bag which served as his outer garment. He did it cautiously, casting
sharp glances frequently at the rajah, who, sleeping soundly on his
cot, breathed heavily. After starting a strip with his teeth,
Neranya would by the same means attach it to the railing of his cage
and then wriggle away, much after the manner of a caterpillar’s
crawling, and this would cause the strip to be torn out the full
length of his garment. He repeated this operation with incredible
patience and skill until his entire garment had been torn into
strips. Two or three of these he tied together with his tongue,
lips, and teeth, and secured the ends in a similar way to the
railing, thus making a short swing on one side. This done, he tied
the other strips together, doubling some which were weak, and in
this way he made a rope several feet in length, one end of which he
made fast to the rail. It then began to dawn upon me that he was
going to make an insane attempt--impossible of achievement without
hands or feet, arms or legs--to escape from his cage! For what
purpose? The rajah was asleep in the hall----! I caught my breath.
Oh, the desperate, insane thirst for revenge which consumed the
impotent, miserable Neranya! Even though he should accomplish the
impossible feat of climbing over the railing of his cage and falling
to the stone floor below (for how could he slide down the rope?), he
would in all probability be killed or stunned; and even if he should
escape these dangers it would be impossible for him to climb upon
the cot without rousing the rajah, and impossible even though the
rajah were dead! A man without arms or legs might descend by
falling, he never could ascend by climbing. Amazed at his daring,
and fully convinced that his sufferings had destroyed his reason, I
watched him with breathless, absorbing interest.
He caught the longer rope in his teeth at a point not far from the
rail. Then, wriggling with great effort to an upright position, his
back braced against the rail, he put his chin over the swing and
worked toward one end. He tightened the grasp of his chin upon the
swing, and, with tremendous exertion, working the lower end of his
spine against the railing, he began gradually to ascend. The labor
was so great that he was compelled to pause at intervals, and his
breathing was hard and painful, and even while thus resting he was
in a position of terrible strain, and his pushing against the swing
caused it to press hard against his windpipe and nearly suffocate
him.
After amazing effort he elevated the lower end of his body until it
protruded above the railing, the top of which was now across the
lower end of his abdomen. Gradually he worked his body over, going
backward, until there was sufficient excess of weight on the outer
side, and then with a quick lurch he raised his head and shoulders
and swung into a horizontal position. Of course, he would have
fallen to the floor below had it not been for the rope which he held
in his teeth. With such nicety had he calculated the distance
between his mouth and the point of fastening, that the rope
tightened and checked him just as he reached the horizontal position
on the rail. If one had told me beforehand that such a feat as this
man had accomplished was possible, I would have thought him a fool.
I continued to watch with intense interest.
Neranya was now balanced on his stomach across the top of the
railing, and he eased his position somewhat by bending his spine and
hanging down as much as possible. Having rested in this position for
some minutes, he began cautiously to slide off, slowly paying out
the rope through his teeth. Now, it is quite evident that the rope
would have escaped from his teeth laterally when he slightly relaxed
his hold to let it slip, had it not been for a very ingenious device
to which he had resorted. This consisted in his having made a turn
of the rope around his neck before he attached the swing, thus
securing a three-fold control of the rope--one by his teeth, another
by friction against his neck, and a third by his ability to compress
it between his cheek and shoulder.
A stupendous and seemingly impossible part of his task was
accomplished. Could he reach the floor in safety? Gradually he
worked himself backward over the rail, in momentary imminent danger
of falling; but his nerve never quivered, and I could see a
wonderful glitter in his eyes. With something of a lurch, his body
fell against the outer side of the railing, and he was hanging by
his chin. Slowly he worked his chin away and then hung suspended by
the rope, his neck bearing the weight of his trunk. By almost
imperceptible degrees, with infinite caution, he descended the rope,
and finally his unwieldy body rolled upon the floor, safe and
unhurt!
What next? Was this some superhuman monster who had accomplished
this impossible miracle? Would he immediately spring to invisible
feet, run to the rajah’s bedside, and stab him with an invisible
dagger held in an invisible hand? No; I was too philosophic for such
mad thoughts; there was plenty of time for interference. I was quick
and strong. I would wait awhile and see what other impossible things
this monster could do.
