The royal Malay tiger is no gentleman. If he were, the following would
never have been told.
Punda-Tsang was an innkeeper. He was sole proprietor of the
Ballawari-Dâk, which is a very big name for a very small native
hotel about sixty miles north of Penang, and on the high road to the
hunting-steppes of the Bukit, or hill-country. The quaint little
hospice clung to the mountain side like a swallow's nest, high over the
jungle-bedded Sungei, whose foaming, crashing torrents came down from
the upper mountains like an endless charge of white cavalry to the sea.
Punda was a good sort of a Malay, which means a bad sort of anything
else. That is, he would plunder only on the securest principles, and
never quarrel with a bigger man nor a better armed one than he. In this
he differed from other Malays, who would plunder and knife upon no
principle or provocation whatever, if they thought there was a ten-anna
piece in the job.
But a deeper reading of this prosperous boniface of the jungles
revealed the fact that he was capable of love,—yes, even a tender,
human affection; and that little Iali, his five-year-old daughter, was
the object of a worship in his heart even more fervent than that which
he bestowed upon the five home-made clay gods before which, in a dark
corner of the Dâk, he burned a vast deal of ill-smelling punk. The
second year of Tsang's married life had hardly begun when his beautiful
wife was bitten by a yellow viper while gathering healing herbs down
in the valley. When they found the poor creature she was dying—with a
little new-born babe in her arms. This calamity the bereaved husband
regarded as a direct visitation of the clay gods in the corner; only
the day before he had robbed a Kling hunter of his rifle, leaving
the poor fellow to make his way unarmed down to the sea, where he ran
upon a pair of half-starved _kukangs_, a vicious species of Malay
chimpanzee, in fleeing from which he fell over the cliff and was dashed
to pieces. And Punda-Tsang always felt that that yellow viper was sent
direct from the land of the judging gods to avenge the blood of the
poor Kling hunter. But there was one thing that mitigated the harshness
of this vengeance,—the presence of the little child, whom he tenderly
cherished, and whom he had called Iali, which is to say "forgiven."
But even were not the little creature a messenger of forgiveness to
the penitent savage heart, she was more than worthy his worship and
love,—this child of the tropic forest, restless and agile as a young
panther, with lustrous black eyes and a wild, wayward nature, much
spoiled by the wayfarers and fawned upon by the coolies that swarmed
about the compound.
One day two British naval officers stopped at the Dâk on their way
down from a hunt in the hill country. We were seated under the palms
before the bungalow after tiffin, smoking cheroots, while I listened to
their exploits with interest. Suddenly four native Malays approached,
wheeling a live tiger in a clumsy wooden cage, and halted before the
Dâk. They were going to dispose of him to a naturalist down on the
coast, who had a method of killing and stuffing animals by which the
marvelous luster of their skins was preserved. The forest king was
certainly a magnificent specimen. If you have never seen a live tiger
fresh from the jungles, take my word for it, the ordinary caged tiger
at the Zoo is as much like the former as canned strawberries are like
the fresh, lustrous fruit of June. The Englishmen evidently thought so,
too, as they concluded to buy him, and swear that they had captured
him, and then to present the beast to the London Zoo. They bought the
animal for forty Mexican dollars, sent the natives back rejoicing, and
started down towards the coast, while Punda-Tsang, not contented with
exacting fifty per cent commission from the poor fellows for using his
Dâk for a tiger mart, committed the meanest act of his life. He slyly
sawed one of the cage bars nearly through in four places. Then he went
to work planning to waylay the tiger on his way back to his haunts
after he should break loose, which he knew would happen before the
Englishmen could get many miles down the valley. He quietly pursued his
planning until late that night, when he heard upon good authority that
the tiger had broken jail and nearly killed one of his owners. Then he
prepared to put his plans into action.
Here we reach the illustration of the first-mentioned fact, of
which Tsang was ready to take advantage: that the Malay tiger is no
gentleman. He knew that the beast will never walk up leisurely and
take his bite like a smooth and oily clubman at a free lunch, but that
the very instant that he smells blood he will drop flat, and, even if
the feast is a mile away, will begin a slow, creeping journey towards
it, wasting hours, perhaps, and working up a terrific hunger in the
meantime. When he has approached within twenty feet of the prize,
quivering with desire and terrible with greed, he will leap into the
air like a cannon ball and plunge down upon his victim. Punda-Tsang
knew all this; so he dug a pit down the valley, constructed a network
of branches over it, and laid the quarter of a bullock upon it. Then
he waited for the tiger to scent the blood and make his slow, crawling
journey, knowing that when he made the grand twenty-foot leap he
would go crashing through the network into the pit below. Then Tsang
planned he would starve the beast, let down a cage baited with more
fresh meat, and, sliding the bars from above, haul the captured tiger
out and sell him over again. All of this might have happened, but it
didn't. Events somewhat stranger and more terrible for Punda-Tsang
interfered, doubtless as another direct visitation of the vengeance of
the little clay gods in the bungalow corner, half concealed in clouds
of punk-smoke.
As little Iali was the innkeeper's constant solace and companion, she
went with him to the pit-digging, her father explaining to her the
manner of capturing the "four-footed jungle-god," which facts, instead
of frightening the child, only helped to increase the stock of her
play gods and demons which she molded deftly from the red clay of
the ravine. With the appearance of the new moon, that mascot of the
Orientals, the pit was baited. For two days nothing was heard of the
tiger, and Punda-Tsang began to fear that he had gone back to the hills
by another route.
