The river swirled on through the heat, the sweltering, fever-breathing
heat. The long, deep reach made but scant murmur, save where the boughs
of a luxuriant vegetation dipped on its surface. Above, on either hand,
masses of rolling verdure, tall forest trees, undergrowth in rich
profusion, and, high up against the blue sky, battlemented rock walls.
Two dark objects relieved the shimmering smoothness of the surface of
the reach--two minute dark objects to the ordinary observer, afloat,
motionless. Yet why should these remain motionless instead of floating
down with the fairly strong, though smooth, current? Well, there might
have been, behind each, about twelve feet of ugly, scaly saurian, whose
powerful under-water stroke kept them stationary, while watchful,
against the descending stream.
A grassy glade slopes down to the bank, tailing away inland into a path
something like a "ride" in an English game covert. Great trees, rising
overhead, shade this, in a dimness which shuts out, save in a faint
network, the glare of the molten sun. And it is at present occupied by
two horses and a man.
The horses still have their saddles on, though the girths are loosened.
The animals are grazing, their bridles trailing on the ground. Suddenly
both throw up their heads and snort, then walk quickly away, further up
the forest path. The man, who is standing up, gazing meditatively out
upon the river reach, notices this and turns. Then he advances a step
or two, and halts suddenly. For there is a movement in the grass a few
yards in front, and immediately from this rises the head and neck of a
large green mamba.
Instinctively the man's hand goes to his revolver, then he pauses. The
snake is hissing viciously. More of the long neck appears, waving to
and fro as though preparing for a spring. This is a peculiarly fierce
and aggressive species when disturbed, and the man knows it. He knows
also that the chances of being able to stop its rush with a bullet are
small. He abandons the firearm and starts another plan.
He begins whistling in a low but peculiarly clear note. The effect is
magical. The angry, excited waving of the sinuous neck ceases. The
head, still raised, is motionless as though under some new and
enthralling influence. Clearly on the part of its owner hostilities are
suspended.
He sustains the spell. Tune after tune trills forth in that clear note,
and the reptile, its deadly head still raised, its original fury dulled
to an almost placid expression, still listens. To the performer the
position now seems ridiculous, then rather interesting. He has never
set up as a snake-charmer before. For now, indeed, the horror with
which the much dreaded reptile had inspired him has given way to a
subtle sort of sympathy. He no longer fears it. He seems to have tamed
it, and feels accordingly. It is a strange and appropriate picture: the
man and the dreaded serpent, the dim shadowing away of the tangled
forest, the two horses snuffing with uneasy curiosity in the background,
the river reach, still and deep-flowing, with the muzzles of its two
voracious denizens causing a light ripple on its surface.
All thought of destruction has faded from the mind of the human actor in
this weird performance. He continues to evolve his natural music, even
advancing a few steps nearer to his grim listener. The latter shows no
sign of fear or resentment. Then an interruption occurs.
Crash! The motionless, uplifted neck of the serpent seems to fly nearly
in half, and the great coils beat and burst convulsively in the grass.
The man turns. Another man is standing behind him holding a shotgun,
one barrel of which is still smoking.
"What the devil did you do that for?" says the first angrily.
The other laughs, a thick sort of laugh, and by no means a pleasant one.
"Do that for?" he echoes, speaking with somewhat of a Jewish tone and
accent. "Can't I shoot a blighted snake without having to ask your
leave?"
"You idiot. I was in the thick of a most interesting experiment, and
you've spoilt it all by your infernal and officious interference."
"Interesting experiment? I call it disgusting."
"Here, drop that gun sharp, or I'll blow your head into the river."
The Jewish-looking man with the shotgun starts. The other's revolver is
pointing right at his chest, and there is no mistaking the determination
in his steely eyes. He knows full well that there is every reason why
his life is in mortal peril. So he drops the gun sullenly into the
grass.
"Now, then. Take five steps back from it. If you move otherwise you're
dead."
There is no alternative but to obey, and this the threatened one does.
"Don't know if you've gone mad," he says. "Fooling with snakes must
have sent you off your chump, I reckon."
"Do you? Well, you chose to fasten yourself on to me for your own
purpose--to wit, blackmail. Now you are going to write down, here and
now, something which will put it out of your power to try any more
blackmail on me for ever."
"I'll see you damned first. I'll see you damned before I write
anything."
"Will you? But you'll have to wait for that some time--till you've had
a spell of damnation yourself first. Now, then, are you going to do
it?"
"No."
The pistol cracks. It is a miss. The bullet has grazed the other's
ear. The assailed is standing just on the edge of the bank with his
back to the river.
"Don't move. I'll give you another chance. I'm aiming lower this time.
You'll get it bang amidships, between wind and water, so to say, and--
it'll hurt more. You were going to stick to me till I came to your
price, were you? But you've stuck rather too tight."
"Oh, but--you'll swing for this," says the other, between dry, tremulous
lips.
"Not much `swing.' Why, nobody will be any the wiser. Not a soul has
seen us together. You disappear, that's all. Well, are you going to do
as I tell you? I've got everything here--well-filled fountain pen, and
paper; strangely out of place in these surroundings, still, here they
are."
