Fred and his Hadzabe bushman tracker were driving to Arusha for supplies near dusk. When passing an acacia tree, a leopard suddenly leapt off the tree, chased down the Jeep, and jumped into the open vehicle, no doubt reacting to the zebra markings and movement of the truck.

The massive cat attacked, slashing his claws across Fred’s chest. Fred instantly grabbed his rifle and slammed it into the leopard’s snout, just as the bushman jumped out of the truck and started running.

The leopard took off after the bushman. Within seconds, the cat was savaging the tracker, biting his arm and clawing chest and stomach.

Fred later said that he thought the bushman was going to die unless he took the shot, so he fired a round at the leopard. With his injuries and weakened condition, he missed both the cat and, fortunately, the man, but the rifle report frightened off the leopard.

Forty-five years later, Brian was at a campfire, swapping yarns with Hadza bushmen. He had just told the story of Fred, the tracker, and the leopard when, across the fire, an elderly bushman slowly rose, dropped his cloak, and revealed horrific scars disfiguring his arm and torso.

He said, “That tracker was me.”