a monstrous 12 feet long with shoulders as high as a man’s chest. The tiger brushed its head against a tree thirty meters from where he sat. Its long facial hair resembling an old man’s beard reflecting the final orange and pink shades of the fading sun. He could barely make out the stripes against the backdrop of small trees and brush.
Was the tiger aware of his presence? He remained motionless, heart thumping under his sweater. He thought of his rifle far away in the tent. The tiger opened its jaws; tongue partially out, nostrils flaring to pick up a scent. Sasha wiped his palms against his pants, his eyes searching for something within reach to use as a weapon. The tiger seemed anxious, pacing along the edge of the stream. It raised its tail and sprayed a mixture of urine and musk onto the bushes, trees and ground. Its coat was a magnificent color with the moonshine highlighting the muscular torso, the varying hues of orange and black. The tiger took a step in his direction, only twenty meters from where he sat. Motionless except for nostrils flaring. The only sound Sasha heard was the beating of his heart. The tiger stood still, reminding him of the tiger on the Primorsky Coat of Arms, a proud fierce animal exhibiting strength and beauty. The coat of arms that adorned his jacket.
His only chance was to remain unseen, yet he couldn’t take his eyes away. He reached out slowly and gripped a branch, but he did not bring it up to his body for fear of alerting the tiger. The tiger began to move away from him now. Lowering its body, stalking, taking one small step and then freezing, and then another step. Sasha followed its path with his eyes and saw the deer. The racing of his heart and breathing slowed and he released his grip on the branch. The tiger was now less than 30 meters from the deer, moving away from him. The deer lifted its head, peered in all directions and then returned to nibbling the fauna. The tiger’s back legs tensed and then in an instant it was airborne. The deer lifted its head and was caught by the back of the neck. The tiger clamped down with its jaws, crushing the deer into the snow with the force of his attack. There was no struggle. The tiger released its grip and looked around. Silence. It had taken only a few seconds for the kill, but it seemed longer as Sasha trembled seeing himself in the tiger’s grasp. He thought of the poacher.
The tiger lifted the deer by the foreleg and dragged it away, deeper into the forest. Sasha waited until the tiger was completely out of sight and then waited a few more minutes. The only light came from the moon and it was still low in the sky. He moved slowly towards his camp, fear pushing him faster but caution kept his feet from moving too quickly. His mind only on the rifle.
He reached the tent and grabbed his rifle. He checked the chamber and the safety and felt the cold metal in his grip, feeling secure for the first since seeing the tiger. He put his hand over his heart and was surprised by the wetness of his sweater. He looked at the moss and thought better of making a fire. He knew that he would have to wait until morning to get a shot at the tiger and did not want to alert the tiger to his presence. He repacked the pasta and the pot. He returned to the tent and lay down. He listened intently for the slightest sound, his hand still gripping the rifle.
Chapter 6
He could not remember having slept, but felt fully awake. His watch said 4:00 o’clock and he could not stand to remain in the tent any longer. The end was near, he knew that and in this knowledge, he felt excited. Skipping his morning ritual of tea and kasha, he rolled up the sleeping bag, packing up the tent. He radioed in to base, but it was too early and there was no response. He kept the radio near the top for easy access and shouldered the pack and the poacher’s rifle, keeping his rifle in hand. He opened the map and put his finger on the spot where he had seen the tiger. There was a valley to the east and mountains to the west. The elk and deer would be in the valley and he guessed that would be the direction that the tiger would take.
Sasha tried the radio again. It was noon now and his luck was better. “Hello Sasha, what’s the status?”
He gave his position and where he was heading and the voice on the other end agreed with his reasoning. “Be careful. We’ll send the helicopter to meet you when you are ready.” “Ok, wish me luck!” he said. “Good luck!” came back the reply.
The trail had been easy to follow as the tiger had dragged the deer along the forest floor, before setting in to eat. Crows and maggots picked over the remains. The tiger had left a lot of meat on the carcass. There was an indentation in the brush where the tiger had lain while eating. Most likely it was now sleeping somewhere else, away from the kill. He checked both rifles for the tenth time and continued. The sun was now out in full and the forest was alive with birds and squirrels enjoying the warmer temperatures, the spring bringing longer days and a sense of optimism. Sasha had missed his last two meals, but hunger was far from his mind. He continued at a faster pace. “Get it over with.” He tried not to think about killing the tiger as much as he thought about completing his assignment, being a professional and doing his job. The vision of the giant tiger caused him to tighten his grip on the rifle, but he felt no hatred for the tiger. If anything, he felt admiration. He had to control his emotions. He had come too far.
