The staked Goat

the Second World War. But there are still some tigers. And an old guy in that last village said he was a guide. I was there when the scout was questioning him. Honest.”
    ”So?” I said.
    ”So,” said Al, looking crafty, ”for fifty dollars American, we can get ourselves a shot at a tiger.”
    I closed my eyes and hung my head. ”Why,” I said to the ground, ”in the name of God, do you want to shoot a tiger?”
    ”Aw, c’mon, John. When are you ever gonna get another chance like this. A big game safari for fifty bucks!”
    ”Al, we are pulling out at zero-five-thirty hours tomorrow.”
    ”Tonight, John, tonight. We’ll be gone and back by midnight.”
    ”Man, do you have any idea how much a tiger weighs, or do you already have bearers signed up to carry it out?”
    He sulked. ”Ah, c’mon John. We’ll probably never even see a tiger. It’s the thrill. A once in a lifetime chance to have some sport in this godforsaken stink-hole of a country.”
    I held up my hand. ”Al, I am not going stalking through a jungle at night after a tiger.”
    ”But that’s the beauty of it, John. The guide’ll take care of that. He knows a watering hole that the cats use. It’s close by. He’ll lead us there, then bring a goat and stake it out for us. It’ll be like sitting in your living room.”
    ”Then why do you need me?”
    Al sighed. ”Because I’m not about to go after a tiger with just a scout and an old man as back-up. I want a friend I can rely on.”
    I thought back to the BOQ brawl when Al jumped in to help me. ”O.K.,” I said.
    Al clenched his fist, shook it into the air. He rose up and danced a little jig.
    Al convinced the company commander that Al and I wanted the experience of setting up a night ambush with the scout. The commander thought our attitude was ”outstanding.” We slipped through our perimeter, advising the guards of our likely direction and return time.
    In the bright moonlight, we moved quickly back up the trail to the village, a little less than a kilometer. The scout, whose name was Van, connected us with the guide, who was called Chiia te\ or simply ”master” in Vietnamese. Master had a scraggly, dung-encrusted goat on a rope. I didn’t catch the goat’s name.
    Through Van, Master asked us for his money. I always carried real cash, not MPC (Military Payment Certificates), in the boonies. I once heard that a Finance Corps lieutenant was killed when he tried to buy his way out of a tight situation with MPC. The locals wanted real currency, not monopoly money.
    After the exchange of cash, Master produced two large-bore antique rifles. He demonstrated how the breech-loading mechanism functioned, then doled out 1 four bullets each to Al and me. I gave Al a murderous glare. He pretended not to notice. There were the sounds of a dog barking and a child crying from somewhere in the village as we struck off.
    The path was narrow, but well worn. I asked the scout about it. Master explained in Vietnamese, translated by Van, that the villagers occasionally used the watering hole in daylight hours. We continued on in silence.
    After perhaps two hundred meters, we started downhill and quickly reached a pool of stagnant, bug-covered water, a quarter acre at most in size. Master looped the goat’s lead around a branch, chattering in Vietnamese and gesturing at a large tree. Through the moonlight I could make out a crude platform in a limb crotch halfway up the trunk. I thought about asking why, if I could see the blind, the tiger couldn’t also. However, Master was already up the tree, and Al on his way, so I didn’t bother. I followed the first two climbers. After Van handed heavenward all our gear, he joined us.
    The blind, sturdy enough in a hand-hewn way, faced the pond. There were some newer branches and fronds camouflaging the front. Master explained through Van how the tigers would appear at the far side of the pond, and where to aim, and so forth. Al was to have the first shot.
    Master scrambled back down the tree and led the goat around the pond to a point directly across from us, perhaps forty meters line-of-sight. He tied the goat’s lead to a downed limb and then lightly stepped back around to us. The goat, who I assume by now was getting the general drift of what was happening, began to bleat. Incessantly.
    Master returned to our platform, a big smile on his face. He said something to Van, and Van said, ”Master say we wait now.”
    It took nearly an hour for the