Three volunteers and a carrier left them the following morning, returning to the Zamavat village then to Bombay. They took at least three valuable weapons with them on their way to the safe haven, away from valiant but somewhat self-important hunters, marginally deluded followers, and man-hungry tigers.

The young men were not accused of being cowards. Roxton told all that he and the other huntsmen would understand if they, any of them, felt the need to leave. This was not a mission for men who had any doubts as to why they were there, particularly lads who were barely out of short pants. All their lives were at risk and there was no room for the foolishly heroic.

Besides, Roxton told them that Nelson - the wounded boy - needed medical attention. Some brave souls had to get him to a doctor in the city. It was as good an excuse as any for a few frightened lads to leave.

“Lord Roxton, did you notice her teeth?” Liston Price nearly panted beside the hunter, his long dusty blond bangs cutting an odd J on his sweat slick forehead. It was mid afternoon as he tried to match Roxton’s long strides. It was not easy. Thwarted but zealous he trotted along side the bigger more experienced explorer as they made their way through the densest part of the jungle they were now traveling through. Master Price looked up at Roxton for an response, clutching one of the heavy supply sacks to his chest.

Roxton said nothing immediately, hesitant, uncomfortable with the boy’s perception. “Yes, I saw them.” he finally murmured, impassive.

It was the young female tiger. Her canines were larger than anything Roxton had ever seen off the plateau. The older female, the one they assumed was the mate to Khokkosh, appeared a normal tiger but their offspring, had she had time to grow to maturity, would have been an enormous monster-cat.

“Do you think she takes after her father?’ Liston asked nervously, looking over his shoulder to the others as they followed. Mathers and Mosely brought up the front and rear of the line with the five diligent but anxious young men following between them.

Roxton also looked behind, at those who followed, then back to the boy, “Yes.” He then added quickly, “Keep it quiet, Liston. This group is edgy enough without adding fuel to the fire.”

Obediently, Master Price nodded and instinctively tightened his lips together. Although his expression shown trepidation he was honored to be in Lord Roxton‘s confidence.

The morning after their encounter with the female tigers, shortly after the others had left them, the hunters spied large deeply imprinted paw prints only meters away from their camp. All were quiet while scouting, everyone on alert, but soon a wrong word was said between a nervous carrier and a high-strung volunteer. Then, immature and emotional, a physical fight ensued.

It was broken up quickly enough but Mosley said it best when he announced that none of their underlings would do the hunters good if they were too afraid and unable restrain themselves when matters became unpredictable. “What? Did you think, this was going to be a picnic?” he asked them with an exaggerated southern drawl. “Screw your courage to that sticking place**, boys. We need you brave, here and now.”

They had not seen Khokkosh but they heard him, often in the distance and sometimes closer.

“If I didn’t know better,” Mathers said two days later, tipping his helmet back and looking over the horizon. “I’d swear the beastie was engaging us in a sort of psychological warfare. We think we‘re hunting him but he‘s actually the one doing the hunting.”

Both Roxton and Mosely felt that same sense of foreboding. Nothing was ordinary about this hunt. The situation was unnerving and no one could sleep, which worried Roxton more than the tiger roars. When men were tired their reaction time was off and calamity could very well result.

During a late rest period four days after the initial tiger attacks Roxton watched as Mosely drew a pencil and small tablet of paper from his pack. The man jotted down something quickly then pushed the items back into the bundle.

“Your memoirs‘, Mosely?” Roxton asked while gathering wood for a fire.

“Notes.” the American replied hastily, appearing oddly nervous that Roxton had spotted him writing. “An idea I can use on my next hunt.”

Roxton was about to ask: “Care to share?” when Mosely hastily picked up their stacked row of canteens.

Loudly, the hunter announced he was going to refill them at a nearby stream. The volunteers and carriers went with him when he also said he was off to hunt for their evening meal. “The more hands I have with me the better.” he said.

Later, Roxton watched Mathers fuss with his rifle. The elderly man’s usually sure hands were trembling and he shook his head twice as if attempting to clear his vision.

“Are you all right?” Roxton asked.

“Malaria.” Mathers explained. “You know what they say, old boy, once you get Malaria it never goes away. Years ago whilst in the Congo I …”

“Not a good time, Mathers. If you don’t think you can continue …”

“Of course I can.” the seasoned hunter assured. “I didn‘t become a living legend because I easily back away from challenges.” He attempted to speak humorously although he was obviously weary.

They all were.

“Just as long as you don’t put the rest of us in danger because you want to prove yourself, Mathers. That’s all I care about.”

