And then, very quietly and without saying anything, Rostov rode his big black out of the night and up to us.
Both of them just sitting there silently was getting kind of spooky. After a long moment I said, “Much as I’m enjoyin’ all this cheerful company, you fellas know somethin’ that I don’t?”
They both ignored me, and Shad spoke in a low voice to Rostov. “I c’n feel somethin’ out there, but it ain’t nothin’ I know about.”
Rostov nodded. “I believe I do. But we’ll both know soon.”
This was getting downright scary. In my mind’s eye I could see an entire army of Tartars sneaking up on us through the dark so stealthily that they made absolutely no sound, but moved along like ghosts.
And then the peaceful silence was suddenly shattered by the fiercest, most horrifying and earth-shaking noise I’d ever heard. It sounded like a thousand cougars lined up side by side and roaring furiously in perfect unison.
Buck reared nervously out of his half sleep, and you could sense the startled herd starting to mill around, instantly spooked.
Holding Buck down as the noise abruptly stopped I said, “What the Christ was that?”
As I was speaking, the nearly full moon appeared quickly from behind scudding clouds, filling the meadow and surrounding hills with sudden, silvery light. Beyond the herd, on the crest of a hill, I had a brief glimpse of some kind of a huge beast before it streaked out of sight over the far side of the crest, moving with incredible speed.
Rostov said to Shad, “Once you gave me a Montana puppy.” He nodded toward where the beast had disappeared. “In return, I’d like to present you with a Siberian kitten.”
“Thanks,” Shad said dryly. “Who’s gonna put the pink ribbon around its neck?”
“What the hell is it?” I asked.
“A Siberian tiger. They’re larger than Bengals or any other species.” Rostov was studying the far moonlit hills keenly. “That one over there will weigh approximately a thousand pounds.”
Shad rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “All these strange smells, an’ then the moon comin’ out bright, maybe scared ’im off.”
Rostov shrugged slightly. “He’s probably hungry from not hunting during the rains. Also, at this time of year he has a mate and possibly some youngsters to take care of.” He hesitated. “And these snow tigers are very brave.”
“Then let’s go check ’im out.”
Shad rode down the moonlit slope with Rostov at his side, and figuring I was somehow included, I spurred after them.
The three of us were pushing our way through the now close-packed, defensively grouped cattle when the tiger hit the herd. Moving silently, but with the speed and impact of a cannon ball, he appeared from nowhere and charged a big bull longhorn standing a few feet out and away from the others. And that particular bull, for whatever personal reasons, felt like standing its ground instead of running, so it whirled swiftly toward the big onrushing cat.
And longhorns, if they feel like fighting, are among the toughest creatures that the Good Lord ever created. With their powerful hooves and sharp, raking horns, they’ve been known to battle grizzly bears to a standoff. And one of them, in a belligerent mood, actually routed and damnere demolished an entire regiment of General Winfield Scott’s army on its way to Mexico.
So that unsuspecting cat was running up against a whole lot more than a simple Guernsey milk cow.
But by the same token, that bull longhorn sure as hell didn’t know what it was facing either.
The whole fight, including everything, lasted maybe as long as one second. The longhorn swung at empty air with its great horns and the flying cat whacked him on the side of his massive head with one huge paw. The longhorn may have been dead, its neck broken, as it hit the ground. But one way or the other it was surely dead an instant later as the tiger whirled and crunched his teeth down into the back of its neck. And then, though it was hard to believe, that big, powerful cat actually started trotting away, half carrying and half dragging the huge, lifeless carcass of the bull.
It had all happened so fast that Big Yawn, even at a full gallop around the edge of the herd, was still a distance away. He fired a wild shot toward the tiger, and at the unfamiliar sound of the gun, the big cat dropped the longhorn, hesitated briefly, and then dashed away.
A few moments later six of us, including Sergeant Nick and Igor, who’d been on lookout, rode up to the dead bull. Behind us, the herd was uneasy but not panicked. The tiger’s earlier roar had scared them more than the quick, silent death of one of them. They were settling back down, and it looked to me, all in all, like we’d gotten off pretty easy.
But Shad, mortally hating to ever lose one of his head, was quietly furious. His eyes hard, he glared from the dead bull to where the tiger had disappeared. Then, jerking his rifle from its scabbard, he rode swiftly off in that direction. And the rest of us followed him.
Just naturally, we fanned out behind Shad in the moonlight so that pretty soon, between all six of us, we were covering a pretty wide swath. And about a mile from the herd we rousted out the tiger. He’d been holed up in some rocks at the beginning of a wide plateau that narrowed down to a point farther on. Big Yawn, riding not far from Sergeant Nick, accidentally busted him out as he approached the rocks.
Not yet knowing it was in a trap, the tiger bounded away from the rocks to the triangular plateau beyond, making a good thirty feet with that first effortless leap of his, and then speeding on across the moon-drenched earth.
We followed as fast as we could, riding closer in together as the slice of land grew narrower. And finally, slowing down, the big cat got as far as he could go and saw that there were only two things he could do. He could charge right back through us or take what was roughly a two-hundred-foot sheer jump off that final small piece of plateau where he was.
At the edge he turned back, snarling, and we pulled up in a ragged line about a hundred yards away from him.
He was dead, and somehow he realized it.
But he wasn’t afraid.
That big, beautiful bastard was going to go down fighting. His eyes were alive and glowing, even in the cold moonlight, as he slowly shifted his majestic head to size us up, taking in a thousand small details that would make him determine any possible chance of escaping through us.
And God, how beautiful and brave he was, roaring defiance and majesty toward us in what I swear he knew to be his final dark moments of danger and death.
Near Shad, Rostov said, “There is your Siberian kitten, Northshield.”
Shad raised his rifle. The rest of us were silent, and I was busy getting a lump in my throat.
Then, sighting in on the magnificent tiger, he called to Big Yawn, who was off to the far left. “Yawn! Come ’ere!”
And as Big Yawn was riding over toward us, Shad fired. His bullet slammed into and whined off a rock near the rear end of the tiger, and that made the giant cat’s mind up. My guess was that flying pieces of rock stung the tiger’s butt and tail, but however that may be, he took off like striped lightning on greased wheels at the empty space that Big Yawn had just vacated.
And he was gone so fast that the human eye could hardly keep up with him and watch him go.
Shad slowly returned his rifle to its saddle scabbard. “Goddamn,” he said quietly. “Missed.”
No one said anything, but I couldn’t help but think of the long ago time when Rostov had given the Montana puppy its freedom.
And after that, there was nothing left to do but ride back to the herd, which was settled down as though nothing had ever happened.