The threatened man does not immediately reply. He is calculating his
chances, and in a flash it is borne home to him that he has no chances.
Opposite him stands a desperate and determined man dictating terms.
These he will have to accept, and will feel anything but safe even then;
for well he knows that the other has every motive for sending him out of
the world.
"Well? Are you going to do it? I'll count five."
But hardly has he begun to do so than the situation changes. The man on
the river brink suddenly puts his hand behind him, ducking low as he
does so, to avoid the shot that simultaneously whizzes over where his
chest had been a fraction of a second earlier. A revolver glints in his
hand, but he is not quick enough. Before he can get in a shot the other
pistol cracks again, this time with effect. He topples heavily into the
water.
Yet he is struggling for his chance of life, but a glance is sufficient
to show that he can hardly swim a stroke even if unwounded--which he is
not. The other points his pistol for a final and decisive shot. But
there is something in the wild appealing scream of the drowning wretch
that unnerves him, that shatters his callous desperation. And then--the
crocodiles.
"Make for this stump," he shouts, running down the bank. "I'll give you
a hand out. Now I'm going to fire over your head."
There is nothing now to fire at. The two motionless objects have
disappeared, nevertheless he sends a bullet into the water at the place
where they had been.
Splashing, kicking, panting, the drowning man makes for the stump
indicated. In a moment he will have seized it and the other is running
down to help him. A yard further and he will be safe. His hand is
already stretched forth to grasp it, when--with a frightful scream of
agony and terror he disappears beneath the surface.
The survivor stands on the bank appalled.
"The `crocs' have got him, by God!" he exclaims. A moment back and he
himself was ready to take this man's life--for all he knew he had taken
it. But the final method of his death is so revolting, so ghastly that
he could wish him safe back again. Well, at any rate he had done what
he could to save him. It was not his fault if the fool chose to topple
into the river. Yet, but for his own compulsion the said "fool" would
not have been standing where he was.
He stands gazing down the reach. Is that blood, floating in a dark
patch upon the surface lower down? No. Only the light and shade. And
now, what to do next?
If the body should be found the bullet wound would tell its own tale.
Even then the natives, already in a state of unrest, would be credited
with another outrage. But if, as he surmised, the dead man had been
pulled under by crocodiles, why then there would be little enough left
of him to tell any tale at all. But--what of his horse?
This is something of a problem, and sitting down with his back against a
yellowwood-tree he proceeds to think it out. Shall he shoot the animal
and leave it there, for its return anywhere without its rider will, of
course, raise an alarm? Then an idea strikes him--rather an original
and ghastly one. The dead mamba? Its poison glands are intact. Can he
not by some means make the dead head bite the living animal? That would
look less suspicious than a bullet hole, in the event of the carcase
being found. But he doubts whether the venom will inject under the
circumstances. No. He must sacrifice the poor brute to his own sense
of self-preservation.
The two horses have withdrawn some little way, uneasy at the sound of
the firing. Now he lounges quietly towards them, and has no difficulty
in securing the bridle rein of both, trailing, as that is, upon the
grass. He hitches his own mount to a strong sapling and leads the other
to the river bank.
But this is not so easy. The horse, by some instinct, grasps that
something is wrong, and demurs to leaving its fellow. At last by dint
of patience and coolness it is induced to do so, and is led to an
overhanging bank similar to that whence its owner took his last plunge.
A quick shot. Four kicking hoofs turn convulsively upwards and the
lifeless carcase falls into the deep water with a great splash. The man
looks after it for a minute or two as it sinks.
"A pity, but necessary," he reflects. "Too much cannonading, though.
Sure to have been heard." Then he reseats himself on the grass and
lights his pipe.
"This is no murder," run his reflections. "The fool brought it upon
himself. He was given every chance." Then, as the long period of
blackmailing to which the dead man has subjected him comes back, he
feels ruthless. Yet the tragedy just enacted seems to have left its
mark. He has taken life--human life--and somehow the consideration
weighs; in spite of the feeling of relief at having rid himself, and the
world, of that most pestilent thing alive--a blackmailer. Should the
circumstances leak out he would have to stand his trial for murder--an
ugly word. But--how should they? This wild, lonely forest valley,
seldom visited even by natives, never by whites, would keep its own
secret. And nobody had seen them together.
As he sits there the whole situation seems to get upon his nerves,
high-strung as they are after the quick excitement of the foregoing
events. The whole atmosphere of the tangled forest, of the deep-flowing
river, seems to breathe death. The dank, decaying vegetation, the
dimness, the very airlessness of the sweltering valley--all this is not
merely heat. It is asphyxia. It is strangely silent too; only the
murmur of the river, and that remindful of its voracious denizens,
breaks upon the fever-breathing stillness. He shivers, then, as with an
effort, starts up, and going over to his horse, he hitches it, straps
tighter the girths, and mounted, rides away down the dim, overhung path.
But not until six hours later does he remember that the dead man's
shotgun has been left lying just where it was dropped.