by W E Johns
They went back down to the village where, finding the mallik1, by name Lal Das, James reported what they had seen and explained what the Professor proposed to do.
To his surprise, for he could see nothing against the plan, the old man objected vehemently saying the track was dangerous. He did not say why it was dangerous and James would never have guessed. Nor would any stranger to the district. He merely said he knew of a better way to kill a goral, although, again, he did not say how. He agreed that the herd would probably be in the same place the next day. If they must go that way it would be better to go later.
James, now speaking in English of course, translated, telling the Professor of the old hunter’s objections to the plan.
“Sure, sure,” answered the Professor airily. “He’s probably thinking of saving himself trouble. Or I guess maybe he’s hoping to kill the goral himself to claim the reward.”
“I’m sure he’s thinking of saving us trouble,” argued James.
“Well, I prefer to do things my own way. Don’t take any notice of the old man. We don’t need him with us. He’s only an ignorant native.”
This annoyed James. He bridled. “These people may be ignorant according to university standards but they know all there is to know about conditions where they live; and that’s as much as they need to know for their own good, which is more than can be said for some white men,” he retorted.
Apparently this annoyed the Professor. “Okay—okay—but we’ll do things my way,” he said tartly. “If you don’t like them you can go home. No doubt you can manage that.”
There was a hint of a sneer in the last sentence, born, James suspected, of a sort of jealousy of his knowledge of the country and its people. He said no more, but he felt that if the Professor persisted in this attitude he was likely to end up in trouble. Even he, James, born in the country, was always prepared to accept the advice of local people. He told Lal Das that the Professor sahib had decided to go his own way to shoot a goral.
Upon which the old man threw up his hands and called upon God to witness that he had done his best to save trouble. And there the matter ended, leaving James disturbed in his mind for what the future might hold. However, there was nothing he could do about it.
The rest of the day was spent making preparations for the morning. The Professor made another trip, alone, to the top of the hill, and returned well pleased to report that the goral were still on the same plateau.
It was another bitterly cold night, and even in his sleeping bag James awoke frozen stiff. He was glad to get up to make the coffee.
The stars were still hanging like beacons in the sky when they moved off, James had looked for Lal Das but could not find him. He had gone out with some hunters, he was told. James thought this rather odd but put it down to the old man’s determination to see that a goral was bagged— which in a way was true. No doubt the village was in need of meat.
The trail round the mountain, climbing ever higher, was a hard one, as James knew it would be, even without the old hunter’s advice. In places it was a mere cornice, at the best a narrow ledge, worn by countless generations of mountain animals. It wound in and out a succession of gaunt, mostly barren slopes, sometimes with sheer cliff on one side and on the other a precipice that fell into a ravine, the bottom of which could not be seen, only the tops of the tangle of trees that filled it. There was a river there. James couldn’t see it but he could sometimes hear it splashing its way to its distant parent, the Ganges. The sun had not yet topped the surrounding mountains and the thin air was still perishing cold, so he was glad of the exercise.
With the Professor striding along in front, rifle and binoculars slung over his shoulders, they reached a point which James reckoned to be about a third of the way to the objective although still well below it. It was a nasty, narrow place. The track could be seen ahead, winding on interminably as it seemed, in and out, up and down, on and on. It could not be seen all the time because there were places where it disappeared in clefts between flanks of the mountain; but it could usually be seen far in front as it rounded a distant massif.
It was here that the unexpected happened. Looking at the track on the opposite side of a wall of rock his near view being obscured by a similar formation, to his astonishment James saw an animal coming towards them. It was without doubt the beast they were seeking. A goral. And, moreover, it was a big male, with a fine spread of horns. It was galloping as if it had been frightened. The Professor saw it, too. Turning to James a smiling face he exclaimed: “What luck! Don’t move. We can wait here for him to come to us. I’ll drop him as he comes round the bend.” The bend to which he referred was where the track re-emerged from a deep cleft in the rock. This was not more than sixty yards in front of them.
The Professor unslung his rifle, dropped on one knee and waited. James crouched behind him, expectant, hoping the Professor would allow the goral to get well round the corner before he fired, so that should he miss, and the animal turn back, there would be time for a second shot before he disappeared again round the bend. As for luck, he was not so sure about that. It was too lucky to be true. Why should the goral leave the herd? Why should it leave the plateau? There could be only one reason. It had been disturbed. Scared, by the speed at which it was moving. What could have alarmed it? The only thing it had to fear was man. What man? James thought he knew the answer. Lal Das. Or one of his hunters. So that was where he had gone. To the far side of the plateau. To drive the goral towards them and shorten their journey. If this was the scheme it looked as if it was going to succeed.
The goral was out of sight in the cleft, which must have been a deep one from the time it took to reappear. Then it was there, coming round the bend, still at a gallop. The Professor took aim.
What happened next James would have found hard to describe. Without warning the animal began to behave as if it was wearing roller skates. It skidded, slithered and slid as if trying to stop, or turn. It struck the face of the rock, bounced off it, did a long slide and, unable to recover, disappeared over the edge of the precipice on the other side. A moment of silence and the crash could be heard as the heavy beast fell into the trees at the bottom of the ravine.
