by W E Johns
“Even if they knew we were looking for Toxan—what of it?” put in Ginger.
“Certain people might wonder why the British Government should suddenly take such an interest in a casual prospector.”
“You mean—they might think he’s a spy?”
“They might. The Chinese have already claimed that India has spies on the Thibetan frontier. That’s been denied, naturally. We don’t want to cause trouble. We’ll go back to the lake. You’ve seen enough to demonstrate what a futile business it would be to look for Toxan from ground level.”
“No use, old boy. No bally use at all,” agreed Bertie.
Biggles turned west, and still scrutinizing the forest below made his way back to the lake which, from the air, with the sun now high in the heavens, made a wonderful picture.
“You were right about the monkeys!” exclaimed Ginger, as Biggles glided in to land. “They’ve found our camp. The place is crawling with ‘em.”
The little animals scattered and fled, however, when Biggles, having touched down, opened the throttle a trifle to take the machine right in to its mooring.
Having gone ashore examination revealed that no harm had been done although the monkeys had obviously done their best to find a way into the tent. But now silence reigned. There was not a monkey in sight.
“They’re shocking little thieves,” remarked Biggles, as he unlaced the flap. “I’d bet they’re watching us now, from cover. Down nearer civilization they became so precocious you daren’t leave a thing about. I remember once travelling with my guv’nor we left the car for a few minutes, carelessly leaving a window open. When we came back monkeys were streaming up the hill taking everything portable they could lay their hands on. Among other things they pinched my camera.”
At this point in Biggles’ story the hush was shattered by an almost human shriek of terror. It ended abruptly.
“That’s one monkey that won’t go home tonight,” said Biggles soberly.
“What happened to it?” asked Ginger.
“I’d say the poor little brute was so interested in us that he didn’t look where he was going and bumped into a panther, or a tiger—probably the one you saw this morning. That’s where meddling with other people’s property has got him. Put on the kettle. We’ll have a cuppa while we talk things over and try to work out some way of making contact with this chap Toxan.”
CHAPTER V
OVER the next three days Biggles made at least one flight per day over the area in which Captain Toxan and the refugee Chinaman, Mr. Poo, were supposed to be encamped; but it was all to no purpose.
These flights were not easy. At the low altitude at which it was necessary to fly the hilly and broken ground made the air extremely bumpy, which was a strain on both the machine and the pilot. The knowledge that a crash would be inevitable in the event of engine failure did nothing to make flying more comfortable.
Biggles, becoming desperate, began to take chances by flying right through some of the deeper gorges; that is to say, below the general level of the forest on either side. Actually, only Ginger knew this because Biggles either went out alone or took only Ginger with him, making the excuse that by saving weight he would save petrol, which, as the gauge showed, was running low. Ginger, consulted privately, had agreed to accept the risks of “shooting the nullah” as the operation of flying through a ravine was known to the R.A.F. on the North-West Frontier in the days of tribal warfare.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, after Biggles had been out, flying solo, on another fruitless flight, Algy and Bertie, who with Ginger had remained in camp, took the machine to Moradabad to have the tanks topped up. They made no secret of their belief that they were wasting their time, Toxan, having made no signal, being either dead or missing.
The weather was getting hotter every day, and some of the smaller streams that cascaded down from the high mountains already showed signs of shrinking, in that they no longer foamed as they raced towards their parent river, the Ganges. The mosquitoes round the lake were bad, too, rising in hordes when the sun went down. What Biggles was really afraid of was that one or all of them might go down with jungle fever, really a severe form of malaria; for although they made light of the pest, and took reasonable precautions, such as at night wrapping the exposed parts of their bodies in mosquito netting, swollen faces in the morning told their own story. Instinctively during the stifling heat the protective covering was thrown aside. Insect repellant brought a certain amount of relief but it was not entirely effective.
Nothing more could be done about it, and Biggles was near despair when fate took a hand to restore their hopes. It happened like this. Ginger was on his way to the lake for a sponge down when, with something of a shock, he saw two natives standing a little farther along looking at the tent. They appeared to be discussing it. Both carried firearms.
Ginger, promptly changing his mind about a bath, returned quickly to the tent and told Biggles what he had seen.
Biggles lost no time in going out. At first the men could not be seen, apparently having retired; but when Biggles called they reappeared, and at his request advanced towards him. They wore only waist-cloths, and from their dark skins, black curly hair and broad, rather flat noses, he identified them as Gonds. When he spoke to them in their own language they came on with more confidence, and were soon sitting cross-legged on the ground with mugs of tea in their hands. One possessed an old Lee-Enfield rifle which in all probability had once belonged to a British soldier. A bayonet, somewhat rusty, was still attached to the muzzle, and looked as if it was never taken off. The other had a fearsome “gaspipe” gun which looked as if he had made it himself. Both wore Gurkha type kukris1 and were evidently hunters.
