Maneater

Maneater

Jack Warner

For my love, Donna, who showed me how,

and to the memory of Lt. Col. Edward James Corbett, who inspired it.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Some of the characters in this book are based on living people. They know who they are. Most importantly, the character of Graham is based on the great, and nearly forgotten, Jim Corbett. However fantastic readers may find Graham, be assured that he does nothing in this book that Corbett did not do in real life. Corbett's first book, Man-eaters of Kumaon, was a Book of the Month club selection in the United States right after World War II and was made into an abominable movie. There followed The Man-Eating Leopard of Rudraprayag, The Temple Tiger and other Man-Eaters, Jungle Lore, and My India. In 1987, Martin Booth's excellent biography, Carpet Sahib, shed long-awaited light on parts of Corbett's life never mentioned in his own books. He was a man of enormous courage, loyalty, and uncanny skill in the forests of northern India. As of this writing, Man-eaters, Temple Tiger and Jungle Lore are available in the U.S. in paperback. The others are out of print, but can often be found used or in libraries.

I should like to thank Peter Mantius for his invaluable suggestions and criticisms, Norma Duncan for her judgment and unflagging support, and Andrea Boc for her eagle-eyed proofreading.

Finally, there is my agent, Richard Curtis, whose faith in this book saw it into print, and now into this paperback edition. He is, truly, a Great American.

PROLOGUE

From the verandah of the government bungalow, he could see across the forest-draped valley of the Ladhya River all the way into Nepal. The headman of Kot Kindri told him the tiger had come from Nepal, swimming across the river in the dry season and establishing a territory of several hundred square miles along the Indian side. That was what people said, the old man told him.

Whether it was a man-eater before it changed nationalities, no one knew. In any case, it was now officially the Kot Kindri Man-eater. The government's records showed it had killed 273 people before the District Officer asked him to take the field one last time. To that, he thought grimly, we can add the boy and his sister, and the old man, all killed since he arrived. And of course the government does not count people who simply vanish, never to be found.

He lifted the teacup to his mouth, watching the hand that carried it. It was dark and seamed from a lifetime out of doors, contrasting starkly with the white specks of age on the back. He sipped the strong tea and then held the cup in front of him until the surface of the liquid became as still as if it was sitting on the table.

The screen door of the bungalow, built for touring government officials, slapped softly against the frame. A tall, gray-bearded man in a turban stepped into the morning light flooding the porch.

More tea, Sahib?

No, Ram Singh. Thank you. I'm going down to that nullah where we tied out the youngest bull. Perhaps we shall be lucky today; maybe the tiger has taken that bull, or one of the others. What is it the people always say when I botch a chance? 'Do not worry, Sahib, for if you did not kill the tiger today, surely you shall kill him tomorrow, or the next day.'

And you know that is true, Sahib. You have never failed. You will not fail now.

Rather portentous this morning, aren't we, Ram? Time to go.

He rose slowly but effortlessly from the chair and picked up the heavy double-barrelled rifle propped against the wall. From his pocket he brought out three cartridges, examined them carefully, loaded two into the rifle and returned the other to his pocket. Then he picked up the battered pith helmet sitting on the porch rail and put it on his head.

Shall I come, Sahib?

No, Ram. It's only a little way. If I need help, you'll hear me. In the meantime, pack up my tent and tell the men to be ready. If nothing happens today, we'll move downriver and join young Jim at Pathangiri.

Very well, Sahib.

It took the hunter only 20 minutes to reach the clearing beside a dry creek-bed where the bull had been tied to a log. When he came in sight of the log, he stopped and watched. The bull was nowhere to be seen. Glancing up, he saw a big Himalayan magpie alight high in a sal tree overlooking the clearing. The bird sat there, peering around curiously.

Slowly, rifle at his shoulder, the hunter approached the log and found the bull on the other side, sleeping peacefully. After making sure the bull could still reach plenty of graze, he trudged back to the bungalow, propped the rifle against the wall and sat down.

The hunter remained relaxed, almost motionless, listening to the murmurs and exclamations of the forest. A pair of kaleege pheasants came to the edge of the trees, scratching industriously for a late breakfast. The shrill, cat-like cries of peafowl wafted over the valley. After nearly an hour, a cowbell clanked somewhere down the hill. The man arose, picked up his rifle, and walked into the forest.

A well-beaten path skirted the foot of the hill. Beside it the hunter sat on a fallen log, listening to the dull clank of the bell grow louder until, to his left, a small boy appeared around a bend in the path, leading a large bullock by a rope tied to a ring in its nose.