Imagine my astonishment when, instead of approaching the sleeping
rajah, Neranya took another direction. Then it was only escape after
all that the miserable wretch contemplated and not the murder of the
rajah! But how could he escape? The only possible way to reach the
outer air was by ascending the stairs to the balcony and leaving by
the corridor, which opened upon it, and surely it was impossible for
Neranya to ascend that long flight of stairs! Nevertheless, he made
for the stairs. He progressed by lying on his back, with his face
toward the point of destination, bowing his spine upward, and thus
causing his head and shoulders to slip nearly an inch forward,
straightening his spine and pushing forward the lower end of his
back a distance equal to that which his head had advanced, each time
pressing his head to the floor to keep it from slipping. His
progress was slow, painful, and laborious, as the floor was
slippery, rendering difficult the task of taking a firm hold with
his head. Finally, he arrived at the foot of the stairs.
It was at once manifest that his purpose was to ascend them. The
desire for freedom must have been strong within him. Wriggling to an
upright position against the newel-post, he looked up at the great
height which he had to climb and sighed; but there was no dimming of
the bright light in his eyes. How could he accomplish the impossible
task before him?
His solution of the problem was very simple. While leaning against
the newel-post, he fell in a diagonal position and lay safe upon the
bottom step on his side. Turning upon his back, he wriggled forward
along the step the necessary few inches to reach the rail, scrambled
to an upright, but inverted, position against the rail, and then
fell and landed safely on the second step. This explains the manner
in which, with inconceivable labor, he accomplished the ascent of
the entire flight of stairs.
It being evident that the rajah was not the object of Neranya’s
movements, the anxiety which I had felt on that account was entirely
dispelled, and I watched Neranya now only with a sense of absorbing
interest and curiosity. The things which he had accomplished were
entirely beyond the wildest imagination, and, in a sense, I was in a
condition of helpless wonder. The sympathy which I had always felt
for the unhappy man was now greatly quickened; and as small as I
knew the chances of his ultimate escape to be, I nevertheless hoped
that he would succeed. There was a bare chance that he would fall
into the hands of the British soldiery not far away, and I inwardly
prayed for his success. Any assistance from me, however, was out of
the question; nor should it ever be known that I had witnessed the
escape.
Neranya was now upon the balcony, and I could dimly see him
wriggling along as he slowly approached the door. The rail was low,
and I could barely see him beyond it. Finally he stopped and
wriggled to an upright position. His back was toward the hall, but
he slowly turned around and faced me. At that great distance I could
not distinguish his features, but the slowness with which he had
worked, even before he had fully accomplished the ascent of the
stairs, was evidence all too eloquent of his extreme exhaustion.
Nothing but a most desperate resolution could have sustained him
thus far, but he had about drawn upon the last remnant of his
strength.
He looked around the hall with a sweeping glance, and then upon the
rajah, who was soundly sleeping immediately beneath him, over twenty
feet down. He looked long and earnestly, sinking lower, and lower,
and lower upon the rail. Suddenly, to my inconceivable astonishment
and dismay, he toppled over and shot downward from his lofty height.
I held my breath, expecting to see him crushed into a bloody mass on
the stones beneath, but instead of that he fell full upon the
rajah’s breast, crashing through the cot, and hurling him to the
floor. I sprang forward with a loud cry for help, and was instantly
at the scene of the disaster. Imagine my indescribable horror when I
found that Neranya’s teeth were buried in the rajah’s throat! With a
fierce clutch I tore the wretch away, but the blood was pouring out
in torrents from the frightfully lacerated throat, the chest was
crushed in, and the rajah was gasping in the death agony. People
came running in, terrified. I turned to Neranya. He lay upon his
back, his face hideously smeared with blood. Murder, and not escape,
was his intention from the beginning; he had adopted the only plan
by which there was a possibility of accomplishing it. I knelt beside
him, and saw that he was dying--his back had been broken by the
fall. He smiled sweetly into my face; and the triumphant look of
accomplished revenge sat upon his face even in death.
THE MAN-HUNTERS’ REWARD
By Buckey O’Neill
“That isn’t a bad reward!”
“No; if a fellow could catch him, he would make pretty good wages.
Let’s see,” and the second speaker began to read the postal-card
that the postmaster at Hard Scrabble had just tacked to the door of
the store that constituted the “office,” so that every one might
read:
TAKE HIM IN!