This was where Biggles’ knowledge of local languages was such an advantage, for although the Gonds spoke very good English, which is used more or less all over India, when they were at a loss for a word he could help them out. For the rest, English was the language used, so everyone could follow the conversation. Biggles had, of course, explained at once to the others who and what the natives were.
Looking at the two men curiously in view of their obvious reluctance to come straight to the tent Biggles asked them if they were afraid of something.
“Yes, sahib,” answered one, simply. “We were afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Of the soldiers.”
Biggles’ eyebrows went up. “What soldiers?”
After the two men had glanced at each other one answered: “The Chinese soldiers.”
Biggles frowned. “Do you mean Chinese soldiers are down here—in the forest?”
“Yes, sahib.”
“What are they doing here?”
“They came down from the mountains to look for a man.”
“That doesn’t sound so good,” muttered Algy.
Biggles continued his questioning. “Who is this man they are looking for?” Actually, he had a pretty good idea.
The men could not answer this question. They said, with obvious truth, they did not know.
“How many of these soldiers are there?”
Again the men did not know. All they could say was, a party of six had come to their village demanding food. They had said if they were not given food they would burn the village. They had been given a goat and some millet. It was thought these six men were not alone.
Biggles was clearly taking this news seriously. “How long since you saw these soldiers?”
The man thought for a moment and then held up ten fingers.
“Hm. Ten days. Why did you come here?”
“We were out hunting, sahib, and we see plane coming down. We came to see who it is and what happens.”
“How far is it from here to your village?”
“Two days, one night. Down the hill.” The speaker pointed the direction.
“I see. Now tell me this. Have you seen, or heard talk, of a sahib named Captain Toxan?”
The men searched their memories. �
��No, sahib.”
“Have you heard of a sahib who stays a long time, not far from here?”
“Yes, sahib.” The two Gonds held a brisk conversation in their own language, in which a name was mentioned. The name was Ram Shan. It turned out this was a man of their village who, out on a hunting trip, had seen the camp of a sahib. He had talked of this on his return. If he had learned his name he had not mentioned it. The camp was in a nullah. There had been digging—much digging.
“That sounds like Toxan,” said Ginger.
“How long since Ram Shan saw this sahib?” questioned Biggles.
There was some difficulty about getting an answer to this because the Gonds were somewhat hazy, the matter being of no importance to them. Finally the two men agreed it was about two months.
“What are your names?” inquired Biggles.
One of the men was Bira Shah, the other, Mata Dhinn.
“We are looking for Toxan sahib,” explained Biggles. “We must find him. As it seems that Ram Shan could guide me to his camp, will you return to the village and bring him here to me?”
“We will go, sahib, but he will not come.”
“Very well. If I go with you to your village will he lead me to the camp of Captain Toxan?”
“No, sahib.”
Biggles looked puzzled. “Why not?”
“He will not leave the village.”
“But why? Is he ill?”
“No, sahib. He is a man with goats and is afraid to leave them for the tiger. Also he has a wife to protect.”
“Tiger! What tiger? What talk is this between brave men?”
One of the men explained. For some weeks now the village had been harassed by an evil one, a man-eater. It had killed more than twenty men, women and children. Everyone now lived in terror. No one would go out, but even so, the tiger had taken to raiding the village. He had come even in daylight. The bhoomkas could do nothing.
“What’s a bhoomkas?” asked Ginger softly.
“A tiger charmer,” replied Biggles, briefly. “He’s supposed to be able to hold secret conversations with tigers.”
Well, that was it. Ram Shan was a man with a wife and children, and goats. The two visitors were sure he would not leave the village for fear of them falling prey to the evil one.
Biggles drew a deep breath. “What a nuisance,” he said, looking at the others. “Here we get a clue, only to have it fall flat on account of a confounded tiger.”
He turned back to the two Gonds. “You have guns. Can’t you shoot this tiger?”
“No, sahib. We have tried, but bullets do not hurt him. He is under the protection of Shatan.”
“Who says so?”
“The bhoomkas.”
Biggles shrugged, helplessly. “You see,” he said to the others. “When people here get these ideas, that it’s futile to try to kill the tiger, they just pack up and do nothing about it, although they’re not lacking in courage.” Again he turned to the visitors. “If I come with you and kill this devil will Ram Shan guide me to the camp of Toxan sahib?”
They thought he would.
“It looks as if, before we can get on the track of Toxan, I shall have to go and shoot this infernal tiger,” Biggles told the others, grimly. “This chance may never come again, and if Chinese troops are on the prowl— and we can guess who they’re looking for—we’ve no time to lose. We may already be too late. Of course, Chinese soldiers have no right to be here. I’m by no means sure of how they’d treat us if we ran foul of them.”
“Why not report the matter to the Indian government,” suggested Ginger. “They’d soon clear them out.”
“And start a war between India and China? Not likely. The Chinese invaders of Thibet would have excuses ready, I’ve no doubt.”
“Well, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going with these fellows to their village. If nothing else Ram Shan may be able to give me the position of Toxan’s camp. I shall do my best to persuade him to lead me to it. Alternatively, he might come here, and from the machine point out this particular nullah in which Toxan has apparently hidden himself.”
