Thirty yards away, at the far end, Bronson clomped into view, his head just a turnip jammed into the shoulders of a safari jacket. The man couldn’t sneak up on Sturm’s dead Lab. When he reached the log, he straddled it and rested, wiping the sweat from his brow. At first, he held his rifle ready, slowly swiveling his head back and forth, scanning for the tiger. But as the minutes ticked by, Frank watched the man’s patience erode like the dirt under the pine tree. Bronson set the rifle next to him and lit a cigar.

As Bronson exhaled the first plume of blue smoke, Frank saw the tiger. It had somehow materialized out of the bushes under the pine tree, up near the bank, and was now creeping down the rotting log towards Bronson; an undulating orange and black caterpillar, inching through the jutting, jagged branches with infinite patience.

Frank watched, frozen with fascination. Somewhere, way back in the dim shadows of his conscience, he knew he should shoot, shout, something. But he couldn’t bring himself to move, because that voice, the same voice that urged him to put the red-haired woman out of her grief and misery was now whispering, in biting, chopping words, that Bronson deserved whatever happened.

A half second later, it was too late for Frank to do anything anyway. The tiger, fifteen feet from Bronson, launched itself down the log and hit him like a locomotive going off a cliff. The force knocked Bronson flat, slamming him onto the smooth rocks; an instant later, the massive teeth crunched together at the back of Bronson’s neck. His limbs flopped and shuddered, then wilted and lay still in an awkward pose that could never be achieved in life.

The tiger lifted its head and stared through the underbrush, locking eyes with Frank. It knew he had been there the entire time. It bent back to Bronson’s body, clamped down on his left shoulder, and dragged him under the log, shaking the man’s body like a German Shepard breaking a rabbit’s neck.

* * * * *

Frank let the tiger eat for a while. He figured the tiger deserved a taste of its kill. But he knew that Sturm and the others would be wondering what the hell had happened, and he sure as shit didn’t want to be answering some tough questions. So he stood, taking his time, letting the tiger watch him, then fired, aiming at the rocks near Bronson’s feet. Like before, the blast sent stinging flecks of salt and rocks up towards the tiger. It wriggled backwards, leaped onto the log, and shot up it. When the tiger hit the top, it leaped, easily clearing the snarled mass of roots. It landed effortlessly in the dry grass at the top of the cliff and disappeared.

Frank pumped and fired again, this time at the cliff, just for the men listening. He ran across the gravel and climbed up the pine log, following the tiger as best as he could. He was halfway up when gunfire exploded into the pale sky. By the time he’d managed to work his way through the mess of roots, the Jeep was waiting for him.

“Where’s Bronson?” Sturm demanded from the passenger seat.

Frank shook his head.

“Shit. Shit!” Sturm slapped the dash. By now, the tiger was just a speck, moving fast in an easy, loping run through Sturm’s ranch. “C’mon!” he shouted at Frank. “Into the Jeep! Go! Go!” Frank scrambled up the loose sand and hopped in the Jeep with everyone else. Theo popped the clutch and roared off, following the edge of creek, mimicking the twisting and cutbacks of the gash in the land with uncanny skill. Everyone just tried to hang on.

Theo roared across the field, through the back yard, passing a sweating, trembling Fairfax. He stood in a hole up to his waist, watching the Jeep with an open mouth. They hit the front yard and the long driveway and kept going, but it was too late. The tiger had slipped away. Theo kept going, tearing down the road.

In the distance, Frank recognized the giant satellite dish of the Glouck’s and the little gas station where he had first stopped and realized they were almost in town.

“Shit!” Theo said and slapped the steering wheel, imitating his father.

“Watch your language,” Sturm said. “We’ll get it. Everyone keep their eyes peeled. Can’t be far.”

Frank was wondering, if you were mayor, how you would explain losing a goddamn tiger in the middle of town after you intentionally set it loose when he saw the big cat casually lope across the highway and slip into the Glouck’s back yard.

Pine saw it too. “There!” he shouted, pointing. Theo made the Jeep stand up and dance, shooting straight across the field, plowing straight through the tumbleweeds and starthistles. Frank had one moment take on a crystalline quality, frozen into eternity, as if he was outside himself, watching a still photograph as they burst through the aluminum gate. The metal popped with a surprised twang and the Jeep shot across the soft asphalt of the gas station. He caught a glimpse of the woman with the red hair behind the counter staring at the Jeep with an open mouth. Her expression was somewhere between terror and ecstasy.

Frank grinned as he realized that the hunters had just made the woman’s day. Hell, seeing the Jeep tear across the valley, chock full of men and guns, chasing after a genuine tiger, that probably gave her enough fodder for a entire month, maybe even a whole year worth of gossip.

They raced down the alley behind the Glouck’s house, but couldn’t see anything. Behind them, the dead tree stood empty and abandoned, like a playground jungle gym after recess. The tiger must have been still running, still moving fast. Sturm sat rigid in the passenger seat, rifle upright at his left side. His right hand floated in the air, flicking in subtle, minute directions. Theo followed his father’s gestures, making the Jeep gallop down narrow alleyways, sliding through intersections, following a striped shadow that flitted through the empty yards and barren streets.

The chase was eerily quiet. No one in the Jeep actually heard the engine or the squealing tires. They focused only on the breathing of the animal, watching it as close as they could through binoculars or their scopes, those hypnotizing stripes pulsing in and out.

* * * * *

The tiger bounded out into the afternoon sunlight and wide pavement of First Street. It stuttered to a stop, as if confused by the vast open space. It turned south, loped down the sidewalk in the shade, and paused a moment, slinking into the recessed entrance to the First Bank of Whitewood.

Theo hit the brakes with both feet and the Jeep slid to a stop in a squeal of burning rubber in the middle of Main Street. Sturm hopped out, ran low, across the street and crouched between two parked cars. Sturm held the Ballard single-shot tight across his chest, ready to snap it into his shoulder, hunting a real goddamn tiger through his hometown.

He rose and scurried across the intersection, moving northeast, and crouched behind the yellow Sacramento Bee newspaper box and the northwestern light post.

When the tiger saw Sturm, it was already too late. The tiger hissed, a low, awful sound, and bolted out of the entrance, instantly going down on its chest and stomach, tail falling limp when it hit the sunlight, as if it had given up. But instead of freezing and surrendering, the cat collected itself, drawing the legs in, getting down, suddenly springing forward, not fleeing anymore, but attacking, launching itself straight at Sturm.

Sturm was ready. He pulled the rifle in snug, tracking the cat for a half second. The tiger crossed the street in an eye blink. Sturm exhaled, squeezed the trigger gently, and put a single bullet through the tiger’s chest.

It went down, rolling over itself and flopping to a stop in front of the post office. Sturm jacked the empty cartridge out into the gutter, slammed a new one into place. He watched the cat intently for nearly a full minute before he straightened, resting the rifle across the back of his shoulders. He turned back to the jeep, a huge grin splitting the dark shadows under his cowboy hat, not much taller than the newspaper box next to him. “You boys get that BBQ fired up soon as possible. We got a tiger to grill.”