$500 Reward will be paid for the arrest and delivery of Rube
White to the sheriff of Yavapai County. He is about
twenty-five years old, six feet tall, and slim, with light
complexion, and has a big scar on the right side of his
face. He is wanted for robbery and other crimes. If killed
in resisting arrest the reward will be paid on satisfactory
proof of his identity. When last heard from was making for
the Tonto Basin country.
By the time the reader had finished, a crowd of half a dozen or more
men surrounded him.
“Now, if that feller is headed for the Tonto Basin country, it
wouldn’t be much of a trick to take him,” said the first speaker,
reflectively, as if debating with himself the advisability of making
the attempt.
“If you hear me, he ain’t going to be taken in, and the feller that
tries it is going to have his hands full. They have been after him
for two or three years and aint got him yet. They say he’s right on
the shoot,” remarked another of the crowd.
“Well, a feller ought to know him as soon as he sees him, from that
description,” hazarded the first speaker, “if he got up close enough
to see the scar; and then all he’d have to do would be to turn loose
at him if he didn’t throw up his hands when you told him. Besides,
nobody but him would try to cross over the mountains into the basin
with this snow on the ground. Blamed if I don’t think I’ll go after
him.”
“Well, somebody ought to round him up,” asserted some one in the
crowd; “he’s been foolin’ roun’ hyah long enough, jes havin’ his own
way, sorter as if the country belonged to him. Durned if I wouldn’t
go with you, Hi, if I didn’t have to take this grub over to the boys
in camp.”
“Well, if any of you want to go, all right. I’m going,” replied the
man addressed as Hi.
It was not the first time that Hi Lansing had been on such
expeditions. He was one of those men for whom danger seems to have a
fascination. At his remark, Frank Crandall, a young fellow who had
been standing quietly by, volunteered to accompany him. The crowd
turned toward him with more interest than they had thus far evinced
during the entire proceedings. It was but a few months since he had
come among them, fresh from the East, to take charge of one of the
mines which had been closed down by the winter’s storms. For weeks
he had been cooped up in the isolated settlement, and he longed for
something to break its monotony.
“Well, get your horse and gun, and come,” replied Hi, and, in an
instant, the two men had left the room to arm and equip themselves
for the chase, while the loungers gathered around the stove to
discuss the probabilities of their success. In a few minutes, the
two men rode past the door, each armed with a rifle and six-shooter,
and the crowd, stepping out, bade them good-by, with the
oft-repeated warning: “Be keerful and don’t let him get the drop on
ye.”
The crust of the unbroken snow cracked crisply under foot as the two
rode on fast, leaving the little settlement in their rear. For some
time neither spoke; but, at last, the silence was broken by Lansing,
asking his young companion: “Did you ever try this kind of thing
before?”
“No,” replied the young man; “I never have.”
“Well, then, you want to be keerful. If you don’t lose yer head,
you’re all right. The only danger is that we may run on him before
we know it.”
“And if we do, what then?” asked the young man.
“Well, he will probably commence shooting, and if he does, and you
arn’t hit the first rattle out of the box, why you want to git off’n
your horse and git behind something and shoot back. If ther aint
anything to git behind, keep your horse between you and him, and
keep a-shooting. Whatever you do, don’t let go of your gun. But what
we want to do is to see him first, and then we’ve got the play on
him, and all you have to do is to tell him to throw up.”
“And if he don’t throw up?” asked Crandall.
“Why, then you let him have it. The reward will be paid just the
same.”
The apparent indifference with which Lansing spoke of the entire
matter, much as if he were discussing the best method of hunting a
wild animal, shocked the young man; but he had committed himself too
far to withdraw. Besides he had that feeling that all men have when
they are young--the curiosity to know whether or not he could rely
on himself when danger threatened.
“We should strike his trail on the hills here, if he is really
headed for the basin country,” said Lansing. They had been riding
for several hours in silence through the snow, unbroken by aught
save the scattered pines that here and there dotted the mesa. Before
them towered the mountains through whose passes the man whom they
were after would have to pass in his search for safety in the
half-settled wilds beyond.
As the two men rode along, scanning in each direction the
snow-covered mesa, Lansing suddenly wheeled his horse to the right,
and when Crandall joined him he pointed to a narrow trail where two
horses had passed through the snow.
