No sooner had I received my .455 Webley service revolver in the post, along with a monkey and a plywood violin, than I had a call to use it. There we were, just outside the forest near Hattieville, only just having finished dousing the fire for the night. It was then we heard the very loud and low growl from the trees.
Cartwright held his lantern high and made a few steps as I unholstered my revolver. Within a blink, Cartwright’s lantern had broken on the ground and he was gone. Poor blighter hadn’t even a chance to scream.
I pealed off a round into the darkness and another roar was the only response. Wairigu skidded into the light, chambering a his .303 and aiming where I had. He fired and all was silent. Our shoulders relaxed somewhat. Several other of the expedition emerged from their tents in apprehension.
“All is well, my friends! We have scared it away.”
“All is bloody well NOT well! Cartwright was taken!”, Warisin and Sumadi’s mouths dropped open in shock. “Let’s after him!”
The men rushed to their rifles and shoes and we set off into the darkness. Booth hung a lantern on his rifle barrel and moved before us.
To our right, a shot rang out and we saw Graham’s kicking boots disappear into the thick. Another shot, a pause. Another. We daren’t fire lest we kill Graham ourselves.
Then nothing.
We searched for as long as we dared for the men, but the trails went cold. Even the Garifuna couldn’t track the great cat, nor our compatriots. We retreated to the comparative safety of camp, re-lit the fire and sat with our backs to the tent, staring out into the dangerous night.
In the morning, we resumed the hunt. The beast was undiscovered, but we found most of Cartwight and Graham high in the bloody trees above where we’d stopped and turned back only hours before.
I wrote two letters and Warisin couriered them to Hattieville while we broke camp.
