Finnerty had slept an hour when he was wakened by the raucous voice of a
peacock greeting dawn with his unpleasant call from high up in the sal
forest. A cold grey pallor was creeping into the eastern sky as the
major, still feeling the holding lethargy of the disturbed night, closed
his eyes for a little more of oblivion. But Life, clamorous, vociferous,
peopling the hills, the trees, the plain, sent forth its myriad acclaim,
as a warming flush swept with eager haste up the vaulted dome, flung
from a molten ball that topped the forest line with amazing speed.
A flock of parrakeets swooped like swallows through the air with
high-pitched cries; from the feathered foliage of a tamarind came the
monotonous drool, "Ko-el--ko-el--ko-el--ke-e-e-e-el!" of the koel bird,
harbinger of the "hot spell;" a crow, nesting in a banyan, rose from her
eggs, and, with a frightened cry, fled through the air as a hawk cuckoo
swooped with shrill whistle as if to strike. The cuckoo, dumping from
the nest a couple of the crow's white eggs, settled down to deposit her
own embryo chick. From the kennels came the joyous bark of Rampore
hounds, and from a native village filtered up the yapping cries of
pariah dogs.
Far up the road that wound past the bungalow sounded the squealing skirl
of wooden axles in wooden wheels, and the cries of the bullock driver,
"_Dut, dut, dut, Dowlet! Dut, dut--chelao Rajah!_" followed by the
curious noise that the driver made with his lips while he twisted the
tails of his bullocks to urge them on.
Finnerty thought of the stone on the road, and, passing into the
bungalow, wakened Swinton. "Sorry, old boy, but we'd better have a look
at that stone--there are carts coming down the hill."
"Bless me! Almost dropped off to sleep, I'm afraid!" and the captain sat
up.
When they arrived at the scene of Swinton's adventure, Finnerty, peering
over the embankment, said: "The dogcart is hung up in a tree halfway
down. I expect you'll find that chita at the bottom, kicked to death by
the Cabuli."
Swinton, indicating an abrasion on the boulder that might have been left
by the iron tire of a wheel, said: "My cart didn't strike this, and
there are no other iron-wheel marks on the road; just part of this
beastly plot--to be used as evidence that the stone put me over the
bank."
"They even rolled the boulder down to leave an accidental trail. There's
not a footprint of a native, though. Hello, by Jove!" Finnerty was
examining two bamboos growing from the bank above the road. "See that?"
and his finger lay on an encircling mark where a strap had worn a smooth
little gutter in the bamboo shell two feet from the ground. Both
bamboos, standing four feet apart, showed this line of friction. "Here's
where they held the chita in leash, and, when you arrived, took off his
hood and slipped the straps. We'll just roll that boulder off the road
and go back to breakfast."
"Oh, Lord!" the major exclaimed, as, midway of their breakfast, there
came the angry trumpeting of an elephant. "That's Moti, and she wants
her bell. She's an ugly devil when she starts; but, while I don't mind
losing some sleep, I must eat."
"The devil of it is that all this circumstantial evidence we're
gathering isn't worth a rap so far as the real issue is concerned," the
captain said from the depths of a brown study.
"I understand," Finnerty answered. "It proves who is trying to get rid
of us, but the government is not interested in our private affairs--it
wants to check Ananda's state intrigues."
"And also we won't mention any of these things to our young friend whom
I hear outside," Swinton added, as the voice of Lord Victor superseded
the beat of hoofs on the road.
As he swung into the breakfast room, Gilfain explained cheerily:
"Thought I'd ride around this way to see what had happened; my bearer
heard in the bazaar Swinton had been eaten by a tiger--but you weren't,
old top, were you?"
"My dogcart went wrong," Swinton answered, "so I stayed with the major."
"What made me think something might have happened was that the bally
forest here is pretty well impregnated with leopards and things--one of
Ananda's hunting chitas escaped last evening and he was worrying about
it at dinner; says he's a treacherous brute, has turned sour on his
work, and is as liable to spring on a man as on a pronghorn."