The hunter rose, smiling, as the boy and his bull approached.

Good morning, Ravi, he said.

Good morning. The mass of tangled hair on the boy's head did not reach as high as the bull's shoulder. He did not smile. His eyes were black and bottomless and his teeth gleamed white against his coppery skin. His only garment was a ragged loincloth.

On your way to Uncle's house again?

Oh, yes, the boy replied as the hunter fell in step with him, rifle under his arm.

And how many more days do you think you'll have to take your father's bull to your uncle's house?

I do not know, the boy said. Until he is through with Uncle's cows. Until Uncle tells Father he no longer needs Bundar bull.

I wonder that your father makes you walk so far in the tiger's country.

He tells me to be careful.

What would you do if the tiger came?

The tiger did come, the boy said, not looking at the hunter.

When did this happen? the hunter asked, keeping his tone casual despite his surprise.

The day before yesterday. The day after I met you back there.

And what did the tiger do?

He talked to me for a while.

What did he say?

He told me not to be afraid. I think he must have talked to Bundar bull too, because bull did not seem afraid. He said he would never harm us.

"Did he say why?

Yes.

Why?

Because I am me. Because he is my teacher. Your teacher? What is he teaching you? The boy shrugged. About being a tiger.

They walked on in silence until they reached a village of four huts and the bull was freed in a field with a dozen fat cows. The hamlet, which had no name, was about five miles south of Kot Kindri. The hunter started north, pondering the boy's tale. He was certain Ravi was telling him the truth, as he understood it. But he was not certain that Ravi was able to separate reality from dreams. He wished it had not rained yesterday. The rain would have washed the path clear of tracks.

He was still lost in thought when he heard men yelling from somewhere ahead. He sang out his long, high Cooooeeeee! and broke into a trot. In a few minutes, two villagers came tearing down the trail to stop and clutch at his shirt.

Sahib, they gasped, nearly in unison. Come quickly. The tiger—the tiger—

The hunter held up his hand.

Catch your breath while we walk, he said. Calm yourselves and tell me what has happened.

Gradually the hunter drew out their story. An old woman was missing from Kot Kindri. She had apparently awakened before the rest of her family and, heedless of the danger, gone outside to relieve herself. Upon awakening, her family had thought she had gone to her brother's house and did not worry about her until midmorning. When a search was begun, they found a pool of blood a hundred feet from their hut. There were tracks, but none dared follow them.

Kot Kindri was a village of two dozen huts and houses on a terraced hillside. When the hunter arrived, most of its hundred residents were gathered around the spot where the woman had apparently been seized, obliterating any tracks. Several old women were wailing. The missing woman's daughter was holding two small children, rocking back and forth in silent grief. Her husband approached the hunter, his arms outstretched in supplication.

Please, Sahib. Please.

Yes, the hunter replied. I shall do my best.

He knew what the man wanted—vengeance for his mother-in-law, and more immediately, the return of at least some part of her body for a proper Hindu ceremony.

He also knew the village would have sent runners to the forest bungalow nearby, and his men would arrive soon. He cast around for tracks, and soon found the marks of a drag going directly through much of the village and up the hill above it. He found a clear print and stopped to examine it.

Slashfoot, he murmured. He never confused the track of one tiger with that of another, but this man-eater had the most distinctive set of prints he had ever seen. A cut on the pad of the left front paw had left a welt that angled like an angry knife slash across the massive pugmark.

Reaching the treeline, he stopped, broke open his rifle, withdrew the cartridges and examined them carefully before returning them to their barrels, closing the breech and moving up the hill beside the drag.

The sun had reached its zenith and the midday heat gripped the hills. Sweat drenched the hunter's shirt but he moved silently along the track. The tiger, carrying the woman by the neck, had angled up the hill for nearly a mile before cutting around it and down the other side. In a long, deep ravine almost two miles from the village, it had stopped and eaten a small portion of her hips and legs before covering her body with grass and leaves to hide it from vultures.

The hunter did not wince at the sight of the old woman's pathetic remains. He had seen their like many times. Concerned only with scavengers, the tiger had left the kill in plain view of a dead tree that projected out of the hillside at almost right angles, overlooking the length of the nullah. The Kot Kindri man-eater had a reputation for never returning to a kill, but it appeared this time might be an exception. It would be unlikely to take the trouble to hide its kill if it had no intention of coming back. The hunter sat on a fallen log to rest and await Ram Singh and his men.

