by W E Johns
Secretly, although he found it tiresome, Biggles rather enjoyed it. To him it was like old times, or like re-living a half forgotten dream. Memories of such trips with his father and their old shikari, both long dead, filled his thoughts. In fact, now that he was back in surroundings once familiar he found that he remembered more than he had anticipated. For this, no doubt, the smells, and the occasional sounds, such as the squabbling of monkeys high overhead or in the distance, were responsible. The strange trees and insects were like old friends there to greet him. So, for the most part the march was made in silence. Nothing in the way of big game was seen, although that is not to say it was not there, as footprints and other signs on the ground often testified.
The track was by no means straight. Far from that it wandered all over the place as it made detours to avoid dells and ravines. Frequently it joined or crossed others, but the guides were never in doubt as to the way.
The first time this happened Biggles said to Bertie: “It isn’t easy, but try to remember the path in case you ever have to go it alone.” Biggles himself was doing this automatically, as his early training had taught him, noting a fallen tree here, an outcrop of rock there, and the like.
The temperature rose as they descended to a lower level, and by the time they were forced by darkness to halt for the night it was reckoned they had dropped something like two thousand feet. It was also realized that their camp by the lake was comparatively cool in comparison.
Preparations for the night were swiftly made by the Gonds who were experienced hunters. They were simple enough. Heaps of fern and twigs were cut for beds, and enough sere wood to keep a small fire going. This was more to discourage the mosquitoes by the smoke than any dangerous beasts that might be near. Sitting on their beds Biggles and Bertie had a frugal supper of sardines and dry biscuits, sharing these with their travelling companions to whom these things were luxuries. Tired, they both slept soundly, the Gonds taking turns to keep guard and replenish the fire.
The first grey of dawn, heralded by the monkeys and the raucous cries of birds in the upper branches of the trees, saw them again on the move. Biggles suspected, and this was later confirmed, that the party was making faster time than if the Gonds had travelled alone; for to them, he knew, time would be of no importance, and they would often stop to investigate prospects of deer and other game.
It was about noon when their approach to the village was announced in no uncertain manner. Biggles knew they were getting near because the guides had increased their pace and no longer bothered themselves with the precautions they had taken earlier.
Suddenly, at no great distance ahead, there was a shout, instantly to be followed by an increasing clamour of yells and the beating of a drum. For a brief moment Biggles thought this was for their benefit; a sort of welcome home; but one glance at the faces of the natives dispelled the idea. They had stopped, and their skins had turned that curious green-brown tint which in coloured races is the equivalent of white men turning pale. It denotes fear, or shock.
“Is that the tiger?” asked Biggles tersely.
“It is he,” was the breathless answer.
Biggles took his rifle, an Express he had used on previous occasions, which one of the Gonds had been carrying, and jerking a bullet from the magazine into the breech, strode on.
“You’d better keep behind me in case the devil comes this way,” he told Bertie, who had no such weapon.
The shouting had now died away to a sinister silence.
Two hundred yards on, the forest broke down to a small open glade, not very wide but fairly long, carpeted with trodden sun-scorched grass on which had been built a number of shacks—they could hardly be called houses—of rough timber and thatch. At the extremity of these it seemed that the entire population of the village had collected in a group, some forty or fifty persons in all. They made no sound, but stood staring at something farther along the glade where the outlying shrubs of the jungle brought it to an end.
Looking in that direction Biggles saw the dreadful spectacle of a tiger calmly walking away, without the slightest haste, dragging a woman by the shoulder. With her free hand she was beating the tiger’s face, but all to no purpose, for it continued to walk on. No one appeared to be doing anything about it, although to be fair to the natives, without weapons suitable for dealing with such a situation there was nothing much they could do.
Without a word Biggles broke into a run. Pushing his way through the little crowd he continued on, by which time he was within a hundred yards of the man-eater; but he dare not shoot, of course, for fear of hitting the woman. He raced on, closing the gap, with the tiger still walking away, still dragging its victim, and in its confidence not troubling to look behind it. The woman had ceased her futile struggles, but she was still conscious, as her piteous cries revealed.
When Biggles was perhaps forty yards away, hoping the beast would drop the woman and so give him a chance for a shot, he let out a yell. Hearing someone so close the killer now deigned to look back. Seeing a white man, and a tiger knows the difference between a white man and a native, it opened its mouth to show its teeth and growl. The woman fell on the ground, face down, apparently having fainted, for she did not move.
