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Northern Rhodesia Leopards are nocturnal hunters, elusive and cunning. They kill by clamping their jaw on the throat of their prey, thereby choking them. They are able to drag a victim weighing twice their own weight up a tree for safe keeping. Leopards are cautious and vigilant, evaporating at the first hint of danger. The plateau and savanna of Northern Rhodesia offers the perfect habitat for leopards with its ample game and thick tree cover near the rivers. The other trophy animals are larger and seem fiercer, but it was the Square Rosette Leopard that became the prize for big game hunters because it is tricky to isolate and requires a long true shot. It was always that shot that worried Morgan Palmer most when hunting with amateurs. The male-puku carcass dangled from a thick branch of the acacia tree. Several ropes were attached to its hind legs, which were strung so that the carcass remained out of the reach of hyenas. Palmer admired his work. The puku’s position was perfect. A cat would need to climb the trunk and move along the main branch to reach it. The leopard’s torso would be broadside to a hunter positioned 100 meters downwind. The acacia grew in front of a sparse grove of river bush willow, which gave a perfect backdrop to the lure. Winter had arrived late this year on the Luangwa plateau. It was now early September and it had not rained for three weeks, leaving the grassland parched and dusty. The grazing animals were on the move, searching for lower grasslands and water. Palmer had placed his camp site in a sheltered ravine near the river shore, about three kilometers from where he was standing. His top hunter had shot the puku in a dombo north of their camp along the Luangwa River. He and the two natives hired by Palmer had hoisted it up the tree. Palmer was now carefully tightening the connection screw on the Weaver adjustable scope to the 30-06 Winchester and then positioned the rifle for a clean shot to where he suspected the animal would crouch in the tree. He set the tripod securely on the ground close to a rock formation, allowing a clear view of the tree, the bait and the surrounding area. The scope was aimed at a spot three feet to the right of the carcass. Palmer slipped a cartridge into the chamber, set the lock, and lay down again on the blanket to correct the rifle’s elevation fractionally. The afternoon temperature was a perfect 18°C with a soft breeze coming off of the plain. The wind would die down once the sun slipped over the hills. Palmer’s looked back at his client from Oklahoma, Roscoe Lambert, who lounged in the comfort of a canvas chair. He didn't belong here, Palmer reflected. The out-of-doors was not his arena; he belonged in a library or an expensive restaurant. Lambert’s short, plump frame reflected this life-style. Like most of his clients, Palmer guessed that the only thing Lambert—or maybe his wife—wanted was a trophy for his den wall. The tall boots, multi-pocketed jacket and wide-brimmed hat misrepresented him. Morgan knew that deep down, Lambert didn’t want to kill anything. Two white men worked along with Palmer to prepare the shoot site. Both were a sun-baked brown and moved with a litheness acquired from a life on the savanna. One of the men, Lynch, the one who had shot the bait, worked with the two natives securing the puku and removing evidence of their presence. The second hunter, a young man named Keane, hung back with the gun bearers, squatting next to the Range Rover as he cleaned his large hunting knife. Morgan Palmer was everything his clients were not: confident, commanding, attractive and eminently personable. He had just turned forty-one, still muscular and sinuous, and spoke with a mellifluous voice that carried both strength and certainty. His voice was like a magnet; it captured your attention and held it. In the evenings after dinner, he sometimes played his guitar and sang, his eyes closed, as he seemed to drift into a different world. In the firelight, his dark features, long black hair and bushy dark eyebrows would invariably attract the gaze of the women on safari. Although Morgan appeared insouciant to his safari clients, his true nature was as dark as his Welsh countenance. His moods sometime revealed an unexplained anger with people, a shadowy mood that startled those around him with its intensity. His affinity was for animals; he understood them and respected them. He took no joy in killing them. It was a business and he was selective and compassionate when game was found. He held no such admiration for people, black or white; his relationship with humans was as a puppeteer. Once, on safari, after an explosive outburst, Morgan tried to explain his moods to a very good client. "My mind and body are in tune with nature, with the life on this grassy plateau. I am at peace in the silence that reigns here. Humans disturb the tranquility of this place, and in turn, my mind. It’s then that I erupt and for this display of poor manners, I apologize to you."