“That’s him. He’s driving one horse and leading another, and he
hasn’t passed by very long, either. See, the snow hasn’t had time to
drift in it,” said he.
With the discovery his whole demeanor had changed. A new look came
into his eyes, and his voice sounded strange. He even grasped his
weapons in a manner different to that he had heretofore displayed.
“He’s right ahead, and we want to look out,” the older man
continued, as they began to follow the trail. As they approached the
summit of each hill they would stop their horses, and Lansing would
dismount and crawl to the top so that he might look, without being
discovered, into the valley beyond, in order that they might not
come on the fugitive too suddenly.
They had traveled this way for several miles, when, reining in his
horse, Lansing pointed to what seemed an old road leading off to the
right of the one they were following, and said: “That’s the
‘cut-off’ into the basin. I thought he would take it, but he
probably doesn’t know the country. You had better take it and ride
on ahead until you strike the road we’re on again. Then if you can’t
find his tracks, you had better ride back to meet me until you do. I
will follow the trail up.”
The young man tried to expostulate with Lansing for the great risk
he was assuming, in thus following the trail alone, but his
companion was obdurate, and, cutting the argument short by again
warning the young man to be on his guard, he rode on, following the
trail in the snow, while the younger man, finding objection useless,
took the “cut-off” road. He had no difficulty in following it, and
he wondered why the man they were in pursuit of had not taken
advantage of it. The whole pursuit seemed almost like a dream to
him. The snow, unbroken save by his horse’s footfall, stretched away
mile after mile in every direction, with here and there a pine
through whose branches the wind seemed to sob and sigh, making the
only noise that broke the stillness of the wintry afternoon. It
added to this feeling. Not a thing in sight. He began to depict in
his own mind the manner of man they were pursuing. He had almost
forgotten his name. After all, what had the man done that he, Frank
Crandall, should be seeking his blood? Perhaps, like himself, the
man had a mother and sisters to grieve over any misfortune that
would overtake him. These and a hundred kindred thoughts passed
through his mind. The sun was fast declining as he passed from the
“cutoff” into the main road again. The air was getting chilly with
the coming of evening, and the snow in the distance took on colors
of pink and purple where the rays of the setting sun touched the
mountain peaks. He scanned the main road eagerly to see if the man
they were in pursuit of had passed, but the snow that covered it was
unbroken. Then he rode back on the main road, in the direction from
which he had come, to meet his comrade and the fugitive. He had just
ascended one of the many rolling hills, when, in the distance, he
discovered a man riding one horse and driving another. At the sight
his heart almost stood still. He dismounted, and leading his horse
to one side, concealed him in a clump of young pines. Then he
returned to the road-side and waited. The man was urging his horses
forward, but they seemed to be wearied, and made but slow progress.
Crandall felt his heart beat faster and faster at the length of time
it took the man to reach him. He examined his revolver and rifle,
cocking each, to see that they were in order. It seemed to relieve
the tension of his nerves. After he had done this, he knelt down so
that he could fire with surer aim, and waited. He did not care much
now whether the man resisted or not. If the fugitive resisted, he
would have to stand the consequence of resistance. It was nothing to
him. He could hear the footfall of the approaching horses in the
snow, and he cocked his rifle so as to be ready. The setting sun
shone full in the man’s face, but Crandall forgot to look for the
scar that the notice had said was on the right cheek, although he
had resolved to do so particularly. When he first discovered the
fugitive, he scanned the road behind him to discover Lansing, but
the nearer the man approached, the less Crandall cared whether
Lansing came or not. He let the man approach nearer and nearer, so
that his aim would be the more accurate. He could not afford to
throw away the first shot. The face of the man grew more and more
distinct. He seemed to be oblivious to his surroundings. Crandall
felt almost disposed to let him pass, but the thought that every one
would think him a coward if he did so, spurred him on, and, rising
erect, he ordered the man to surrender. The horse that the man was
driving in front of him, frightened at Crandall’s appearance,
swerved from the road, leaving the two men facing each other. For an
instant, Crandall looked straight into the other’s eyes. Then the
man raised his rifle from the pommel of the saddle, and Crandall
fired. The horse which the man was riding sprang from the road, and,
at the same moment, its rider’s gun was discharged. The smoke from
Crandall’s own gun blew back into his eyes, and he turned from it to
follow the movements of the man at whom he had fired. As he saw the
man still erect in his saddle, he felt the feverish haste to fire
again come over him that men feel when they have shot and missed,
and know that their life may be the forfeit of their failure. He
threw another cartridge into the chamber of his rifle, and raised it
to his shoulder, but before he could fire, the man reeled from his
saddle and fell, while his frightened horse galloped off through the
pines.