At his reassuring smile, and a refreshing lack of indignation to the comment, a satisfied Roxton nodded and slapped his companion gently on the back. He supposed he was growing soft but something about Mathers touched a chord in Roxton, perhaps reminding him a bit of Professor Summerlee. Arthur was also brave and stubborn -- until the very end.

Roxton and Marguerite had hoped they would find Summerlee alive and well once returning to England but he was no where to be found. Neither wanted to admit their old friend depart life during that fall off the cliff, into the freezing depths of a waterfall, so long ago. Instead, they put on a happy front for one another and said he must still be on the plateau somewhere. One day the others would find the kindly Professor, probably being taken care of by a friendly tribe of natives. Fondly, Roxton remembered Marguerite’s large, searching eyes staring into his and how she, without saying a word, urged him not to give up the vision. It was a pleasant fantasy and neither were anxious to admit to a more likely scenario.

Marguerite. Roxton allowed himself an indulgence, getting lost briefly, thinking of her smile, the silky humor in her voice, and the deep appeal of her touch. How he missed Marguerite! Just to hold her in his arms for a moment or two …

Roxton’s eyes blinked opened when he heard a rifle shot. Standing, he looked over the tall grass at Mosley who was showing Liston and the other lads how to shoot his sophisticated weapon. Clenching his teeth, an annoyed Roxton wanted to remind the cocky American that they should not be wasting valuable ammunition on such displays, especially with an unpredictable and ferocious tiger on their trail.

Yet - reconsidering - he could almost understand Mosely’s thinking. Now that their numbers had decreased the lads might need to take on a more aggressive role -- and not merely comfort themselves into thinking the valiant hunters would protect them should Khokkosh make an unexpected appearance.

“I never married, you know.” Mathers suddenly piped whilst snapping the barrel of his rifle shut. He glanced up at Roxton, squinting against the setting sun at his cohort’s back. “I nearly did back in eighteen ninety. She was a pretty thing with long auburn hair and a smile that could melt the heart of the most brutal of polar bears.”

“What happened?” Roxton asked, looking down at the older man, covering him with a dark shadow.

‘Thought we had plenty of time. I had more hunting to do. I felt she could wait.”

Roxton bowed his head and looked a little away from Mathers, “But she didn’t wait?”

“No, she didn’t. She was a bit more independent then I gave her credit for and, tired of my seeming indifference, she married my best friend.”

Roxton flinched, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Marianne deserved a happiness I could never give her. I would have seldom been home, always off on a new adventure, merely feeding into her self-sufficient nature. If we had wed she would have found another to keep her company regardless of our vow.”

“You don’t think she would have remained true to you?”

“I would not have given her reason.”

Roxton allowed a lop-sided smile. “I take it there is message here somewhere?”

“The obvious. The fairer sex, God bless them, get lonely and we men only have ourselves to blame. Leave them too long and often they will make do.”

“Not to worry, Mathers. I have no intention of leaving Marguerite alone any longer then I have to. I wouldn’t have gone on this trip if she hadn’t insisted. You see, Marguerite …”

Mathers interrupted, “She must be quite the unconventional young lady, funding and going to that plateau of yours. Then, she returned with her gems and wealthy you, the confirmed bachelor, after four years. Is that right Roxton?”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that, Mathers.” Roxton’s tone was suddenly low, his protective nature where Marguerite was concerned simmering to the surface. “Not a good idea to tread on glass with bare feet, especially when talking to a newlywed.” His words hid a barely disguised warning. No one knew Marguerite like he did. No one.

“No offense, dear boy.” Mathers lightened his tone, “I like you, Roxton. You’re a good man.” The older hunter rested the barrel of his rifle against a slightly slumped shoulder as he continued to look up, gauging Roxton’s temperament. He got the impression he was not the first to make erroneous assumptions where Lady Roxton was concerned. “I am an honest man and merely attempting to give you the benefit of my experience. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did. We are all merely flesh and blood and while absence may make the heart to grow fonder -- it can also cause a bed to grow very cold. No man or woman likes a cold bed …”

A sudden crashing through the tall grass alerted both men and Roxton turned quickly, pulling one of his pistols.

There appeared nothing to fear as they watched their men returning to camp, bringing the canteens and a few scrawny dead rabbits. However, what he did not see made Roxton anxious. “Where’s Mr. Mosely?”

“He said he heard something and wanted us to return to camp while he scouted.” one of the boys called.

“He didn’t seem really worried.” Liston added, noting the unease in Roxton’s expression. “Just cautious. He said he would be back with in the hour.”

“Damn fool, shouldn’t be out there by himself.” Mathers groused by Roxton‘s side, visually scanning the perimeter.

Roxton didn’t like it either. “We’ll wait that hour. If he’s not back by then I’ll go find him.”