"Was the prince anxious about me in particular?" the captain asked
innocently.
"Oh, no; he didn't say anything, at least."
Finnerty sprang to his feet as a big gong boomed a tattoo over at the
keddah. "Trouble!" he ejaculated. "Elephant on the rampage--likely
Moti."
The bungalow buzzed like a hive of disturbed bees. A bearer came with
Finnerty's helmet and a leather belt in which hung a .45 Webley
revolver; a saddled horse swung around the bungalow, led by a running
syce.
The major turned to Swinton. "Like to go?"
"Rather!"
Finnerty sprang down the steps, caught the bridle rein, and said: "Bring
Akbar for the sahib, quick!"
Soon a bay Arab was brought by his own syce. "Come on, Gilfain, and see
the sport!" And Finnerty swung to the saddle. "It's not far, but the
rule when the alarm gong sounds is that my horse is brought; one never
knows how far he may go before he comes back." To the bearer he added:
"Bring my 8-bore and plenty of ball cartridges to the keddah."
When they arrived at the elephant lines, the natives were in a fever of
unrest. Mahadua had answered the gong summons and was waiting, his
small, wizened face carrying myriad wrinkles of excited interest. Moti's
mahout was squatted at the tamarind to which she had been chained, the
broken chain in his lap wet from tears that were streaming down the old
fellow's cheeks.
"Look you, sahib!" he cried. "The chain has been cut with a file."
"Where is Moti?" Finnerty queried.
"She is down in the cane," a native answered; "I have just come from
there."
"She has gone up into the sal forest," another maintained. "I was coming
down the hill and had to flee from the path, for she is _must_."
"Huzoor, the elephant has stripped the roof from my house," a third, a
native from Picklapara village, declared. "All the village has been laid
flat and a hundred people killed. Will the sircar pay me for the loss of
my house, for surely it is a government elephant and we are poor
people?"
Finnerty turned to the shikari. "Mahadua, which way has Moti gone?"
"These men are all liars, sahib--it is their manner of speech. Moti went
near to Picklapara and the people all ran away; but she is now up on the
hills."
The mahout stopped his droning lament long enough to say: "Sahib, Moti
is not to be blamed, for she is drunk; she knows not where evil begins,
because a man came in the night and gave her a ball of _bhang_ wrapped
up in sweets."
"We've got to capture the old girl before she kills some natives,"
Finnerty declared. "If you chaps don't mind a wait, I'll get things
ready and you'll see better sport than killing something."
First the major had some "foot tacks" brought. They were sharp-pointed
steel things with a broad base, looking like enormous carpet tacks.
Placed on the path, if Moti stepped on one she would probably come in to
the keddah to have her foot dressed. Four Moormen, natives of the Ceylon
hills, were selected. These men were entitled to be called _panakhans_,
for each one had noosed by the leg a wild elephant that had been
captured, and very lithe and brave they looked as they stepped out, a
rawhide noose over the shoulder of each. A small army of assistants were
also assembled, and Raj Bahadar, a huge bull elephant.
Finnerty sent the men and Raj Bahadar on ahead, saying that Moti might
perhaps make up to the bull and not clear off to the deep jungle. Giving
them a start of fifteen minutes, the three sahibs, Mahadua, and a man to
carry the major's 8-bore elephant gun followed. They travelled for an
hour up through graceful bamboos and on into the rolling hills, coming
upon the tusker and the natives waiting.
Gothya, the mahout, salaamed, saying:
"We have heard something that moves with noise in the jungle, and, not
wishing to frighten Moti, we have waited for the sahib."
"It was a bison," one of the men declared. "Twice have I seen his broad,
black back."
"Sahib," the mahout suggested, "it may be that it was a tiger, for Raj
Bahadar has taken the wind with his trunk many times, after his manner
when there are tiger about."
"Fools, all of you!" Finnerty said angrily. "You are wasting time."
"Sahib"--it was Mahadua's plaintive voice--"these men, who are fitted
for smoking opium in the bazaar, will most surely waste the sahib's
time. It is better that we go in front."