Biggles brought the rifle to his shoulder, but before he could fire, the tiger, gun-wise, or perhaps actuated by some unholy instinct, stepped behind a bush that stood in a patch of waist-high grass and disappeared from sight.
Biggles lowered the rifle, and holding it at the ready continued to advance, afraid the beast would fade into the jungle before he could get his sights on it. Nearing the bush behind which the tiger had disappeared he went on more slowly, a step at a time, finger on trigger, expecting a charge every instant. He passed the woman, lying where she had fallen, but he dare not look at her, much less do anything to help her. His eyes were on the bush. Not for a split second did they leave it. He stopped, staring. There was not a movement. He listened. Not a sound, He went on, very very slowly. He reached the bush. The tiger was nowhere in sight. He stopped again, eyes searching an area of two-foot-high dry grass beyond the bush.
A slight noise behind spun him round, and Bertie came nearer to being shot than ever in his life before. He strolled up, carrying in the crook of his arm the rifle belonging to Bira Shah, the bayonet still fixed.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” rasped Biggles, whose nerves, naturally, were at full stretch. “I might have shot you.”
“Where’s the tiger?”
“I don’t know, but he’s not far away. Go back.”
“Not me. I’m not having you hog this little party on your own. Two guns are better than one.”
Biggles, instantly on seeing Bertie had turned again to face the direction in which he knew the tiger must be. “All right,” he said tersely, but without raising his voice. “Stand back to back with me in case he works his way round behind us. He can’t be far away and may come from any direction. If you speak keep your voice down. He’ll be listening.”
There was a minute of silence. Nothing happened.
“Are you sure he didn’t reach the jungle?” asked Bertie, softly.
“Certain. I’d have seen him. He wouldn’t leave the woman. He’s lying close, watching us. Are you sure that bundook of yours is loaded?”
“You bet it is. I’ve checked it.”
“Okay. Don’t move, but see if you can spot the devil. If you do, don’t shoot unless he charges. Let me have first shot. That rifle you’ve got hold of has been knocking about for years and may not be accurate within yards.”
Another silence.
“He’s gone,” said Bertie.
“Not he. He’s lying somewhere in this grass. He may not move unless he thinks we’ve seen him.”
“Let’s beat him out of it.”
“Not on your life. Are you crazy?”
“How about tossing a match into it? That should shift him.”
“No. It’s too easy to miss a running shot and h
e might come from behind the smoke. I’d rather catch him squatting. He’s close. Within twenty yards of us.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“You will. I can smell him. He’s watching us.”
Silence fell, a hot attentive hush; the atmosphere was electric.
Biggles’ eyes roved over the grass, slowly and methodically, yard by yard, section by section. Sweat ran down his face and dripped off the end of his nose. He dare not take his finger off the trigger to wipe it off. Suddenly his eyes stopped and remained fixed.
“I can see him,” he breathed. “Half-right, at twenty yards. He’s lying lengthways on, facing us, watching us. He’ll come any moment now. He knows I’ve seen him. Our eyes have met.”
In fact, all Biggles had seen was the pair of baleful eyes, for in the dry grass, with the tiger lying flat, the striped skin was perfectly camouflaged.
“Got him?” whispered Biggles.
“Yes. Go ahead, old boy. Let him have it.”
“I’ll take him as he lies. If I don’t kill him outright he’ll either charge or make for the jungle, in which case you’ll get a running shot. Are you ready?”
“All set.”
“Then stand by to move fast.”
In dead silence, a silence that could almost be felt, very slowly Biggles brought the butt of the rifle to his shoulder and took aim midway between the eyes still glaring at him. Knowing what the result would be if he missed he took time. At last, holding his breath, he squeezed the trigger.
The weapon crashed.
At the report, with an ear-shattering roar the tiger leapt vertically into the air, showing its full length. Sure it would now charge Biggles slammed in another cartridge and braced himself to receive it.
Instead of coming for him the animal seemed to have become possessed by a thousand devils, tearing in mighty bounds this way and that in demoniac rage, making the most appalling noise of roars and snarls. At such speed did it move and so unpredictable were the directions of its bounds that Biggles was never given a reasonable chance for another shot. He held his fire.
He guessed what had happened. His bullet had struck the beast in the head, damaging its brain without killing it. All he could do was wait for the creature to stop its mad gyrations.
“Wait,” he told Bertie, crisply. “He may collapse. If he doesn’t—”
He got no further. It almost seemed that the tiger understood what he had said. At all events it must have heard the voice, for it whirled round to face him and instantly charged. What followed happened faster than it can be told. In two leaps the tiger had covered the twenty yards that separated them. Then, towering up on its hind legs it reached out with its claws to pull Biggles down.