Mathers put a hand on Roxton shoulder and reminded, “It will be dark by then. If he does not come back … Well, we can‘t afford to lose both of you tonight, Roxton.”

Mathers was right but Roxton hated the thought of leaving a fellow huntsman without protection. If the tiger was as big and raging as they suspected a mere rifle, no matter how modern, would be no match if the man was caught off guard. Roxton could nearly picture Khokkosh as some sort of aberration; a cat with teeth the size of a T-Rex‘s big toe. On the plateau they had always tried to stay together, at least two at a time, when outside the treehouse. Even Veronica, who knew the plateau better than most, was never far from shelter when darkness fell.

As Mathers and the carriers began to cook supper over the campfire Roxton listened hard and continued to survey the darkening horizon. It was too quiet and that was always a bad sign.

Mosely never returned that night.

***

Early in the morning, around three AM, Roxton thought he heard a rifle shot off in the distance. He lifted his head from where he lay, gazing up at the night sky. He saw cloud cover. Roxton also noted ever so slight flashes of lightening behind them. Perhaps what he heard was thunder from an approaching storm?

He glanced over at Liston who was sleeping somewhat fitfully on his bed roll.

Mathers was on watch, his back to Roxton, sitting on the flat of a large stone. He had relieved Roxton about a half hour previously. His shoulders were slumped with fatigue but his rifle stood tall by his side and the man seemed alert if a little inert. Some hunters, Roxton thought, just did not know when it was time to retire. Checking himself, laying his head against the firm leather of his pack, he thought he might have a serious talk with Mathers in the morning. And it would have little to do with hunting.

Dawn would not be long in coming.

***

“Lord Roxton!”

His eyes opened wide at Liston’s frenetic call.

“Something is wrong with Mister Mathers.”

Roxton pushed off the blanket and immediately got to his feet. He looked to where Mathers was reclined, his face ashen, with a few of the volunteers fussing over him, loosening his collar and whispering into the old man‘s ear.

“My bag …” Mathers spoke softly to no one particular but it was Roxton who brought it to him.

He crouched beside Mathers, noting the perspiration and blue tinted lips. “Mathers, what’s happened to you?” he asked as gently as he could. However, a small part of Roxton felt an inkling of bitterness. He thought he knew what was wrong. ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’^## popped into Roxton’s mind.

“My medication.” Mathers said, “You see, I have a slight heart ailment ...”

“Damn it, Mathers.” Roxton hissed.

“It’s nothing.” he assured, attempting to add strength to his voice.

Roxton rummaged in the bag and produced a small bottle which contained several yellowish pills. “You can’t continue.” Roxton said bluntly, showing them to Mathers.

Mathers extended his hand. He nearly protested against Roxton’s assessment of their predicament but, being a man of good common sense, his eyes closed and the hunter merely acquiesced. A carrier helped to lift him for a drink from a canteen as Mathers popped a tablet into his mouth. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable. There would be no tiger captures for him on this trip and probably not ever again.

“Lord Roxton,” one of the volunteers approached, “what about Mr. Mosely?”

“First thing’s first.” Roxton ordered his men to build a makeshift stretcher for Mathers. Under his instruction they aligned four long, strong branches, tore one of their bedrolls into strips and attached another heavier blanket. They braced the litter to support Mather’s weight. When Roxton was satisfied he looked at the lads and came to a decision at least one of their volunteers disputed. “There are six of you. Two at the top, two at the bottom, two at the sides. You’re all leaving and taking Mr. Mathers back to the village …”

“But sir …” Liston started.

“Stay together, keep your weapons within easy reach, use your compass - you know how - and head east. Once you get to Zamavat contact Lieutenant Newborn, as was done for Nelson. The battalion will take charge and you can all go back to your families.”

“You will not be going with us, Lord Roxton?” a carrier with large round eyes and a sun darkened complexion asked.

“No, I still have a job to do.”

“And you will need someone watching your back.” Liston, like the others, looked up to Roxton but his expression seemed a bit more rebellious than his cohorts. Master Price held Mather’s rifle in his hands, unaware he was gently stroking it‘s cocking indicator as he spoke. He stepped forward, “Forgive me Lord Roxton, but it would be foolhardy for you to face that tiger on your own. You could be killed.”

'And that‘s what it is to be a hunter.', Roxton thought but said, “Liston, you are very smart -- but I have been doing this for years.” He could almost smile at the boy’s indignation, “Remember, I even managed to come back from The Lost World in one piece.”

“And you had people with you.” the boy spoke quickly, “Friends whose lives you saved and who saved your life more than once. Challenger, Malone, Veronica, Summerlee, Finn and … Miss Krux.” Master Price reminded.

