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     Later, as the sun set on that same day, my father found himself lying prone on the manicured grass lip of a bunker overlooking the dead bullock at the jungle’s edge. Despite the dry season the grounds staff kept the golf course well watered and green.  His hands sweated profusely on the Holland & Holland, caliber .240, rifle favored by women hunters. 

     While Scotty lay prone next to him puffing slowly on his pipe, holding at the ready a Rigby, caliber .470, big game rifle. 

     According to Scotty the tiger should return directly after sunset to claim its kill.  If Scotty’s rifle miss-fired, jammed, or ran out of ammo, it was my dad’s job to hand him the backup Holland & Holland.  Personally however, my father preferred Scotty use an experienced native gun bearer instead, for the largest animal Pop had previously hunted was white-tailed deer in Colorado.

     Gun Bearer cleaning the rifles.

     Hunting “Bambi,” dear reader, as opposed to hunting a possible man-eating tiger just wasn’t my dad’s cup of tea.  But it was the “macho thing to do” - saving face at the club - since the Brits expected it of him.

     Nevertheless, my dad was kicking himself for allowing Scotty to talk him into this lunacy.  Currently Pop wished to hell he was way back on the veranda behind them - sipping warm beer - observing this impending disaster from afar with detached-impunity.

               Dad studied Scotty’s monolithic, granite jaw and noble Roman nose as he calmly smoked his pipe, and wondered if this mad Scot in truth knew what he was doing. 

              Then my father watched the sun’s disk slip through a layer of haze the color of butterscotch...and continue to gradually sink behind a wall of dark emerald jungle.  Subsequently the mosquitoes came out, and Pop irritably swatted at them as they buzzed round his ears, adding to his acute, sweating discomfort.  Darkness began to rapidly envelope them.  If they were lucky maybe the tiger wouldn’t show.  Dad was ready to call it a day and head for the bar.

As he was about to make this suggestion to Scotty, my pop saw the sweaty muscle in Scotty’s jaw tense up - teeth still clenching the pipe at one corner of his mouth - while he took aim with the powerful Rigby.  Glancing back at the dead bullock in the twilight, Dad caught movement in the underbrush, causing him to strangle the Holland & Holland with wet palms.

   

     As if by magic, the tiger instantly appeared atop the dead bullock in the gloom and froze...sniffing the air and listening for danger.      

     Then several things occurred at the speed of light almost simultaneously: The tiger moved; the walloping Rigby exploded in my pop’s right ear making him deaf; a puff of dust burst off the tiger’s chest; knocking it up onto its rear haunches; back flipping it into the jungle’s undergrowth where it totally vanished.

     Eventually it was determined this outsized cat weighed over 500 pounds, dear reader. How one bullet possessed the power to toss such a massive animal into the jungle, was beyond my father’s comprehension.

     Resembling an enraged giant, Scotty stood up and angrily threw his topee down the bunker’s slope, swearing an unprintable Scottish oath.

     Puzzled, my father also stood, removed his topee and wiped the sweat from his brow.  Clearly Scotty had nailed the tiger in the chest; by Dad’s reckoning it was a great shot.  So why was Scotty so pissed off?

     Scotty looked down at my pop with cold, jade-green eyes as he pushed hair the color of reddish-brass out of those eyes, and said, “Michael, I wish ta tender me apology for cocking up that shot.”

     “Scotty, what in sweet Jesus are ya talkin’ about?” Dad asked.

     “Michael, darlin’, I was attemptin’ a head shot. Prayin’ ta Saint Andrew hisself I’d drop the beasty in his tracks,” Scotty patiently explained.  “I failed, laddy, and I fear my failure has consequently placed our wee lives in jeopardy.”

     Totally bewildered, Pop slung the Holland & Holland on his shoulder, and said, “You’ve lost me, big buddy.  Why are we at risk?”

     “Tis an unwritten law out here, Michael,” Scotty expanded.  “Should one only wound a tiger, chances are it‘ll become a man-eater.”

     My father held up his hand and interrupted Scotty, saying, “Does that mean what I think it means?”

     “Quite so, Michael, darlin’,” Scotty responded.  “Now be a good laddy, and break out the torches from the haversack.”

     Scotty was in his late thirties, and a persistent rumor circulated in the club that he was an experienced hunter.  My father, on the other hand, was on the cusp of turning twenty-three and was hoping to Christ the rumor was correct.  For as he retrieved the flashlights from the canvass knapsack, Pop realized if the rumor was false, he and Scotty stood an excellent chance of becoming cat food inside that maze of rapidly darkening jungle.  Going after this tiger was not his idea of a good time. 

     So much for the face-saving “macho thing to do,“ dear reader.

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     Having found a blood trail on one of the many paths that crisscrossed this section of dense forest, Scotty led the way with his flashlight.  He had instructed my dad to stay ten paces behind him, take his rifle off “safety,” and focus his attention to their rear.  For if there was any life remaining in that huge predator, Scotty fully expected the tiger to circle behind them and attack from that quarter.

     The path that contained the blood trail was heavily overgrown, requiring both large men to crouch as they slowly made their way deeper into the jungle’s bowels.  The vegetation was so thick, my father estimated their visibility couldn’t have been more than ten feet with the flashlights.  A herd of elephants could have easily snuck up on them...let alone a solitary tiger.  Almost everywhere Dad probed with his “torch,” pairs of jungle eyes reflected its light; turning his stomach to water. 

     My pop was so scared, dear reader, he felt at any minute he might piss all over his baggy khaki shorts, knee socks and iron-toed shoes.

     Finally, after penetrating barely 200 yards into the rain forest, it became totally pitch black forcing Scotty to call off their search.

     In his words: “We’re a pair of lambs awaitin’ ta be slaughtered, Michael, darlin’.  Tis time ta retreat, laddy.”

               *     *     *     *     *

     At dawn on the next day my father met Scotty at the golf course, and they went back into the jungle with four qualified native gun bearers and trackers.  They encountered the tiger stone cold at nearly 350 yards inside the rain forest.

     After the bearers skinned the big cat, and ran a primitive autopsy on it, they discovered the bullet had creased the bottom of its heart.  A chill ran up my dad’s spine at this postmortem.

     Let me put it this way, dear reader: I’d like to see you run 350 yards with a .470 bullet in you that had opened up your heart. 

     Dad would end up spending over three and a half years in India and Burma.  During that period he’d receive numerous offers to join a big game hunt, which was always respectfully declined; purposely limiting all his future hunting activities to Colorado.  For in his words: “If you screw up there...you never have to worry about a deer or antelope puttin’ you on the menu.”

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