"I think you're right," Finnerty declared. "Go you in front, Mahadua,
for you make little noise; the ears of an elephant are sharp, and we
ride horses, but we will keep you in sight." He turned to the mahout.
"At a distance bring along Bahadur and the men."
The shikari grinned with delight; he salaamed the major in gratitude. To
lead a hunt! He was in the seventh heaven.
As noiseless as a brown shadow, he slipped through the jungle, and yet
so free of pace that at times he had to wait lest the sahibs should lose
his trail. Once they lost him for a little; when they came within sight
he was standing with a hand up, and when they reached his side he said:
"Sahib, sometimes a fool trips over the truth, and those two, who are
assuredly fools in the jungle, have both spoken true words, for I have
seen the hoofprints of a mighty bison and also the pugs of Pundit Bagh
who has a foot like a rice pot. I will carry the 8-bore, and if the
sahib will walk he may get good hunting; the matter of Moti can wait."
"You'd better dismount, Lord Victor, and take the shot," Finnerty
advised. "A tiger is evidently stalking the bison, so perhaps will be a
little off guard. The syces will bring along the ponies."
Swinton dismounted also, saying: "I'll prowl along with you, major, if
you don't object."
As Lord Victor slipped from his horse, Finnerty said: "If you don't
mind, I'll give you a couple of pointers about still stalking, for if
you're quiet you have a good chance of bagging either a tiger or a bull
bison. I can't do anything to help you; you've got to depend on yourself
and the gun."
"Thanks, old chap; just tell me what I should do."
"You will keep Mahadua in sight. If you hear anything in the jungle that
would cause you to look around, don't turn your neck while you are
moving, but stand perfectly still--that will prevent a noisy, false
step. Don't try to step on a log in crossing it--you might slip; but sit
on it and swing your legs over if you can't stride it. When Mahadua
holds up a finger that he sees something, don't take a step without
looking where you are going to place your foot, and don't step on a
stick or a stone. If it is the tiger, don't shoot if he is coming toward
you--not until he has just passed; then rake him from behind the
shoulder, and he'll keep going--he won't turn to charge. If you wound
him when he's coming on, it's a hundred to one he'll charge and maul
you, even while he's dying. As to the bull, shoot him any old way that
brings him down, for the bison's ferocity is good fiction."
Finnerty had given this lesson in almost a whisper. Now he thrust the
8-bore into Lord Victor's hand, saying: "This shoots true, flat-sighted,
up to fifty yards; but don't try to pick off that tiger at over twenty.
The gun is deuced heavy--it weighs fifteen pounds--so don't tire your
arms carrying it at the ready. It fires a charge of twelve drams of
powder, so hold it tight to your shoulder or it'll break a bone. It
throws a three-ounce, hollow-nosed bullet that'll mushroom in either a
tiger or a bison, and he'll stop."
Mahadua took up the trail again, not following all the windings and
zigzag angles of its erratic way, for they were now breasting a hill and
he knew that the bull, finding the flies troublesome, would seek the top
plateau so that the breeze would blow these pests away. The wind was
favourable--on their faces--for the wise old bull travelled into it,
knowing that it would carry to him a danger taint if the tiger waited in
ambush.
"We'll carry on for a little longer," Finnerty said; "but if we find the
bull is heading up into the sal forest we'll give it up and go after
Moti; she won't be far away, I fancy."
They followed the bison's trail, that had now straightened out as he
fled from the thing that had disturbed his rest, for fifteen minutes,
and Mahadua was just dipping over the plateau's far edge when a turmoil
of noises came floating up from the valley beyond--a turmoil of combat
between large animals. Quickening their pace, Finnerty and Swinton saw,
as they reached the slope, Mahadua wiring his way into a wall of bamboo
that hung like a screen on a shelving bank.
"Come on!" Finnerty commanded. "There's such a fiendish shindy down
there we won't be heard, and the wind is from that quarter."