Roxton’s indulging smile faded at the mention of Marguerite. He did not need this boy telling him what he could lose. He glanced at Mathers who was resting, nearly asleep, on the stretcher, “He’s going to need all of you.” Roxton insisted. “And you need to go now before it’s too late.”

Liston stared at Roxton and took on the appearance of someone who had just been patronized.

If he lived through this ordeal, Roxton thought, he would make it up to the lad. He just did not have the time or impulse to continue with the conversation now.

The lads lifted Mathers, who grunted very softly, and made their exit east, just as Roxton told them. The hunter would later remember Liston‘s last look at him; a glare really, which was somewhat accepting but equally disappointed. He suddenly reminded Roxton of himself at that age.

Out of all the young men they had taken on this journey Master Liston Price was the one Roxton truly believed could one day become a hunter.

***

He followed a trail of blood and boot prints.

Roxton picked up on Mosely’s tracks about twenty minutes after Mathers and the boys left him. It seemed that the American had, indeed, come into contact with the beast and had decided to take him as far away from their camp as possible. While the undertaking was very brave it made little sense. Any good hunter, especially in the circumstance they were in, would want to bring the tiger to their camp where they could fight the monster as a group …. The fact that Mosely thought it necessary to draw him away was not comforting in the least.

With a gulp and shake of the head Roxton continued. He was as mad as Mosely out here on his own. Liston was right. He needed someone guarding his back, even if it was wet behind the ears lad. But it was too late to reassess now. Roxton moved on.

Fifteen minutes later, when he came upon an empty boot saturated with blood, Roxton turned it over with the barrel of his rifle. The prints, except for that of an immense cat, had stopped fifteen meters ago. Now, it seemed the beast was dragging his prey. This did not bode well for Mosely at all.

“Help me …”

It was a low groan, barely audible, and it came from behind the long grass on either side of Roxton. Slowly, the hunter moved to his left, parting the grass ahead of him with his weapon, moving at a slow pace and praying a tiger would not lunge for him when he finally found his battered comrade.

“Roxton …”

He saw Mosely laying on his side, hands pressing hard against a bloody wound just under the ribs. The foot with a missing boot was shredded, nearly torn off. Mosely’s breaths were shallow and his coloring was far too pale to call it a color at all.

Roxton threw down his backpack beside the man and quickly got water and some bandages. He went to work on the foot first.

“Don’t bother.” Mosely said, “There’s no point.”

“I’ll get you away from here.” Roxton tried to assure as he administered medical aid.

Mosely nearly chuckled, “Oh no, Roxton. No, no … I’m well prepared to go to the happy hunting ground in the sky now. You would do better by getting yourself out of here. The only reason Khokkosh dropped me and moved on was because he knew you were close. He might even be watching us now. ”

Roxon nearly replied when he realized something was odd. It took him a moment to pin point what it was. “What happened to your accent?” he asked as he, despite Mosely’s protests, attempted to clean his wounds.

Mosely had lost his southern drawl. He was still speaking American English but with no discernable accent.

“Oh that.” He cleared his throat and suddenly appeared self-conscious. “Time to come clean, I guess.” Mosely blinked, clearing his vision and mind. “My name is not Alan Mosely. It’s James Walters. I’m a writer for International Herald Tribune …”

Surprised, Roxton paused in his care then continued. “That’s Ned Malone’s paper.”

“Yes. I guess you could say Ned and I are rivals. He got all the best assignments, the owner’s beautiful daughter, and I got what came behind him.”

Roxton, recalling yesterday, the man inexplicably with a pencil and pad of paper, and felt he knew what was coming next. As he bound the man’s ankle tightly, Roxton looked about them - ostensibly for a tiger attack - and asked, “So what, Mr. Walters, are you doing here?”

His voice was weakening, “I’m a fair hunter myself, Roxton. Been to Africa and Asia on assignment. And I know the true Alan Mosely. He was to come on this expedition but, at the last minute, had to pull out.”

“And you took his place?”

“Neither Mosely or Lungry knew about it. Lord Lungry had never met Mosely so … It just occurred to me that I had a great story here. I was going to be in the presence of Lord John Roxton, hunter of all manner of beasts, fresh from the pre historic plateau …”

“I don’t give interviews.” Roxton remarked, distracted and pulling Walters hands away from his side.

It was true. Challenger and Marguerite spoke to the newspapers upon their return and they did a few movie reels but Roxton had stayed clear. The only quote the media got from Roxton was a month after they returned and that was regarding he and Marguerite’s engagement, where he told them he was very happy.