They brought him word that his son, upon learning of the kill, had set out from Pathangiri, and they also packed a cold lunch, which he ate while Ram Singh brewed tea over a small fire. When the sun was low in the sky and the heat was beginning to lift, the hunter sent two of his men up the nearest tall tree with instructions to make a racket in case the tiger was watching. When they were in place, shouting and banging with sticks on the trunk, Ram Singh helped the hunter up the almost vertical bank to the trunk of the dead tree. He eased out along the trunk until he had a secure perch about fifteen feet from its base and twelve feet off the ground. There were enough branches projecting from the trunk to break up his silhouette. When he had settled, the two decoys climbed down from their tree. Talking loudly, Ram Singh and the men left for the village.

The hunter sat crosslegged on the broad trunk, his back to the bank and facing the kill, so he could cover either end of the ravine the tiger chose to use. It was not a comfortable position but he could maintain it indefinitely, although he hoped the tiger would come before full darkness fell. Rifle in his lap, he sat motionless, like a huge burl, waiting.

About an hour before sunset, a cool breeze came blowing down the nullah from the hunter's right, bringing the damp, earthy smells of the forest. With a small smile, he adjusted his position slightly toward the left. The tiger would make its approach from upwind, or from some angle within the upwind side of the kill. It was a good omen; he could bring up the rifle and fire much more easily to his left. The breeze stuck his damp shirt to his body like a clammy blanket. He ignored it.

The nullah was in total darkness, moonrise more than an hour away, when a langur monkey sounded its alarm call from upwind, at least a mile away. The man-eater was coming.

The langur's calls died away after 15 minutes or so, which meant the tiger had finally moved out of its sight. Within what the hunter estimated was another quarter of an hour, a kakar deer uttered its sneezing bark and stamped the ground. Three more barks and he heard the kakar family fleeing up the hill in front of him and to his left, as expected. Silence descended on the ravine. The hunter waited, for the tiger and the moonlight. If it came now, he could do nothing. It was too dark to see the kill.

When the half-moon finally rose above the hills the hunter's legs were beginning to cramp, but he could tolerate that as long as necessary. Gradually the nullah came into view, and he could see the lumpy shape of the kill, under its sparse covering of forest debris. It appeared undisturbed, but he knew the tiger was at hand. It would wait and watch until it was certain it could go safely to the kill.

His eyes scanned back and forth over the moonlit scene, alert for the slightest movement, but it was a scene different only in detail from dozens of others in his memory. He had hunted the foothills of the Himalayas since he was barely old enough to lift a rifle. Years ago, dismayed by the wanton slaughter of tigers, he had stopped hunting for sport, refusing even to organize elephant-back hunts for visiting royalty. He responded only to government pleas to dispatch animals that had turned to killing man, and even then only reluctantly. He harbored an abiding love for the hill people of India and an equally abiding love of tigers, and he wondered that the majestic animals did not kill men more often. They were the rightful rulers of these hills, not the people who were denuding them for farms and grain fields. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his legs, he hoped fervently that this night would be the last he would spend sitting in a tree with a rifle on his lap.

It was at least two hours after the langur's first alarm call when the hunter's finely-honed forest sense broke into his reveries. The man-eater was no longer watching the kill, but had located him and now was stalking him.

The hackles were rising on the back of the hunter's neck even before he felt the tree trunk move slightly under the pressure of great weight. He did not need to turn to know the tiger had come down the bank above him, despite its impossible angle, and was stepping out onto his tree. Slowly he turned his head to the right until he was looking over his shoulder, while he eased the safety off the rifle in his lap. The tiger was at the base of the tree, just off the bank, one plate-sized paw poised for its next step toward him. Their eyes locked, the man-eater's blazing with an inner yellow fire. It seemed to be smiling at him.

Slowly the paw came down, and the tiger came a step nearer. Two more steps and it would be at his shoulder, or it could easily pounce and carry him off the tree from where it was. The sudden movement required to twist his torso further and snap the rifle to his shoulder would bring the man-eater upon him before he could complete it.

Smiling almost benignly, the tiger lowered itself to spring. Willing life into his cramped, nearly numb legs, the man kicked himself backwards off the tree to the right. The tiger's rush knocked his helmet away as he fell and he tried to gather his legs under him to keep from landing on his back. The man-eater's angry roar shattered the silence just as the hunter's right heel hit the ground. Pain shot up his leg and he fell backward. It knocked the breath out of his chest, but he kept his hold on the rifle.