Creeping through the bamboos, they saw Mahadua, one hand in the air as a
sign of caution, peering down into the hollow. Finnerty gasped with
surging delight as his eyes fell upon the regal picture that lay against
the jungle background. A mighty bull bison, his black back as broad as a
table, stood at bay with lowered head, his red-streaked, flashing eyes
watching a huge tiger that crouched, ready to spring, a dozen feet away.
"Pundit Bagh--see his spectacles, sahib!" the guide whispered.
The torn-up ground told the battle had waged for some time. With a
warning finger to his lips, Finnerty sat quivering with the joy of
having stumbled upon the life desire of every hunter of big game in
India--the chance to witness a combat between a full-grown tiger and a
bull bison. On one side ferocity, devilish cunning, strength, muscles
like piano wire, and lightning speed; on the other, enormous power, cool
courage, and dagger horns that if once well placed would disembowel the
cat.
Every wary twist of the crouching tiger's head, every quiver of his
rippling muscles, every false feint of the pads that dug restlessly at
the sward, showed that he had no intention of being caught in a death
grapple with the giant bull; he was like a wrestler waiting for a grip
on the other's neck, his lips curled in a taunting sneer.
With a snort of defiance the bison suddenly charged; and Pundit Bagh,
his yellow fangs bared in a savage growl, vaulted lightly to the top of
a flat rock, taking a swipe with spread claws at the bull's eyes as he
passed. The bull, anticipating this move, had suddenly lowered his head,
catching the blow on a strong, curved horn, and the Pundit sat on the
rock holding the injured paw in the air, a comical look of surprise in
his spectacled eyes. As the bison swung about, the tiger, slipping from
the rock, faced him again, twenty feet away.
Spellbound by the atmosphere of this Homeric duel, the sahibs had
crouched, motionless, scarcely breathing, held by intense interest. Now,
suddenly recalling his hunting mission, Lord Victor drew the 8-bore
forward; but Mahadua's little black eyes looked into Finnerty's in
pathetic pleading, and the latter placed his big palm softly on the hand
that held the gun. Lord Victor had been trained to understand the
chivalry of sport, and he nodded. A smile hovered on his lips as he held
up the spread fingers of two hands and then pointed toward the bison.
Finnerty understood, and, leaning forward, whispered: "You're on for ten
rupees, and I back Stripes."
"Sahib!" So low the tone of Mahadua's voice that it barely reached their
ears; and following the line of a pointed finger they saw on the rounded
knob of a little hill across the valley a red jungle dog, his erected
tail weaving back and forth in an unmistakable signal.
"He's flagging the pack," Finnerty whispered. "Now we'll see these
devils at work."
Whimpering cries from here and there across the valley told that these
dreaded brutes, drawn by the tiger's angry roars, were gathering to be
in at a death.
The keen-eared bull had heard the yapping pack, and as his head turned
for the fraction of a second Pundit Bagh stole three catlike steps
forward; but as the horns came into defence he crouched, belly to earth,
his stealthy feline nature teaching him that his only hope against his
adversary's vast bulk was some trick made possible by waiting a charge.
Like Medusa's hair which changed into serpents, the screening jungle
thrust forth its many sinuous tentacles. Lean, red, black-nosed heads
appeared from thorny bush and spiked grass, and step by step gaunt
bodies came out into the arena. Some sat on their haunches, dripping
tongues lapping at yellow fangs as though their owners already drank
blood; others, uttering whimpering notes of anticipation, prowled in a
semicircle, their movements causing Pundit Bagh to hug closer the bank
with its jutting rocks.
Both combatants in the presence of this new danger stayed for a little
their battle; they knew that the one that went down first would have the
pack against him.
Finnerty whispered: "The cunning devils will wait, and if Pundit Bagh
wins out, but is used up--which he will be--the dogs will drive him away
and eat his dinner. If he's killed, they will devour him when the bison
departs."
"I wouldn't have missed this for a thousand guineas!" Lord Victor panted
in a husky whisper.
