Read a free sample · By Ron James

The Gods Mark the Hunter

Prologue

The Pantanal, Brazil

Rain fell steadily over the oxbow, dimpling the channels between forest islands and softening the banks where capybaras had fed the night before.

A female jaguar followed a strip of high ground through the gallery forest.

Two cubs followed. The male was deep gold. His sister was pale—nearly white—with faint rosettes along her shoulders.

The mother kept the pale cub within the densest cover. When the cub strayed toward open ground, she blocked her with one shoulder and redirected her toward the trees.

They had followed this route many times: along the flooded bank, through a stand of fig trees, and down to an oxbow where capybaras gathered near dawn.

This morning, the capybaras were gone.

The mother stopped and tested the air.

She smelled sweat and tobacco.

Men.

She pushed the cubs away from the water. A fallen fig tree lay ahead, its exposed roots forming a hollow above the flood line. She forced the pale cub inside first, then pressed the golden male behind her.

The male tried to follow when she backed away.

A low growl stopped him.

Two hundred meters away, a tracker crouched behind a screen of wet brush. Rainwater ran from the brim of his cap as he held a night-vision scope against one eye. He had spent two days following camera-trap reports and the observations of a local guide. Three sightings in six weeks. The same female. The same two cubs.

The pale one had appeared only in fragments: a white flank behind reeds, a face washed nearly blank by infrared light.

Until now, no one had been certain she existed.

The tracker lowered the scope.

“Both cubs are with her,” he whispered. “The white one is confirmed.”

The tall man behind him raised his binoculars.

Three pale scars crossed the left side of his face, beginning near the jaw and ending at his temple.

The tracker glanced at them, then looked away.

“How close can you get?” the tall man asked.

“Fifty meters. Maybe less.”

“I want the cubs alive.”

“The mother won’t leave them.”

“I know.”

The tall man studied the tree line.

“Move in from both sides. No shooting unless she charges. I want her coat intact.”

Six men separated and entered the flooded forest.

The mother heard the first boot enter the water.

She flattened herself beside the fig tree, ears low, tail rigid. The cubs shifted inside the hollow. She turned her head once to make certain they remained hidden.

A white light shone between the trees.

Then another.

The beams swept across trunks, hanging vines, and brown floodwater. Voices followed. Men advanced carefully, rifles held above the water.

One of the lights found the mother.

She attacked before the man carrying the light could shout.

She crossed the distance in two bounds and struck him high in the chest. He fell backward into the water, the light spinning from his hand. The jaguar turned toward the other men. “Hold your fire!” the tracker shouted. “You’ll ruin the coat.”

The tall man walked forward.

Rain ran down his face and along the three scars. He carried a hunting rifle low against his body.

The jaguar crouched between him and the fallen tree, ears flat and teeth bared.

He stopped twenty meters away and touched the scars with two fingers.

“People believe the hunter leaves the mark,” he said.

The jaguar lowered herself for another charge.

“Sometimes the gods choose differently.”

She sprang.

He raised the rifle and fired once.

The shot struck her through the chest. She took one step and collapsed beside the roots of the fig tree.

Inside the hollow, the pale cub pressed herself against the earth. Her brother crowded beside her, trembling.

The tall man approached the mother.

Her coat was largely intact. Golden fur, black rosettes, one bullet wound behind the shoulder.

“The cubs,” the tracker said.

The tall man looked toward the hollow.

“Take them separately. No injuries.”

Two handlers brought steel transport crates from the boats. One reached into the hollow with a restraint pole while another pulled the golden cub out by the loose skin behind his neck.

He screamed for his mother.

The pale cub struck at the hands that followed. Her claws were too small to do much damage, but the handler cursed and tightened his grip.

The tall man watched them place the cubs into separate crates.

The golden male threw himself against the door. The pale female crouched at the rear of hers and stared through the steel mesh.

The tall man turned back to the dead mother. “Have the helicopter take her to Rojas in Buenos Aires.”

“The taxidermist?”

“He can repair the damage.”

“Full mount?”

“Of course.”

He looked at the cubs.

“She’ll stand in the lodge where they can see her when they’re older.”

The tracker shifted.

The tall man noticed.

“Something troubles you?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Send the coordinates.”

The helicopter arrived before sunrise.

It descended into a clearing beside the river, flattening reeds and driving rain across the water. The transport crates were loaded first. The mother’s body followed, wrapped in canvas and secured to the cabin floor.

The tall man remained in the clearing as the aircraft lifted.

Through the mesh door of her crate, the pale cub watched the flooded forest fall away.

The helicopter turned south.

The golden cub continued to call from the crate beside her.

The pale cub watched until she could no longer see the forest.

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© 2026 Ron James. All rights reserved. Sample reproduced with permission.