The tiger's leap carried it almost to the spot where it had left the old woman's remains, and when it hit the ground it appeared momentarily disoriented, giving the hunter time to get his legs under him. But as the man-eater whipped around, roaring again, the man's right leg crumpled and he fell onto his left side. Seeing him, the tiger gathered itself and rushed. On his side, his left elbow propping up his body and gripping the forestock of the rifle, the hunter fired the right barrel. The rifle's recoil knocked him back and the tiger crumpled, legs flailing, but swiftly regained its feet and with a mighty roar made its final leap. On his back, the hunter fired the left barrel and then whipped the weapon sideways in both hands, ready to thrust it into the man-eater's mouth.

The tiger fell on him with enough force to drive the rifle back into his face, smashing his nose. But it was dead weight, and he could feel warm blood pouring from its mouth onto his chest and neck. He lay quietly under the animal for a while, feeling the beating of his heart, surprised to be alive. Then he heard shouting in the distance, and saw the glow of torches glimmering in the trees in the direction of the village. His men, hearing the shots and no call from him, were coming.

He was struggling to get out from under the dead man-eater when the men reached the nullah. All but Ram Singh stopped in dismay; the Sikh, with a scream of anguish, charged forward and began beating the dead tiger with a club before he realized that it was not the tiger, but the hunter, who was moving.

Sahib! he cried. Lie still! You are hurt! He sobbed with joy, tugging at the tiger and yelling at the others to help free their master.

No, Ram, it's all right, the man said weakly. All this is the tiger's blood. I've hurt my leg, and bunged my nose, is all.

By the time the hunter was free of the tiger's carcass much of the village had arrived. Their torches lit the nullah like a stage. The family of the Kot Kindri man-eater's last victim gathered her remains. The hunter's men had to struggle to keep the crowd from tearing the dead tiger to bits. When Ram Singh had restored order, the men lashed the carcass to a long pole and enlisted some of the villagers to help carry it. Ram Singh helped the hunter to his feet, one arm firmly around the man's shoulder.

Ah, the man grunted. "It's just a sprained ankle. Nothing serious. When we get back you can help me get my nose back where it belongs, old friend.''

A huge bonfire was burning at Kot Kindri when they returned. Runners had gone out to neighboring villages to announce the death of the man-eater. The gray-bearded headman, wearing a red Army dress coat, greeted him by the fire and solemnly prostated himself before the hunter, touching his head forehead on the man's boots. After the men laid out the tiger's carcass by the fire, the hunter, with the aid of a stick a villager had put in his hands, knelt to examine it. The teeth were in good shape; it was not an old animal. He would skin it tomorrow, and that would reveal any injuries, such as imbedded porcupine quills, which might have led it into man-eating. Finally, he lifted the left forepaw and turned it toward the fire.

God in heaven! he gasped. Ram Singh dropped to one knee beside him.

What is wrong, Sahib?

This is not the man-eater! You see? There's no scar on its pad. This isn't Slashfoot.

But Sahib, it came to the kill, and it tried to kill you. Surely you are mistaken.

No mistake, Ram. This is not the tiger we've been hunting. The man-eater is still alive.

He used the stick to pull himself painfully to his feet, watching the glimmer of the bonfire on the tiger's glazed eyes. He looked up and saw Ravi standing on the other side of the fire. The boy was staring at the dead tiger with his fathomless eyes and there was a tear glistening on his cheek. The hunter was hobbling toward the boy when, from somewhere along the ridge far above the village, a tiger called.

"AAAaaooonnnnghh? it cried, just once, and echoes bounced back from the valley below, silencing all conversation. The boy looked up and a little smile seemed to flash across his face, although it might have been an illusion of the dancing firelight. Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

The hunter and his son returned to their home fifty miles away and waited for news of the man-eater of Kot Kindri, but none came. Two years later, the old hunter died peacefully in his sleep. His son soon became known in his own right as a conservationist, woodsman and, when necessary, hunter. The hills around Kot Kindri never again experienced a man-eater's reign of terror.

SEPTEMBER 8

Only three houses overlook Georgia Road 113 on the 30-mile stretch between Sandville and Fairview and each of them is abandoned and nearly collapsed, gray, rain-fissured wood with no paint like the bones of a shattered skeleton.