On the afternoon of the third day I sat on the cliff's edge, watching
the mists rise from the roaring river bottom, a phenomenon which
always accompanies the closing day. Suddenly there was a great
shuffling of sandals about the compound, and I knew something
extraordinary was taking place. I turned quickly; the big form of
Punda-Tsang, the innkeeper, burst upon me suddenly, his flat face as
pallid as a demon's, ferocious, but with the ferocity of nameless fear.
"Iali!" cried he hoarsely. "Have you seen Iali?"
"No!" I replied, almost in a whisper. He did not wait, but sped towards
the so-called bullock-sheds, which were really caves cut in the
solid rock beyond the Dâk. I had become attached to the child, whose
marvelous beauty had charmed, and whose weird ways mystified me. But I
had never been alone with her, knowing that any accident happening to
Iali while in my keeping would result seriously for me—perhaps cost
me my life. The coolies were flying hither and thither, making the
air ring with their loud wails. Such agitation on the part of these
vagabonds roused me to a realization of the child's danger. Suddenly
I turned my eyes and thoughts in the direction of the ravine where
the tiger trap lay. I recalled vividly the child's interest in the
"jungle-god" who was to be captured in the deep pit; and, knowing the
little creature's absolute fearlessness, thought that, acting upon some
childish impulse, she might have strayed down the narrow path to the
pit. Meanwhile the wailing about me increased.
I dropped over the ledge, soon reaching the pathway by a short route.
As I penetrated the jungle, now suffused with mist in the ruby glow of
the expiring day, I realized with what risks to myself I was entering
this dangerous spot, all unarmed. I was still debating whether or not
to return for a weapon of defense, when, as I leaped over a soft spot
in the red clay, I saw two footprints that shot terror into my heart;
one was that of a mammoth tiger, the other belonged to a little child.
I dropped down beside them. No. There was no mistaking them, so clear
and fresh were both. I rose to my feet, my head whirling, my ears
half-deafened by the noise of the jungle insects and the increasing
roar of that river beyond. Then I crept forward, scarcely daring to
breathe, my heart beating faster and faster with apprehension.
The distance to that tiger pit seemed to be doubled, and the time that
elapsed before reaching it everlasting. The crackling of the leaves
and twigs on the moss beneath my feet added to my trepidations. Almost
before I realized it I had reached the big trap, and then halted short,
thrilled by the sound of something human. I looked up. Through the
deepening mists and intervening boughs I saw the little child-figure
of Iali creeping out upon the withered branches over the pit. For the
instant I had no power to move, nor dared I speak, lest, overcome with
sudden fright, the frail little one might lose her foothold. Suddenly
a new horror disclosed itself. What were those two glaring, cold,
yet fiery points just beyond the pit, burning their way through the
shadows? My God! It was the tiger. He was lying flat on the ground,
couchant, paws extended, quivering, ready for the fatal spring.
In moments like these one's reasoning powers become super-human. I saw
that in all probability either Iali or I was to be sacrificed, which
one depended merely upon the caprice of the wild beast. I had heard
that the calm, steady, fearless stare of a human is more terrifying to
wild animals than guns that kill. On the instant I resolved to practise
it; it was my only expedient. So I stared at those two coldly bright
and glowing points of light like a madman, without a quiver, without a
doubt.
Suddenly I saw the little figure waver on the dead branches over the
mouth of the pit, and then—oh, horrors! with a weak cry poor little
Iali had lost her foothold and slipped slowly through the yielding
boughs into the cave beneath. For a moment all was silent. Then I
heard her childish prattle. The soft sand had broken Iali's fall and
saved her life, while I was brought face to face with the most awful
problem of my life. For what seemed hours, I stood like a pillar of
stone, the sweat pouring down my neck, my tongue hot and parched. One
show of fear would, I knew, be fatal. The "jungle-gods" are keen, like
demons, measuring strength with man. How long could I keep up this
maddening strain?—how long force upon the king-beast this illusion of
my superior will?
Suddenly, as I stood like one in a trance, facing this growing problem,
I was conscious of a stir in the reeds and underbrush at my right
hand. Though the sound caused me to tremble, I dared not take my eyes
from the crouching monster beyond. The next instant, a strange, huge
shape crept stealthily out of the underwood, and advanced into the
clearing toward the pit,—a ponderous black monster with the body of a
beast, but lifting through the grass the head and shoulders of a human
colossus. It was a mammoth orang-outang!
The tiger crouched lower. He seemed to be as nonplussed, as stunned by
the intrusion of this huge interloper as I was. In motionless silence,
he transferred his burning gaze to the mammoth monster.
Advancing to the very edge of the pit, the huge ape slipped, but he
recovered. Sly beast! He saw that the branches were only a blind.
Then he walked around the edge of the trap, and knelt down like a
human being, slowly, deliberately reaching out his long hairy arm till
his giant hand clutched that bullock bone. Oh, what joy that calm,
providential deed brought to my heart! Then, to my intense relief,
the orang slowly dragged the great mass of flesh off the network of
branches upon the solid ground.
For a moment longer the gleam of those two terrible eyes, now like
peepholes into hell, followed the unsuspecting pilferer. Then came a
rustle, a strange shriek like sudden thunder, a bound, and a roar, and
the "jungle-god" had sprung into the air, and came down like a flashing
avalanche full upon the broad body of the kneeling orang. A single
paw struck the mammoth ape in the small of the back, and never shall
I forget the sound of that blow which broke the bones of the orang's
spine like a cannon ball. With an almost human groan, the rescuer of
my life and hers I came to save gave up the booty, together with his
own life. Then the tiger, with a final flash of eyes full into my own,
snatched up the carcass of the bullock in his flaming jaws, and slid
off into the thick of the jungle.
I have often wondered since how things would have turned out if that
tiger _had_ been a gentleman.
The Red-Hot Dollar.