Finnerty, patting the gun, said: "We'll probably have to settle it with
this yet; so have it ready for a quick throw to your shoulder." He
picked up a stick from the ground and thrust an end into a clump of
growing bamboos, adding: "There! That 8-bore is mighty heavy; rest it
across this stick. We won't shoot the bison, no matter what happens;
he's like a gentleman assailed by a footpad. It will be Stripes or the
dogs; so take your time drawing a bead--I'll tell you when it's
necessary."
As if during this little lull following the jungle pack's advent the
bison had thought along the same lines as Major Finnerty, and had come
to the conclusion that if he turned tail dogs and tiger would pull him
down, lowered his head, and, with a defiant snort, charged. A stride,
and Pundit Bagh, who had plotted as he crouched, shot into the air, a
quivering mass of gold and bronze in the sunlight. But he had waited the
fraction of a second too long; he missed the neck, landing on the high,
grizzled wither. Like a flash his mighty arms were about the bull, and
his huge jaws, wide-spread, snapped for a grip that, if secured, would
break the vertebra--it would go like a pipestem in the closing of that
vise of arms and jaw. But the little shift from wither to neck caused
him to miss the spine; his fangs tore through flesh and he was crushed
against a rock, his hold broken.
[Illustration: "PUNDIT BAGH SHOT INTO THE AIR A QUIVERING MASS OF GOLD
AND BRONZE IN THE SUNLIGHT."]
The dogs, eager in bloodthirst, dashed in, snapping at the tiger's
rumps, and, as he whirled, sprang at his face. One blow of a paw, like
the cut of a gold scimitar, and a dog landed ten feet away--pulp.
A sigh of relief escaped from Finnerty as the dogs slunk back and Pundit
Bagh, seemingly none the worse, crouched again for battle.
"That is their way," Mahadua whispered; "they seek to cut Bagh in his
vitals behind, while in front others spit poison in his eyes to blind
him; the white froth that spouts from their mouths when they fight is
poison."
Blood was dripping from the bison's neck as he faced about, but the snap
at his neck had not discouraged him; his actions showed that he would
battle to the end. The taste of blood had broken the Pundit's debonair
nonchalance. Before he had been like a cat playing with a mouse; he had
purred and kinked his long tail in satirical jerks. Now he lashed his
sides or beat the ground in anger. From his throat issued a snarling
"W-o-u-g-h-n-ng!" Again he waited for his antagonist's charge, slipping
to one side as the black mass came hurtling toward him to swipe at the
eyes, cutting clean away an ear and leaving red-blooded slits from cheek
to shoulder, his damaged paw once more suffering from contact with that
hard skull.
The dogs had edged in as the two clashed, but dropped back to their
waiting line as tiger and bison faced each other again, the latter
shaking his massive head and pawing fretfully, as if angered at his
enemy's slipping away when they came to close quarters. Something of
this must have stirred his own strategy, for, as he thundered in a
charge, he swept his head sidewise as the tiger swerved, catching
Stripes a crashing blow, the sharp incurve of the horn all that saved
him from being ripped wide open. Half stunned, he was pinned to earth as
the bull swung short to a fresh attack; and, seeing this, taking it for
the end, the dogs, with yaps of fury, closed in, snapping with their
cutting teeth at flesh, wherever found.
With a bellow of rage, the bull backed away three paces, and a dog that
had gripped his neck was ground to death against the earth. Pundit Bagh
thrust his body up through a dozen dogs that clung like red ants, and,
whether in chivalry or blind anger, the bull, with lowered head, rushed
on the yapping, snarling, lancing pack, at the first thrust his
daggerlike horns piercing a dog. The outstretched black neck, the taut,
extended spine almost brushing Pundit's nose, flashed into his tiger
mind the killing grip. Forgotten were the dogs in the blind call of
blood lust. The wide-spread jaws crunched astride the neck, and, with a
wrench that he had learned from his mother when a cub, the bull was
thrown, the dogs pouncing upon him with hunger in their hearts.
At the first treacherous snap of the tiger's jaws, Finnerty had acted.