The farmhouses still occupied sit hundreds of yards back from the two-lane road, only a break in the tree line and a mailbox to announce the dirt lanes leading to them. At night a driver could easily overlook most of them, dimly outlined by the floodlight set in every yard and a few lights in the windows if someone's still up.

No one was up at two a.m. on the ninth of September along the highway where it crosses the Sallisaw River 10 miles north of Richey. No one saw the line of nondescript trucks of various sizes and colors trundling over the bridge.

No one, except the driver behind it, saw the seventh truck in the procession, a panel truck with small round ports lining both sides of the cargo box, edge slowly toward the shoulder of the pavement. Its front tire caught the gravel and it plunged down the embankment, spinning until the cab was pointed back at the river. Then it hit the other side of the ditch with the panels, making a mushy kind of whump, and fell over about 45 degrees. Its headlights pointed upwards, skimming the outermost edge of the trees. The only sound came from the right front wheel, still spinning.

The next driver pulled over quickly, picked up his CB microphone as he did, spoke briefly and then leaped out of the truck. The whole line pulled over, and men came running back, some with flashlights.

The driver of the truck in the ditch was cursing in a steady monotone as he punched off the lights, turned off the engine and clambered awkwardly out the passenger door.

You okay? asked another driver, softly.

Yeah, I'm fine, grunted the driver, a small man with a stubble of beard. He was rubbing his shoulder.

A rail-thin man in a fedora instead of the prevailing baseball cap trotted up to the knot of drivers.

What happened? he snapped.

Well, the driver said, I went to sleep.

Went to sleep? You drunk?

Hell, no.

What about Andy?

He oughta be all right, said the little driver. We hit soft.

Well, for God's sake make sure, the thin man said.

The little man inched back down into the ditch and walked along the side of the truck, looking into the dark ports in the side white panel. He grunted, then turned to the men on the road. Throw me a light, he said. One of the men tossed him a flashlight.

He shined it in one of the ports, angling around, and then moved quickly to the back of the truck.

Oh, shit, he said.

For Chrissake, what is it? the thin man asked. Is he hurt?

No, the little man said. He's gone.

Gone? Whaddya mean, gone?

Door's open. Must've gotten knocked open when we hit the ditch. No sign of him.

There was silence. The wheel had quit spinning, and the little man turned slowly to look back up at the road.

What'll we do? one of the other drivers asked.

The thin man turned, walked to the other side of the road and stared up at the sky as if he was counting the stars hanging over the ridges to the north. The others waited, some looking nervously up and down the road.

After a few minutes, the thin man turned around, adjusted his hat and began issuing orders.

Carl, get Jimmy up here with the winch, get that thing outta the ditch. It looks like it'll drive. If it will, flash your lights and we'll get going.

You gonna call, let somebody know? Carl asked. The boss had a phone in his truck.

I do that, we're finished, done for, he said, looking at Carl. That what you want?

No, said Carl, after a while. I guess not.

The men drifted back to their trucks and a big Ford pickup, the last in line, moved up near the truck in the ditch. A winch motor moaned briefly and the truck was righted. The cable was reconnected, the winch started again and the truck heaved up out of the ditch like a mammoth escaping a tar pit. Its engine started, its lights blinked and the entire procession returned to Highway 113, headed toward Alabama.

SEPTEMBER 10

On Sunday, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution truck gets to the Easy Way truck stop on the interstate five miles from Richey about 4 a.m. There are always three people waiting for it. The driver never turns off the engine; he waves at the three people standing outside the truck stop, and the man in the back of the truck kicks out six bales of newspapers, each secured with two bands of thin, tough white plastic.

As soon as the last bale hits the ground the man in the back rolls down the cargo door and the driver puts the truck in gear and heads back to the interstate.

Lanelle Jackson picked up her three bales—one at a time—and dumped them in the back of her Jeep. It wasn't a slick new Jeep like the one Paul Hudgins used, or the red Blazer that Len Granger delivered his papers in.

Her Jeep was a dirty red and the seats were covered with canvas that had, at some point, been more or less green. The red paint did not quite obscure the stenciled U.S. Army legend. The Jeep was old, ancient perhaps, but it still ran—better on muddy dirt roads than the newer ones did.

When Lanelle finished her 40-mile route, which took her two hours on a dry day, she would go home, get her two boys out of bed, feed them and send them off to school. Then, after a cup of coffee by herself, she would drive her Jeep downtown and open up Jefferson Drugs and start the big coffee urn. There hadn't been a man at Lanelle's breakfast table since her