“Exactly, and that’s why this was such a coup. I planned to interview you, without your knowledge, a little every night while we were camped … but discovered you don’t like to talk about yourself much. Or anyone else for that matter.” Liston licked his lips as Roxton lifted the canteen to give him a swallow of water. “Besides, I was hoping to find out what really happened to Ned Malone.” He lifted a bloody hand and grasped Roxton’s shirt collar, “Tell a dying man the truth. Is Malone really alive on that plateau, living with that jungle beauty as his journals called her, or did he die?”

Roxton was stunned by the question. “Challenger made a statement saying he was still alive …”

“Yes, but that could have been a lie. No one but your party really knows anything about what happened in The Lost World. Challenger might have wanted everyone to believe …”

Roxton sat back on his heels, gently but firmly disengaging the man’s hand from his collar, and looked at his patient with a mild contempt. “It was not a lie.” Roxton stated simply, angry with Walters despite the fact he was at death’s door. By misrepresenting himself he could have cost many of them, the lads on this journey, their very lives. “If Malone didn’t make it, what then? Would you feel you’d won something? A victory over him?”

Mosley stared at Roxton for a moment, “I married his fiancé, Gladys.” he suddenly said, “And from that day on she has never stopped reminding me of Malone, of the incredible adventurer he was … is. She kept telling me how if he hadn’t been lost she would have married him instead of me … ” Walters began to breath heavily, “It didn’t matter to her that I had done as much, if not more, adventuring than Malone … Then, when you returned and we learned Malone was alive and living on that plateau with that jungle girl … she left me. Gladys said she could not continue in a marriage with me knowing her true love was still alive. She‘s convinced Malone will eventually come back for her -- and I'm not so sure he won't.”

“And you felt you had to find the truth -- through me and this expedition?”

“Yes, partly. I was so certain he was dead despite it all. I wanted you to confirm that for me. And I wanted to get a fantastic newspaper story out of it as well and have Gladys finally accept that Malone was gone and never coming back …. Unfortunately,” the man gulped in pain, “what I found was my own death.” He nearly laughed at an irony, “Maybe Gladys will think me a hero after I‘ve gone?”

Roxton wondered if he should tell this reporter that Malone had felt guilt and tenderness for Gladys for quite a long while before giving up his dream of ever seeing her again. Pitifully for Walters, Malone never really had a worry about his rival or Gladys again after he and Veronica declared their love for one another.

“Tell her I died bravely.” Walters requested, grasping Roxton’s arm, “Tell her my last thoughts were of her.”

With an inward sigh, Roxton nodded at the pitiable man. “I will.”

Walters squeezed Roxton’s arm hard once then his gaze grew still and his breathing stopped. His fingers slid away and his hand fell to his sides.

Roxton attempted resuscitation but there was no saving him now. Regretfully, angered by the death of a man who, despite of it all, did not deserve to die, Roxton closed his eyes. He removed the blanket from his sack and covered Walters. Roxton had no time right now to bury him but this, at least, was one small sign of respect. When he returned to Avebury Roxton promised the dead Walters he would write a letter to Gladys.

Picking up his rifle once again, Roxton stood tall and looked about him. The tiger was near. He knew it. Not just because Roxton had a hunter’s sense about him or that Walters suggested the cat was very close. He knew it because Walters, by not being eaten but merely mangled by the beast, had proven what Roxton suspected all along. Khokkosh was not hunting them for food or even sport but because he wanted revenge.

On its own, the fact made the predator far more dangerous than any creature a hunter could face.

****

Roxton did not walk far, maybe a mile, when he sensed he was being sought. Wary, he turned carefully. His rifle was made ready as every nerve ending in his body warned Roxton that danger was precariously close.

His booted feet were suddenly swept out from under him. Roxton’s weapon was wrenched from his hands as his head made a hard impact on the ground … And now, on his back, turning to look for his rifle, he heard a sound that would forever remain in his mind. It was a growl but even more than that … it was laughter. The sound of triumph.

Roxton lay back calmly, the world spinning around him slowly as the intruder approached.

Unseen by man or beast, one of Roxton’s hands slid down, to his hip, searching for his hunting knife, gently touching its hilt as it remained sheathed snugly in its case. He nearly pulled it when he sensed movement as his feet. A sniff and a nuzzle to Roxton’s ankles then his lower legs.

His hand clutched the blade’s handle when the cat, a saber-toothed tiger, its great teeth glistening in the sunlight, reached as far as his belly and lower chest.

And suddenly Roxton was struck motionless by a voice.

“You are different ...” it purred. A rough tongue laved Roxton’s right arm, where the shirt’s material had parted, “ … but divine.”