Crandall stepped toward him, holding his rifle prepared to fire
again, if necessary. As he did so, the man raised his hand and said,
simply: “Don’t fire--you’ve got me.”
The snow was already red with blood where he lay. For the first
time, Crandall looked for the scar that the description said was on
the right cheek. For an instant he did not see it, and his heart
seemed to stop beating with the fear of having made a mistake, and
when, on drawing nearer, he saw that it was there, that only the
pallor which had spread over the man’s face had made it indistinct,
he could have cried out with joy at the feeling of relief that
passed over him.
“Are you badly wounded?” he asked.
“I don’t know how bad it is. It is here somewhere,” the man said,
placing his hand on his breast, as if not certain of the exact spot.
“It feels numb-like,” he added. Stooping down, Crandall unbuckled
and took off the man’s pistol-belt and threw it into the snow, where
lay his rifle, and then he tore open the man’s shirt. As he did so
his fingers came in contact with the warm blood, and he
involuntarily drew back, with a feeling of disgust.
“Did you find it?” asked the man, who was watching him closely, and
who had observed the movement.
Recalled to himself by the question, Crandall again tore at the
shirt, exposing the breast. Where the blood did not cover it, it
looked like marble, despite the dark hair on it. He could not see
the wound, on account of the blood, until he had wiped the latter
from the breast, and then he found it.
“What do you think of it?” the man asked.
“There it is,” replied Crandall. He could not say more. The
appealing tone in the man’s voice for some hope--some
encouragement--made him feel faint and sick.
“What do you think of it?” the man repeated, in a querulous voice,
and, as he did so, he coughed until his mouth filled with blood, and
he spat it out on the white snow.
Crandall shook his head and walked toward where his horse was tied.
He felt that if he watched the wounded man any longer he would
faint. Noticing his walking away, the wounded man said: “For God’s
sake, don’t leave me. Now that you have killed me, stay with me, and
don’t let me die like a dog.”
The voice was one of entreaty, and Crandall returned and seated
himself in the snow by the man’s side. The sun had gone down, and
the twilight had come on, bringing with it the chill of night.
Crandall covered the wounded man’s body with his overcoat, and
raised his head from the snow. Almost unconsciously he noted that as
the patch of red made by the blood grew larger and larger, the face
of the wounded man grew whiter and whiter. He never took his eyes
from Crandall’s face, while his breath came quicker and shorter, as
if he breathed with labor. With each breath the blood seemed to
bubble from the wound in the breast. One of the man’s hands fell
from under the coat that covered him. As Crandall raised it from the
snow, its coldness sent a chill through him. Once he had asked the
wounded man if he could do anything for him; but the man had only
shaken his head in reply. Crandall felt like reviling himself for
what he had done, and wondered why the wounded man did not reproach
him. Even when he expressed his sorrow at having shot him, the dying
man had said, gently: “Don’t mind it. It’s too late now.”
The twilight gave way to darkness, and still he sat there. He could
not hear the dying man breathe without leaning over his face. He did
not do this but once, though, and then the dying man had opened his
eyes and looked up into his face, inquiringly. Crandall would rather
have stayed there until morning than to have caught that look again.
Suddenly he heard a voice call to him. He started as if he had been
fired at, but it was only Lansing. As he answered the call, Lansing
rode forward and, seeing the outstretched form on the snow, said:
“By God, you got him!”
“Hush!” replied Crandall, fearful lest the wounded man would hear
the exulting tone which grated on his own ears as nothing had ever
before done. But not minding the admonition, Lansing dismounted, and
striking a match held it close to the man’s face. It was pale and
cold, and the half-opened eyes were glazed. They did not even
reflect the light made from the match, but from the partly opened
mouth a tiny stream of half-congealed blood seemed to be still
flowing down over the beard.