Edgar followed the direction of their argument up the tall tree. At first he saw nothing, only a tangle of leaves and vines. But then something moved, and the small head of a young monkey poked out over an epiphyte. Edgar heard a rifle being loaded next to him and Dalton’s voice again, “I am telling you, leave it alone,” and then above, the monkey seemed to sense something was wrong, lifted itself up, and began to leap. Witherspoon raised the rifle, and Dalton again, “Hold your fire, damn it,” and then above, the monkey’s jump was matched by the flick of Witherspoon’s finger, the flash from the gun barrel, the explosion of the shot. For a brief second there was a pause, silence, as above a scattering of debris from where the monkey had jumped drifted down through the clearing. And then Edgar heard another sound, directly above, a soft chirping, and he looked up to see a figure, silhouetted against the backdrop of trees and fragments of sky, falling. It seemed so slow, the body rotating in space, tail streaming up, fluttering, avian in its descent. He stared transfixed as the monkey fell past him, not three feet from his horse, and crashed into the brush. There was a long pause, and then Dalton cursed and kicked his horse forward. One of the Burmans jumped down from his saddle, picked up the monkey, and held it out to Witherspoon to inspect the coat, now bloody and matted with dirt. He nodded at the Burman, who threw the monkey into a canvas sack. Then Witherspoon kicked, and the group moved forward. Following behind, Edgar watched the tiny figure in the bag swing against the side of the horse, shifting shadows of the forest playing over the stain of red that spread across the canvas.

They marched forward. Near a small stream, they passed through a swarm of mosquitoes, which Edgar tried to wave away from his face. One landed on his hand, and he watched it with fascination as it probed his skin, looking for a place to bite. It was much larger than those he had seen in England, with tiger-striped legs. Today, I am the first to slay the tiger, Edgar thought, and he crushed it with a slap of his hand. Another landed, and he let it bite, watching it drink, its belly swelling, and then this one he crushed as well, smearing his own blood over his arm.

The forest thinned and opened into rice fields. They passed several women bent over in the mud, planting seeds. The road widened, and they could see a village in the distance, a scrambled mass of bamboo houses. As they approached, a man came out and greeted them. He was wearing nothing but a worn red paso, and spoke with animation to the head rider, who translated.

“This man is one of the village leaders. He says that they sighted the tiger this morning. Men from this village have joined in the hunt. He begged us to join them too. They have very few guns. He will send a boy with us as a guide.”

“Excellent,” said Dalton, unable to control his excitement. “I thought that after Witherspoon’s hastiness, we had lost our chance.”

“And I will have a fine tiger pelt in addition to the monkey,” said Witherspoon.

Even Edgar felt his blood surge. The tiger was close, and dangerous. The only other time he had seen a tiger was at the London Zoo, a thin, pathetic animal losing its hair to a disease that puzzled even London’s best veterinary surgeons. His discomfort at having to kill something—amplified by the shooting of the baby monkey—vanished. Indeed, Dalton was right, this village needs us, he thought. He looked behind the villager, to where a group of women had gathered, each of whom held a baby against her hip. He felt a tugging at his boot and looked down to see a naked little boy touching the stirrups. “Hello,” he said, and the boy stared upward. His face was smeared with dust and mucus. “You are a handsome little fellow, but quite in need of a bath.”

Fogg heard him talking and turned. “Made a friend, I see, Mr. Drake?”

“Seems to be the case,” Edgar said. “Here.” He rummaged in his pocket until he found an anna. He tossed it down. The boy reached out but missed it, and the coin bounced into a small puddle by the side of the road. The boy dropped to his knees and thrust his hands into the water, searching for the coin, a frightened look on his face. Suddenly his hand grasped something, and he pulled the coin from the water and looked at it triumphantly. He spat on his hand and wiped off the coin, then scampered back to show his friends. Within seconds they were gathered around Edgar’s horse. “No,” said Edgar. “No more coins.” He looked forward and tried to ignore the little outstretched hands.

The villager who had spoken to them left the group and returned minutes later with an older boy, who climbed onto the horse of the first rider. They followed a trail that led out of the village and ran between the rice fields and the uncleared jungle. Behind them, the group of boys ran in gleeful pursuit, their bare feet pattering across the road. At the base of the slope, they turned away from the fields, following a rough clearing which skirted the forest. Soon they passed two men standing at the edge of the jungle. Naked to the waist, one of the men wore a poor imitation of a British helmet and held a rusty old rifle.

“A soldier,” Witherspoon joked. “I hope he didn’t get that from someone he shot.”

Edgar frowned. Fogg chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry. Defects from our factories in Calcutta have an astonishing way of finding their way into places where even our soldiers are afraid to travel.”

Dalton rode up with their guide. “Have they seen the tiger?” Fogg asked.

“Not today, but it was last seen near here. We should load our rifles. Drake, you too.”

“Oh, really, I don’t think…”

“We are going to need all the firepower possible if the beast rushes us. Now, where did all those little children go?”

“I don’t know, I saw them chasing a bird into the forest.”

“Good. Let’s not play Father Christmas here. The last thing we want is an entourage of noisy children.”

“Sorry, I didn’t think—”

Suddenly Witherspoon raised his hand. “Shhh!”

Dalton and Edgar looked at him. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. Something in the bushes at the far end of the clearing.”

“Come on, move carefully.” Dalton kicked at his horse. The party advanced slowly.

“There, now I see it!” This time it came from their guide. He raised his arm and pointed to thick bushes. The horses stopped. They were now less than twenty yards from the edge of the clearing.

Edgar felt his heart pound as he followed the man’s arm toward the forest. There was stillness, a slowing, and he gripped his gun and felt the tension of his finger against the trigger. At his side Witherspoon raised his rifle.

They waited. The bushes trembled.

“Blast it, I can’t see a thing. It could be anywhere in there.”

“Don’t fire unless you know it is the tiger. You took enough chances in the forest with that monkey. We have one chance, and we all need to fire at once.”

“It’s there, Captain.”

“Easy now.”

“Damn it, get your rifles ready. It’s moving again.” Wither spoon cocked his rifle and peered through the sights. There was movement in the bushes, slinking steadily, the shaking growing stronger. “It’s coming. Get your rifles up.”

“All right, rifles up. Mr. Drake, you too. We only have one shot at this. Fogg?”

“Locked and loaded. You call the shot, Captain.”

Edgar felt cold sweat break out over his body. His arms were shaking. He could barely raise the rifle stock to his shoulder.

Above them, a vulture flew, looking down on the scene, a group of eight men, five horses, standing in the dry grass of the clearing, hedged on either side by dense jungle that stretched out over the hills. Behind, in the rice fields, a group of women was advancing toward them, walking faster, now running.

Edgar’s horse stood in the back of the group, and so he saw the women first. They seemed to be shouting. He turned and yelled, “Captain!”