“I can hear you.” Roxton did not actually speak the words, merely thought them, but the cat was instantly focused. It’s deep green eyes looked into his and his strong, lithe body stopped motion. Slowly, he came nose to nose with Roxton, his incisors - only slightly shorter than his canines - moving dangerously close to piercing the hunter through the chest.

“You understand? No human being has ever understood me before. You are special.”

“Where are you from?” Roxton asked, feeling strange but needing to know. “Not here.”

“Different place.” It said, “Bright light. The others were afraid. I was not. I am never afraid.”

“You walked into a bright light?”

“I did.”

Roxton hesitated, “You are from … the plateau?”

“I know not the meaning of this word, plateau.”

Of course he wouldn‘t. Roxton‘s breathing was shallow. “A jungle with others like you … and humans. And dinosaurs … large lizard-like creatures.”

“Yes, from there.” It paused, licking its muzzle, unafraid and curious. “And so are you -- from there?”

“I’ve been there.” Roxton corrected, “But I am not from there.”

“It accepted you.” the tiger pressed, “That is why I knew you were different. That is why we can … communicate.”

Roxton remained confused even as the pressure of the large cat resting on his chest threatened to squeeze the breath out of him, “How did you get here? My people found the plateau, the place where you came from, in a far off land … nowhere near here.”

“The light came, a door opened and I walked through it. I was here.”

“Have you tried to go back?”

The cat stared at Roxton for a moment before replying, “In my world I am bold but typical. Here I am a king. I do not want to go back. I want to breed, make more of my kind, and …” The tiger suddenly licked Roxton’s cheek, distracted. “You would be a fine kill. Your flesh would give me strength for many days.” Then it added, “And my revenge is mighty.” Khokkosh hesitated but was still well focused as he said, “But you will not die. Not now. I have great admiration of you.”

Roxton was not certain if he was flattered or relieved but he did feel more at ease. Still, there were other considerations. “You will continue to kill my kind … and breed?”

“My female is gone, killed by men, but I will find another. I must. Soon my kind will take over this world. We will be invincible. That is how it should be.”

Roxton blinked, recalling his offspring. Hundreds of her kind could, indeed, destroy many men, possibly even decimate a territory, turning it into a wasteland like a disease … which spreads further and further until …

“The flesh and blood of humans is addicting.” The saber-toothed tiger looked briefly away from Roxton into the jungle beyond. When he looked back at Roxton, stared him once again in the eye, he said: “You are a hunter like me. I suspect we will not see each other again.” Khokkosh eased off of Roxton, “Respect me as I respect you, man.”

“I do.” Roxton slowly unsheathed his hunting knife, “But I cannot allow you to continue killing my kind.” With sincere regret, knowing there was no other way, Roxton said, “I’m sorry.” and swung with his knife, sliding it into the tiger’s ribcage.

Stunned, the beast wailed and lashed out, slashing Roxton’s right shoulder with his massive paw, the claws ripping into Roxton‘s flesh.

Roxton cried out, losing his grip on the knife. It slid from Khokkosh’s body to land on the grass beside him. Roxton immediately felt his arm go numb and try as he might the hunter could not get his limbs to operate as they should.

Perhaps it was fear or even temporary damage to the nerves in his arm but Roxton would later think he had just lost his edge. Exhaustion had taken its toll and he was not the invincible huntsman he once was.

“Betrayer!” the cat screamed, enraged. “You will die … You will …” Wounded and in deep pain, both from the physical injury and the man’s treachery, the saber-toothed tiger approached Roxton again.

Lord Roxton, a death defier from the age of sixteen when he decided what he would be; a hunter and hero to all, saw it through a fog. His shoulder throbbed and was on fire. If he were to die right now … Oh Marguerite …. If he were to die …

Roxton blinked. He saw beyond the snarling tiger. Time slowed further. A man stood there … “William?” No, it wasn’t possible. “How … Am I dead?”

Roxton felt it in his hand. The knife. How was it possible? How had he lifted it?

Without Warning, time restored itself and, with a clarity and energy he should not have had, Roxton thrust upward as the tiger pounced. He caught the beast in the gut and pushed hard, ripping and somehow tossing Khokkosh’s massive weight aside.

Khokkosh’s legs flayed wildly but, even mortally injured, he turned over and, meeting the hunter eye to eye, appeared ready to lunge at Roxton again once he got to his feet. Roxton sat up with a grunt and pushed himself away, the bloodied dagger still in his grip, the red smears on his hands matching the crimson stain spreading over his shoulder.

“If it’s the last thing I do …” Khokkosh cried in Roxton’s mind, “ … I will kill you …”

A rifle shot suddenly rang out. The bullet exploded between Khokkosh eyes and he fell finally, for the last time, dying at Roxton’s feet.

