Twelve mounted sahibs gallop this way and that, collecting _shikaris_
and beaters. Native officers distribute fire-works and tom-toms,
rattles and flint-locks and torches. The _mot d'ordre_ is: "Kick
up----at the right time."
There is a brief, businesslike interview in old Howe's tent. "The
tigers," he says in a matter-of-fact way, as though dismissing school,
"shall be inclosed in a triangle, of which the apex shall be ourselves
and the elephants. You will draw lots for positions among yourselves.
The bases of the triangle shall be the beaters, and the flanks the
stops posted up trees, who shall see that the tigers do not turn and
break out of the beat. You will please be alert, with rifles cocked
and barrels and cartridges examined beforehand. There must be no undue
noise or haste. Remember, the clink of a finger-ring on a barrel or
the gleam of the sun on a bright muzzle may turn them. That's all,
gentlemen."
We troop out to distribute rifles to the sepoys, who are supposed to
protect the unarmed beaters. Some of us ride off for miles into the
jungle to the base of the fateful triangle. Others visit the
"stops"--keen-eyed _shikaris_, perched like crows in the big
sal-trees.
Then hark--a shot! It travels like fire, and is answered by a faint
uproar. The beat has begun. We dismount from our elephants for a
steady shot, leaving them behind us in a huge semicircle. Some of them
scent danger, and twirl delicate trunks high in the air. They have
"been there" before! The mahouts sit motionless as bronze
figures--superb fellows, deeply learned in jungle-lore. The triangle's
apex and flanks are in absolute silence, but the base is fiendish with
uproar. Two hundred men are yelling and cursing, roaring and singing,
beating pots and pans, tom-toms and gongs.
Hearts beat a little faster. We look at one another anxiously and
whisper, "Is the beat empty?" It would seem so, for the cunning brutes
give no sign. Yet they must be driven forward if they are there. Ha! a
slender sal-tree to the left shakes with excitement. A turbaned head
shoots out of its branches, with a sudden sound of hand-clapping and
shouting. One of the stops has seen a stirring in the high yellow
grass. The tigers are in the living net!
I call to my side Hyder Ali, my gun-bearer, a lean Pathan from the
Khyber Pass.
"You have my .303?"
He nods and smiles. At that moment I hear a heavy footfall, as of some
great beast, on the thick dry leaves. The high grass parts. First a
magnificent yellow head emerges, infinitely alert; then the long,
lithe body, a picture of supple grace and immense strength. A superb
spectacle the creature presents, with his lovely coat gleaming in the
hot sun. But the din is drawing near. Down goes the massive head;
wide, cruel lips draw back, and four long primary fangs are bared in a
gruff roar. Then he dashes forward for cover. But too late; I have
drawn a bead on his rippling shoulder and fired.
He is down, fighting and biting at he knows not what; and his roars
rise high above the wild pandemonium of the beaters.
But my shot has not killed. I give the alarm, and we put scouts up
trees to direct the ticklish pursuit along the bloody trail. We drive
herds of buffaloes into the long grass and brush to drive out the
wounded tiger. Our general himself takes charge, with few words and
sure tactics.
"We've got his mate," he says grimly. "I put her on a pad-elephant and
sent her back to camp."
It is growing dark. I hear the sambur-stag belling from the
mountain-side, and the monotonous call of the coël, or Indian cuckoo.
Afar a peacock calls from a ruined tomb, and through all the jungle
concert runs the continuous screech of the cicada.
A loud signal from a treed scout suddenly tells us my tiger is
located. Relentlessly, foot by foot, the man-eater is tracked. We are
guided always by the scouts in the trees; for that terrible
bamboo-like grass swallows even elephants, swaying noisily to their
moving bulk. At length we emerge in a little clearing; and even as we
glance around, the stalks part harshly, and the tiger leaps forth at
an unarmed beater, burying fangs in a soundless throat. An awful
sight!
A dozen rifles roar too late to save the poor wretch. We pick up
victim and tiger and heave them on a pad-elephant. And then back to
camp.
[Illustration]