The Professor lowered his rifle and turned an astonished face to James. “Did you see that?” He laughed. “And I was told a goral had never been known to fall!”
“Well, this one did,” was all James could say. Before he could go on to express his suspicions the Professor was running down the track to the spot where the goral had come to grief, presumably to see if it was possible to get down into the ravine to recover the body. James shouted to him to wait, but either the Professor did not hear or he took no notice.
James walked on, following slowly, pondering the remarkable thing he had seen. Could the goral have put a foot between two rocks and broken a leg? he wondered. It seemed possible but unlikely. Then he stopped dead, eyes wide with horror as what had happened to the goral now happened to the Professor. He staggered, he tried to stop, he slid. He clutched at the air in an effort to save himself, the rifle flying out of his hands. A cry broke from his lips, and to James’ unspeakable horror he saw him disappear into the chasm.
For a moment James could only stand there, staring, stunned by the calamity and the speed at which it had happened. He tried to think. What could have caused it? Obviously something had; something unusual. What could it be? Advancing with extreme caution he saw the answer. Ice. But not ordinary ice, such as ice that might have formed on pools of stagnant water. It was in regular pieces at definite intervals as if it had been put there by design. It took him a minute or two to ascertain exactly what it was. The ice was on mats. Native woven mats. They were solid ice. How could they have got there? James’ racing brain told him they must have been put there deliberately. But who would do such a thing? Now he began to understand the headman’s anxiety that they should not use the track. He must have known about this. Could he have been responsible? He found it difficult to believe tha
t.
A distant shout made him look up and he saw the man himself, Lal Das, followed by some of his men, running down the track where the goral had first appeared. So that was the answer to the mystery. He knew about this; that the place was a trap. James felt sick.
Later he was to learn the truth. That the local native method of trapping a goral was to put out mats soaked with water. During the night these froze to sheets of ice, loose sheets on the hard rock. Then the animals were stampeded. Running all unsuspecting on the ice they slipped and fell to their deaths. This may not be a sporting way of killing a wild animal, but the men who practised it were not interested in sport. Living where they did they needed meat in order to exist, and this was the easiest way of getting it. Cartridges, even if they could get them, were expensive. All this was explained to James later.
At the moment he didn’t know what to do. There seemed to be nothing he could do. He was sure the Professor must be dead. His hands were trembling and his legs felt weak and shaky from shock. He sat down with his back to the rock face, to recover and wait for Lal Das and his men to arrive.
When they did they approached the trap with great care, picking up the mats as they came to them and stacking them in a heap. This, of course, made it evident that they knew about them, and their purpose.
When Lal Das came up to him James said coldly: “Did you do this?”
Lai Das answered cheerfully that he did. He wanted to be sure of killing a goral for the Professor sahib. “Where is he?” he asked, looking round.
James couldn’t trust himself to speak. He simply pointed to the ravine.
The old man’s cheerful expression faded. He threw up his hands in horror, again calling upon God to witness that he had tried to do his best to be helpful, that he had implored them not to use the track, or if they had to use it wait for the sun to rise— presumably to melt the ice—and so on and so on until James stopped him with an impatient gesture. He was sure the old man had acted with the best intentions. Naturally he would be anxious to see the Professor get his goral, for not only would he get some meat but be paid for it. The mistake of offering a reward was now apparent.
The old man stood silent, his head hung in shame and remorse, while it dawned on James that he, or someone, would have to go down the ravine to recover the Professor’s body, and that was an urgent matter. He crawled to the edge of the ravine and looked down, but all he could see were the tops of the crowded trees. He was about to get up to ask Lal Das how they could get down when from far below came a faint cry for help. “He’s alive—he’s alive,” he said unbelievingly. He shouted into the ravine: “Professor, are you all right?” It struck him as a silly thing to say but he could think of nothing else.
There was no answer.
“Professor, can you hear me?” yelled James. The answer was a weak call that might have been “help”.
James sprang to his feet and went into action, automatically taking command of the situation. “The Professor sahib is not dead,” he told Lai Das in a voice tense with urgency. “We must get to him quickly. Which is the best way?”
The old hunter said it was impossible to get into the ravine from where they were. They would have to go back to the village and enter it from the end. He, too, realized the necessity for speed.
“Let us go,” said James, picking up the Professor’s rifle, and knowing it was loaded, unloaded it. Then again he knelt at the brink of the chasm. “Hold on,” he shouted. “We are coming.”
The return to the village was a race against time; but as James marched he was thinking, planning. By the time they arrived he had worked out what had to be done, and how to do it with the limited resources available. The thing that worried him most was his own shortcomings as a doctor. Even if the Professor was still alive by the time they were able to reach him he could not fail to be injured, probably seriously. Short of a miracle there would be broken bones. He would be too ill to be moved far, if at all. He would need a doctor. For this problem there was no immediate answer. There was no doctor; and small hope of getting one to the spot within at least ten days.