Roxton quickly looked over to where the report came from and saw young Master Liston Price standing there, lowering Mathers’ rifle. He appeared astounded by what he had just done.

Liston blinked, looked at the tiger then back to Roxton.

“You saved my life. Thank you.” Roxton said.

He knew the lad would make a great hunter some day.

***

“I spent a week in the hospital in Bombay. Was glad to see Mathers had pulled through as well. He is now happily retired. No more hunting he promised me. He will be living with a grandson in Ireland.”

Roxton told her the full story for the most part but left a few details out. Seeing William must have been his imagination running wild. He was hurt and delirious. He probably saw what he wanted to see -- and hear. As for the hunting knife. Well, I must have been more on the ball than I thought …

She had listened to his account, the sorrow and success of his adventure, had watched his countenance as he spoke, the struggle and loathing of what he had to do to that amazing tiger, but she was puzzled.

“Marguerite?”

“One thing.” she said, “You were to bring back the tiger as a trophy for Lord Lungry. But you didn’t, did you?”

“No, I had Liston bury the tiger before we left for the village.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. I just felt it was right. Respectful in a way.”

“It was going to kill you, Roxton.”

“And we killed him -- and his mate. And his offspring. I spoke to him, Marguerite. He was angry and grieving in his own way. I know that sounds crazy but we did speak, actually held a conversation. Hunter to hunter. Khokkosh was no longer a beast to me after that. I knew he had to die … that more horrible deaths would result if he didn’t - but I also know he deserved the respect of a decent burial. Besides that, he was a saber-toothed tiger. I'm not sure the world is ready to believe pre historic animals can come and go as they please here and now.”

“And you really think it was a saber-toothed tiger from the plateau?”

“Yes, I‘m certain. I need to talk with Challenger about that. Just think, another way onto and off of the plateau.”

Marguerite spoke dryly because they knew George too well. “He’ll be fascinated, I’m sure.”

“Yes, he will … But I didn’t mention anything about the plateau to Lungry when he saw me in the hospital.”

“Well, I hope he gave you a great big thank you because …”

“On the contrary.” Roxton’s tone grew low, nearly somber. “He was angry. Furious. I didn’t bring him his trophy. He didn’t get the satisfaction he wanted.” Roxton looked down into Marguerite’s wide, perplexed eyes. “He and Lady Lungry will not be attending our annual fox hunt this year, I’m sorry to say. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe we will be graced by their presence for a long time, if ever again.”

Marguerite scowled, “That son of a bitch.” she huffed, unaware her tone had kicked up a few octaves in fury. “After all you did, all those weeks in bloody India, getting yourself wounded, and he has the nerve to toss away your friendship like garbage?”

“I think the loss of Clive unhinged him a little.” Roxton shrugged slightly, regretful. “Maybe one day he’ll understand.”

He saw Marguerite’s enticing bottom lip quiver ever so slightly and her forehead crease with irritation. Roxton, adjusting himself on the bed, lifted her chin with a forefinger. Her head raised and once again he looked deeply into her wide glassy eyes. Yes, he saw anger, sorrow, fear and more, something impenetrable. “Marguerite,” he spoke softly, “What is wrong?”

“You were so close to being killed, John.” She glanced quickly at his bandaged shoulder. She would have a surgeon take a good look at it once they returned to Avebury. Dr. Wrapple would be there attending the fox hunt, she was sure. “It’s like the plateau follows us everywhere we go …”

The torment in her eyes, for him and for the both of them, was jarring.

“But I wasn’t.” he soothed, stroking her cheek with a thumb. Roxton was painfully aware that he had gone on and on with the account, as brutal and bloody as it was, without thinking how his beloved, the woman he was holding close, would feel about the danger he had met head-on in India. Both Roxton and Marguerite had faced so much menace on the plateau together that it never really suggested itself to him that his mission, the vivid details he imparted, would upset her.

“These scratches,” Roxton explained, shrugging his shoulder. “are nothing. The old beastie just managed to get a couple claws into me before he met his end.,” He attempted humor, hoping to appease her and take the seriousness out of the adventure. “You could have easily fixed it had you been there.” he awkwardly chuckled.

A shadow seemed to have crossed over her eyes, “Maybe I should have been there.” Marguerite murmured thoughtfully.

“No.” Now it was Roxton’s turn to display alarm, “I wouldn’t -- couldn’t have you there facing such peril, Marguerite. If you had been injured or killed I‘d …”

“Nothing we haven’t faced on the plateau together.” She repeated what he had said so often and smiled at his vaguely flummoxed expression, her point taken. “See, there is a difference now, John. You’re right. We are not on the plateau anymore and it is … different. I’m not sure if it‘s because we‘re married now or, as you once said, matters now are so much more real. But there is a distinction.”