“Without air experience he may not be able to do that,” said Algy, dubiously. “From topsides things will look very different from what they do at ground level.”
“He should be able to recognize a nullah from its size and shape.”
“But you heard what these chaps said. Ram Shan won’t leave home on account of the tiger.”
“In that case it looks as if I shall have to dispose of the tiger.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Certainly.” Biggles grinned. “When I was a kid the height of my ambition was to shoot a tiger, to establish my reputation as a shikari. This is my chance, and a man-eater, at that. The brute ought to be killed, anyway. If he isn’t he may terrorize the village for years. We could go on for weeks doing what we’ve been doing since we came here without getting anywhere. I’m going to see Ram Shan.”
“Does that mean you’re going by yourself?”
“No. I’d better have somebody with me in case of accident. I’ll take Bertie. He fancies himself as a bit of a shikari so he can lend me a hand if it becomes necessary to do a spot of tiger hunting.”
“Oh here, I say old boy, come off it,” protested Bertie. “I never claimed to be anything of the sort.”
“You’ve done a lot of stalking.”
“Not for tigers.”
“This is your chance.”
“Chance for what?”
“To bag a tiger.”
“More likely get bagged myself.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of tigers?” bantered Biggles.
“Terrified. They have such big teeth to bite you with.”
“Oh, quit fooling,” broke in Ginger. “Of course Bertie will go. What about me and Algy?”
Biggles became serious. “With these Chinese troops about someone will have to keep an eye on our camp kit. They may take a fancy to it. If you like, you and Algy can take turns spotting for Toxan but don’t leave base for too long at a time. And don’t run the machine short of petrol in case I come back in a hurry with Ram Shan and need it.”
“What happens if Ram Shan agrees to take you to Toxan’s camp? That could be a long walk, and you might be away from here for some time. We wouldn’t know where you were or how to get in touch with you.”
Biggles pondered the problem for a minute. “Let’s put it like this.” he decided. “If I’m not back in four days you can reckon I’m on my way to Toxan’s camp with Ram Shan. If I can get to it the rest should be relatively easy. The first thing I’ll do is make a smoke smudge to mark the spot. If Toxan and Mr. Poo are able to travel I shall bring them here, Ram Shan acting as guide. He’ll know the position of the lake. If they’re not fit to do the journey I’ll get Ram Shan, or these two fellows here, to bring us back. It’s time we made contact with Toxan, so let’s do that for a start. I’ll decide on the next step when that’s been done. Of course, if I find Toxan’s camp abandoned there’ll be no point in staying on here. We’d pack up and go home. Okay?”
“Okay,” agreed Algy and Ginger.
Biggles turned back to the two Gonds and explained his plan to them. Without hesitation they announced their willingness to take him to their village. They were about to return home, anyway.
“Right,” said Biggles, briskly. “Let’s get on with it. We shan’t need much in the way of kit. It can all go in one bag. These chaps will carry it. Enough food for two or three days, soap and towel, and, of course, the rifle with a few clips of ammunition.”
In ten minutes all was ready. Biggles’ last orders to Ginger and Algy were: “Don’t leave camp for too long at a stretch. Keep out of trouble with these Chinese, if you can, should they come along this way. If you see smoke rising from a ravine the chances are it’ll be me, because I shall stoke up if I hear the machine. It might be a good thing to take a photo to pin-point the spot so that we should have a reco
rd of where the place is. That’s all. See you later.”
Observing that Biggles and Bertie were ready to march the Gonds got up, and picking up their loads led the way, which at first followed the border of the lake. For a little while the going was heavy and therefore slow, the natives often using their kukris to clear a passage; but then, suddenly, and unexpectedly as far as Biggles was concerned, they came upon a muddy path which, emerging from the forest, ended at the water. Biggles recognized it as an elephant track, and made a remark to that effect.
“Yes, sahib,” agreed one of the guides, as they turned into what was a dimly lighted tunnel through the towering timber that entwined their branches overhead.
“Are we likely to meet the elephants?” asked Biggles.
The Gond thought not. He had, he said, come this way to the lake without seeing anything of them.
As for the most part the track took a gentle course downhill the going was now easier. At any rate, it was no longer necessary for the natives to use their kukris, although care had often to be taken to pick a path through broken branches, stripped of their leaves, cast down by the big beasts as they ate their way through the jungle. Scars on the trees on either side showed from where they had been torn; but none was recent.
“This is better, old boy,” remarked Bertie, cheerfully.
“Don’t forget it’ll be uphill coming back,” reminded Biggles.
After that the march continued in silence, through an atmosphere that was oppressive with a sultry heat and the stench of rotting vegetation.
* * *
1 Kukri—a heavy, curved knife, about two feet long and weighing about four pounds. It was standard equipment in the Ghurkha regiments of the British army.
CHAPTER VI
As no incident of interest occurred on the journey that followed it can be passed over quickly.