He was also worried by an uncomfortable feeling that in some way he might be held responsible for what had happened although he was satisfied in his own mind that if anyone was to blame it was the Professor himself, for ignoring the headman’s advice—indeed, his warning; for thinking that he knew better than the local people; ignorant natives, he had called them. It was really a case of too little knowledge being a dangerous thing. James had gone as far as he dare to point out the folly of this; but in his position as the Professor’s guest he could not insist. He was only a boy without any authority. Whatever the outcome of the tragedy he could only hope that his father and the Skipper would appreciate this. But he was anxious and unhappy.
As soon as they arrived at the village the first thing he did was to ask for the fastest runner who was prepared to go to Mirapore. Lal Das produced a man. James scribbled a brief note saying what had happened and a doctor was needed with the greatest urgency. This he gave to the runner, with a handful of rupees from the Professor’s money box, and the man went off.
There was no time to make a stretcher; instead he used the Professor’s camp bed for the purpose. However badly he was hurt he couldn’t be left lying in the jungle. Even if he was already dead his body would have to be brought out. It couldn’t be left to become the prey of wild animals. So with the bed, the Professor’s medicine chest and a few other things that might be needed, all carried by a dozen stalwart Garhwalis under the leadership of Lal Das, the rescue party set off, plunging straight into the tangle of forest and jungle that followed the course of a mountain stream through the ravine. There was a path of sorts, probably a game track. James didn’t know. He didn’t care. He was concerned only with getting to the Professor. Lal Das knew every yard of the way and he was content to follow as the old man pushed on to the spot where the fall had occurred. From time to time they called. There was no answer.
James knew they had arrived when they came upon the goral. It was dead. Its neck was broken. Close by they found the Professor. He was alive but unconscious. There was a nasty wound on his forehead, still bleeding. From the angle of one of his legs it was obviously broken. That he was still alive was enough for James. He had fallen right through a tree and the branches must have broken his fall. He had brought some down with him. Fortunately the ground was a deep layer of soft leaf mould, and this, too, no doubt helped to save him from being killed instantly.
James could do nothing on the spot except wash and bandage the head wound. The thing to do, he decided, was to get him to the village while he was unconscious or the journey would be painful. He was lifted carefully on to his bed, and with three men carrying the goral, the return journey began. James felt better to know the Professor was alive although he still did not know how serious his injuries were. It may as well be said now, although this was not known until later, they included a broken leg, a dislocated shoulder, three broken ribs and numerous cuts and bruises.
Back in the village, in the tent, the women more or less took charge. They had had ample experience of accidental falls. They set the broken leg in splints, and as it turned out made a good job of it. Of course they knew nothing of the broken ribs.
Towards evening James was putting a fresh bandage on the Professor’s forehead when he opened his eyes. His first words were: “Thanks. It was my own fault. I should have listened to you.”
James admired him for that. Not every man is prepared to admit readily that he was wrong. He gave him a sleeping pill from the medicine cabinet as he was in considerable pain. The following day, after a fair night, he told him about the ice trap that had been the cause of the accident. He also cheered him by saying he had got the goral if not in the manner intended. He was attending to the preservation of the skin.
In the interval of waiting for the doctor to arrive he was able to improve on this by having the good luck to shoot a snow leopard. Lal Das told him he h
ad seen one. They went after it and James shot it, really unwillingly, but he thought the knowledge that he had an ounce in the bag, as well as a goral, might compensate the Professor for what he was suffering.
Well, that is really the end of the story. The Professor recovered. It was nearly a fortnight before a doctor arrived. With him came Captain Lovell. He was still in the vicinity when the runner had arrived at Mirapore. He told James that as there was nothing more he could do he might as well go home. Which he did.
He saw the Professor again, a month later, when he arrived on a stretcher on his way to hospital for final treatment. He was then a wiser man, as he himself admitted after thanking James for his part in the affair. He had seen to it that Lal Das and his hunters were well rewarded for their efforts on his behalf.
He would know better next time, he said with a bleak smile.
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1 Headman.
THE FOOLISH TIGER
IT may seem strange, considering that he lived in “tiger” country, that only once did James have to face a charging tiger. Or perhaps it is not so strange, because a normal tiger does not attack a man without a reason. It would rather avoid him, and in the majority of cases will do so. A confirmed man-eater is a different matter. This usually comes with advanced age, when a hungry tiger, with its strength failing, may find it easier to kill a human than the larger animals on which it usually preys. Having made the discovery this can become a habit. It may acquire a preference for human flesh. Or, of course, a tiger may be sick, or furious at having been injured, or wounded by a hunter.
James was not even thinking of tigers when he had to face one. Out for one of his constitutional walks, the day being fine, he had been up the hill to the tea estate for a gossip with Sula, a boy of his own age and the son of an Indian overseer. He took his rifle with him, more from force of habit than any expectation of having to use it. There had been no talk of a dangerous animal in the district, but one never knew when a defensive weapon might be needed.