Roxton stroked her hair. One moment she could appear a wounded kitten to him and next she was brave and spoke with such strength and common sense it was frightening. “We have our entire life together to figure it out, Marguerite. But, for now, it’s over. And I’m not going anywhere but back to Avebury with you. India was the last hurrah, my love, and I have a nice going away present from my time there.“ He motioned to his injury.

Having Roxton announce his retirement as a hunter was something Marguerite most wanted to hear but now that he had said it she felt sorrow. No, she did not want him to leave her again for more reasons than either he or she could imagine but to leave hunting altogether was like asking Roxton to cut off his legs. Somehow, she thought, they would work around it. The fox hunt in a couple of days was a good start.

“And now?” Marguerite asked.

“Now I plan to spend the rest of the evening alone with my wife in bed.” Roxton leaned down and gently kissed her neck, “We can send for room service.”

He moved to kiss her once again when Marguerite, pushing back slightly, allowed a tentative and somewhat regretful smile.

She placed fingers on his lips. “Not so fast lover-boy. Remember, I told you there was a surprise?

Roxton’s brow knitted. She did. Marguerite had mentioned a “surprise” in the Phantom. “I thought this was it.” He patted their large bed and nuzzled Marguerite’s temple.

“Not quite.” Marguerite pushed gently away from Roxton and sat up on the bed, pulling the sheet up to her chest. “I spoke with the Charleston’s, Rosetta and Phillip, last week and they are taking a late year vacation to the Orient. They leave on a ship tomorrow. When I told them you were returning today they insisted we have dinner tonight at The Chateau.”

Roxton’s head fell back heavily on his pillow, “Oh Marguerite …”

“John, Rosetta and Phillip are practically our best friends.” She leaned down slightly and placed a hand on his lower arm, “Rosetta, since you’ve been gone, has been particularly kind to me. She stayed at the estate for a week while you were away and it’s a good thing because …” Marguerite broke off, suddenly uncomfortable.

“What?” Roxton asked, apprehensive.

“Well, let’s just say your family got a little over-whelming and I needed a friend.”

“I was worried about that.” Roxton’s jaw tightened.

Marguerite could usually handle herself with his relations. He’d seen her cut cousin Harold down to size and rightly so when he came home drunk one evening and made some disparaging remarks about trophy wives and how Marguerite marrying his cousin was better than striking oil. Roxton himself had nearly told the oaf to leave and never come back. If it hadn’t been for Aunt Nora’s intervention and Marguerite assuring Roxton no harm was done, Harold Roxton might have been out in the cold for good. As it was relations were strained. However, Roxton currently felt there was more to what Marguerite conveyed. “What happened?” he asked.

“John, nothing you need know about. It was taken care of. It’s fine.”

Roxton vaguely recalled … (“She needs you, John. There’s trouble back home. You need to go home now. End this.”) … but once again decided he was probably delirious at the time. Honestly, he did not want to push his beloved further. She would tell him all she wanted him to know all in her own good time. He had learned to be patient with Marguerite in that regard. It was time for his and her life to get back to normal.

“Okay then, we’ll go out for supper.” Roxton gave in, his expression clearing. He smiled and suddenly seemed almost too cheerful.. “Have to warn you though, Marguerite, I don’t have a dress suit. Guess I‘ll just have to stay here. Care to join me?”

“You have a dress suit, darling. I brought it.” Marguerite smiled craftily at him.

Roxton feigned a sigh, “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you, my dear?” he asked, teasing, a hand rubbing her bare back.

“As always.” She looked over at the King Louie clock near their bed. “What time is it? Four twenty? We have plenty of time. Supper is at seven. A little early but the Charlestons have to get up early tomorrow morning to catch their ship. And, of course, we have to leave early for the estate. That way we can be there before dark.”

“So that means we don’t have to get up for, what, another hour?” Roxton spoke suggestively, abruptly wrapping both arms around Marguerite, twisting about, and bringing her slender form to lay atop him. “What will we do with all that time?”

The teasing growl in his tone was familiar and never ceased to electrify her. Entering into the spirit of their game, gently rubbing fingers against the sparse hair of his tanned chest, Marguerite spoke in a seductive tone of her own. “I’m sure we can figure out something …”

The couple embraced tenderly, giggled a bit, and loved, delicious and warm, with great affection and passion.

Roxton was deeply happy. It was so good to be home.

***

CHAPTER 6-7 COMING SOON.

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