With the subservience of a medium, at the word "Now!" Lord Victor
pressed the gunstock against his shoulder; his head drooped till his eye
ranged the barrels; and, penetrating the booming thump of his heart, a
calming voice was saying: "Take your time; aim behind the tiger's
shoulder. Stead-d-y, man!" His finger pulled heavily on the trigger, the
gun roared, and a sledge-hammer blow on his shoulder all but sprawled
him; then the gun was snatched from his hands. Half dazed, he saw
Finnerty send another bullet into something. There was a "Click! Snap!"
as two fresh shells were slipped into the barrels, and again the 8-bore
thundered twice.
Springing to his feet, Gilfain saw a great mass of gold and brown flat
to earth, and the black rump of a bison bull galloping off into the
jungle. Then his fingers were being crushed in the huge hand of
Finnerty, who was saying: "My dear boy, a corking shot--straight through
the heart; he never moved! I shot two or three dogs!"
"Demme!" was all the pumped-out Lord Victor could gasp, as he sank back
to the knob of earth he had been sitting on.
"One never knows," Finnerty said, shoving a fresh cartridge into the
8-bore, "if a tiger is really dead till he's skinned. Come on; we'll
look."
Mahadua, saying, "Have patience, sahib," threw a stone, hitting Pundit
Bagh fair on the head. There was no movement. Then, striding in front,
Finnerty prodded the fallen monarch with his gun muzzle. He was indeed
dead.
"I got a couple of those vermin, anyway," and Finnerty pointed to two
dogs the big 8-bore bullet had nearly blown to pieces.
Mahadua, on his knees, was muttering: "Salaam, Pundit Bagh!" and patting
the huge head that held the fast-glazing yellow globes set in
black-rimmed spectacles. There was a weird reflex of jungle reverence in
his eyes as, rising, he said, addressing Finnerty: "Sahib, Pundit Bagh
did not kill men nor women nor children; this was the way he fought."
And then, when there were no eyes upon him, he surreptitiously plucked
three long bristles from the tiger's moustache, slipping them into his
jacket pocket to be kept as a charm against jungle devils.
Lord Victor had come down the hill, dead to sensation; he had walked
like one in a dream. The fierce press of contained excitement had numbed
his brain; now he loosened to the erratic mood of a child; he laughed
idiotically, while tears of excited joy rolled down his pink cheeks; he
babbled incoherent, senseless words; he wanted to kiss Finnerty, Pundit
Bagh, or something, or somebody; he would certainly give Mahadua a
hundred rupees; he fell to unlacing and lacing his shoes in nervous
dementia. What would the earl say? What would the fellows at the London
clubs say?
Finnerty had a tape out, and, passing his notebook to Swinton, he, with
Mahadua at one end of the tape, rapidly ruled off the following
measurements:
Feet Inches
From point of nose to tip of tail 10
Length of tail 2 10
Girth behind shoulders 4 4
Girth of head 3 4
Girth of forearm 1 10
Height at shoulder 3 6
"There!" And Finnerty put his tape in his pocket. "Pundit Bagh is a
regal one. I feel sorry we had to shoot him in just that way; but the
dogs spoiled a good fight. Fancy your getting a skin like that to take
back, Lord Victor--it's luck! And remember, gentlemen, we must spread
this mandate that a bull bison with one ear goes free of the gun, for he
was a right-couraged one."
"Rather!" Lord Victor ejaculated. "To-night we'll drink a toast in fizz
to the one-eared bull--a thoroughbred gentleman!"
"We'll need the elephant up to pad this tiger," Finnerty said. Mahadua,
who was sent to bring on Raj Bahadar, had not been gone two minutes when
from their back trail came, upwind, the shrill trumpeting of two
elephants, and mingling with this was the harsh honk of a conch shell.
"That's Moti, or wild elephants tackling Raj Bahadar," Finnerty
declared. "I must get back. The tiger will be all right here for a
little--those dogs won't come back--and I'll send Mahadua and the
elephant after him."
PART THREE