The snow had given way to grass and slush. His feet were sucked into the ground with each step and a suction sound followed every time a boot was lifted. His shoulders stooped forward, but he kept his eyes alert, constantly sweeping the fields and trees ahead. Every possible clump of bushes became a potential resting spot for the tiger and he would work his way into a position so that he would have a clear shot if the tiger appeared.
His eyes stung from the perspiration, but he continued on.
He was not hungry, but realized that it had been almost a full day since he had eaten, so he stopped. He had to keep up his strength. He saw a fallen log and sat down against it, taking in the view of the valley. The sky was a canvas of blue with streaks of wispy clouds over the distant mountains. Hawks circled high overhead, gliding effortlessly, searching for rodents and smaller birds. A dozen elk grazed along the riverbank. He pulled out the bottle of water and the bag of dried salmon. The smell made him aware of his hunger. Stuffing whole strips into his mouth, a sip of water and then another handful of salmon. He realized the frenzy and stopped, smiling at the image he made, a piece of salmon still in his hand. He took another swig from the bottle. He waited for the feeling of hunger to subside. He looked over at the rifle, touching it as if to confirm its validity, and then drawing it closer, his hand resting on the barrel. Exhaustion set in and he closed his eyes. “A short nap” he mumbled. He had learned in training how sleep and eating were both weapons, as important as his rifle. His eyes opened as his head jerked up. He had no idea of how long he had been asleep, but the sun was now over the mountains, far into its descent. He stood up and looked out over the valley. He could see the elk much more clearly now as they had come several hundred meters in his direction and now stood less than 50 meters away. An older male dominated the herd. Sasha completed his scan of the valley and realized that the he was alone with the elk. It was too late to continue walking and the elk might be the perfect bait.
Silhouetted against the whiteness of the moon’s reflection in the river, the elk moved slowly if at all. Sasha looked up at the stars and saw the constellation that made up Orion. “The hunter holding back his bow.” Had he a glass of vodka in his hand, he would have raised it skyward.
Something caught his eye and he focused on the tree line at the edge of the valley. He glanced quickly at the herd and realized that they were unaware of any danger. He scoured the tree line and saw nothing. Had it been a figment of his imagination? He lined up the herd and the tree line as a hunter would and looked for the best vantage point to approach the elk, and in doing this he saw the shadow. A dark image crept along the wood, out of sight of the elk, but visible to Sasha from his vantage point atop the hill. Sasha kneeled, raising his rifle to his shoulder. The tiger was still 100 meters from the herd. If he waited until the moment before the tiger attacked, he would cut the distance by more than half. He watched the tiger move steadily towards the herd, low to the ground. He could see the coloring of the tiger. Beautiful. Its muscles flexed with each step, remaining hidden from the elk. Sasha kept his balance, his eye peering through the scope. “Five more steps.” He had a clear shot at the center of its chest. The tiger was coming towards him at a 45-degree angle, focusing solely on the herd. Sasha was far enough away that he would be able to get off a second and maybe a third shot before the tiger could reach him or make an escape into the forest. He had to make sure the first shot hit its mark. The tiger was now twenty meters from the herd. He had a perfect shot. His finger pressed the trigger halfway. He knew that his best opportunity was to shoot before the tiger sprang. He saw the tiger’s weight shift toward its rear legs and he knew it was going. He pulled the trigger as the cat sprang forward. The elk jumped at the sound of the shot. The tiger stumbled, still on its feet, its tail flashing from side to side, eyes searching for the source of its pain. Sasha lined up another shot. He could see anger and fear in the large eyes. He squeezed the trigger and watched the impact knock the tiger off its feet. He reached for the poacher’s gun. The tiger lay on its side, the only movement being the tail. He lined up the shot and pulled the trigger.
He fell to his knees tears streaming down his cheeks.
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written by Larry Sayette on May 08, 2007
awesome story
written by Susan Adamcik on June 08, 2007
I’m glad this excellent material is disseminated through the Internet. There aren’t enough writers like Rich Sayette. He seems to possess such a substantial life experience, global awareness, and brilliant writing skills. His choice of words and artful description takes the reader to exotic places. The action and adventure are paired with insightful political and environmental knowledge. Rich Sayette seems like a worldly young man who has a bright future ahead of him.
Thank you so much,
Susan Adamcik
written by George Anderson on July 06, 2007
Yo Rich! Cool story!!!