Garratt reckoned they had an hour at most. He’d no intention of being here after dark, for there’d be no moon worth the name to see them out, and they’d need half an hour of what light remained after the sun set to find the road home (which would anyway be tricky enough to follow if the cloud continued to roll in). And if the tiger chose to hunt at night, then so be it; but he reckoned that if it were indeed a juvenile, it wouldn’t yet be inclined to, for what animal powerful enough to hunt by day would do so instead by night?

His mare was obliging. In fact she seemed only too glad of the respite. There were no troublesome flies either. He let out the reins a good length, catching them in the crook of his right arm so that he could aim quickly without losing them, while she lowered her head to doze.

From time to time he glanced at the sticking-place. Askew looked commendably upright and steady, with his back to the tree rather than shrinking behind it. Evidently he intended facing the tiger squarely, and if he succumbed it would be a noble death, a better thing for someone to write home of – he himself perhaps – to whoever was his kin, instead of … what exactly? Did the Sixth write also when a man had been hanged, or shot? He’d never thought of it until now. What had they done in the Rifles? They’d certainly shot a few in his day – in Spain at least …

He marvelled again at how quickly the sun fell at this hour. He’d not take out his watch, though, for his mare was sound asleep – as good as; he wouldn’t risk a pull on the reins. But an hour must have passed – three-quarters, certainly, for the sun couldn’t have fallen so fast … He supposed he’d better end the vigil soon, for once it was below the horizon here the night was on them before they knew it. Besides, his leg was …

His mare started. He almost lost the rein. He made to turn—

The blunderbuss deafened him.

But it missed the target.

The tiger sprang.

Garratt ducked right while bringing up his rifle.

Crack! A desperate shot – instinct, not aim.

The years repaid, though: the brute fell dead as the mare suddenly squealed and bucked, tumbling him from the saddle – but he rolled in one movement to his feet, making to reload even as he did so.

‘Sahib! Sahib!’

‘Raghav, what the devil …’

‘Sahib, I very sorry, sahib. Tiger came from long grass like Kali sudden from Durga’s brow, all terrible look, sahib. But Raghav not afraid, sahib. He shoot tiger.’

‘Shoot at tiger, Raghav! At it! How the deuce did you miss with that artillery?’

He’d no more idea who Kali and Durga were than the syce probably did Abraham, but whatever Raghav was prattling about, to his mind a thunderous great weapon like that was worth it only once in a campaign – and this would have been the once.