Tiger - Jeff Stone [21]
Fu was well aware that knowing your enemy is often the key to victory. As he ran, he struggled to remember what little he knew about tiger hunters. Hunters—if they could be called that—would dig a large pit in the middle of a tiger trail, line it with sharp bamboo stakes secured deep in the ground, and cover the pit loosely with brush. Then they would set up a “drive.” Armed with long spears, the hunters would walk in a group along a tiger trail, making a tremendous commotion. Tigers preferred to steer clear of people, so the tiger being hunted would run ahead of the group in an effort to stay out of the way, usually sticking to the path it routinely followed. If it wasn't careful, it would fall into the pit, landing on the spikes, impaled and stuck at the bottom with little or no mobility. The hunters would come running—but not to end the animal's suffering. Instead, they would slash the tiger repeatedly with the razor-sharp metal tips of their long spears, tormenting the tiger for hours until it slowly bled to death.
Men did this simply to make themselves feel powerful. They called themselves “sport” hunters. Fu was not about to let any man make himself feel powerful at the expense of an animal. Especially a tiger.
Before long, Fu was close enough that he could hear men talking. He slowed down. There seemed to be three men and a boy—one of the voices was quite small. Two of the voices were so loud and brash, Fu thought half of China could hear their boasting. Those two were certainly hunters.
“How strong you are, good sir, standing before the beast's offspring so calmly,” the first hunter said.
“And how brave your son is at your side, wielding his spear,” said the second hunter.
Fu grew enraged. Bravery? Strength? These men had dug a hole and tricked a tiger. What did they know about bravery and strength? Fu's eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. He would teach these braggarts something about bravery and strength.
Just then, something whimpered. Softly once, then louder a second time.
“Stick him again, brave boy!” the second hunter shouted.
“No, no!” the first hunter said excitedly. “Don't stick him, finish him! Finish the little monster while I finish his mother in the pit!”
There was a short grunt from the person with the small voice, and then another whimper—followed by a huge roar. So there were two tigers! A mother in a pit and her cub off to one side. Fu rushed toward the voices, scanning the ground as he ran. Without breaking stride, he reached down and grabbed a fallen tree limb about as long as he was tall. He snapped several small twigs off the old, dried-out branch, throwing them to the ground. What was left in his hands was a makeshift staff that was so old and dry it would most likely shatter upon its first impact. But all he needed was one shot. Fu lowered his head and bounded through a line of tall, dew-drenched ferns. When he burst out the other side, he was running at top speed.
Taken completely by surprise, the hunters saw a large, robust, orange-robed boy racing toward them carrying a long, crooked stick. His head was bald, and large beads of dew clung to it, glistening in the early-morning light. The collar of his robe was streaked with crusted, dried blood on one side, and his cheek on that side seemed to have a patch of moss growing out of it. Fire burned in his eyes as he headed first one way, then changed direction slightly and went straight for the hunter standing closest