Biggles didn’t move. There was no time. With the muzzle of the rifle almost touching the tiger’s chest he fired, and the next second went over backwards with the tiger on top of him. This occurred in an instant of time and there was never any question of reloading.
Bertie appeared to act on sheer impulse rather than from thought. He jumped in close, lunged the bayonet to the hilt just behind the tiger’s shoulder and pulled his trigger at the same time.
Whether it was this stab and bullet that killed the tiger, or Biggles’ final shot at point blank range, was never known. It lay still, asprawl, with Biggles, underneath it, thrusting at the tiger with both hands as he strove desperately to get free.
Dropping his rifle Bertie seized Biggles by the hands and tried to pull him clear, but was having difficulty in doing so, for the man-eater must have weighed in the order of four hundred pounds, when help arrived in the persons of the two Gond hunters who had brought them to the village. In doing this they showed courage of the highest order, for at this juncture it was by no means certain that the beast was dead. Anyway, with their combined efforts the three of them managed to get Biggles free and on his feet. As soon as this was done the Gond with the “gas-pipe” gun made sure of things by firing it into the tiger’s ear, and, to make doubly sure, slashed it across the throat with his kukri.
“Are you all right, old boy?” Bertie asked Biggles anxiously.
“I don’t know,” panted Biggles, weakly. “I think so.” His face was pale and there were blood-stains all down the front of his khaki drill tunic shirt. He examined himself. “Where’s all this blood coming from?”
Bertie had a look. “Can’t see anything, old boy. Must be tiger’s blood.”
“Phew! I thought he’d got me. He must have been dead when he flattened me out. What did you do? I heard your shot but I couldn’t see.”
“I pushed the old bodkin home and pulled the trigger.”
“Thanks. It was a nasty moment when I found myself going over. I shall never forget the stink of his breath as he flopped on top of me. That spot of tiger hunting will last me for a long time.” Biggles sat down on the tiger, mopped his face and lit a cigarette with a hand that was not quite steady. He picked up his rifle and looked around. “Where’s that wretched woman?”
“They’ve carried her up to the houses.”
“Now you see what it means to have a man-eater operating in your back garden.”
By this time it seemed as if the entire village had arrived on the scene and there was a good deal of noise as men, women and children, gave vent to their hatred of the dead man-eater by stabbing it, kicking it and calling it names.
“I could do with a drink,” said Biggles. He grinned feebly. “Nothing like having a tiger fall on top of you to give you a thirst. Let’s get along to the houses.”
“While I wouldn’t exactly call it a slice of cake, old boy, we could hardly have timed our arrival better,” remarked Bertie as, surrounded by a throng of congratulating villagers they walked back to where they had left their kit, Bira Shah and Mata Dhinn clearing the way with an air of importance at having been party to the liquidation of the man-eater.
“After knocking off the local menace for ‘em, this chap, Ram Shan, should fairly jump to do anything you ask him,” asserted Bertie. “What seems to be amusing ‘em?”
“I think it’s your eyeglass.” Some of the children had, as children will, imitated Bertie, the mighty hunter, by fixing sundry objects in one of their eyes.
Arrived at the houses the village showed its gratitude by producing bowls of goats’ milk. After a few minutes for rest and refreshment Biggles asked Bira Shah to produce Ram Shan as he wanted to talk to him.
Presently the man was brought, and to him Biggles explained his purpose in coming to the village. Would he, Ram Shan, guide them to the place where Toxan sahib had his camp? Gould he find his way to it?
Ram Shan, an elderly man, said he could, and would.
“How long will it take us to reach it?” asked Biggles.
The journey, he was assured, could be made in one day, if they started early. It would be better to do that, advised Ram Shan, than start at once, which would mean spending the night in the jungle.
As it was now well into the afternoon, and as there appeared to be no particular urgency, to this Biggles agreed. He had already made a long march that day. It would be better to start fresh, he told Bertie. “There’s one thing we might do,” he added.
“What’s that?”
“If one of these fellows will take it I could send a note to Algy and Ginger telling them how things stand. They will hardly expect us to have shot the tiger already, with the result that we’re starting for Toxan’s camp with Ram Shan in the morning. It might be a good thing to let them know that. Put their minds at rest. If nothing else it’ll be a relief to them to know we got here all right.”
“Jolly good scheme, old boy. They’re bound to be a bit worried. But who will you get to take it?”
This was soon settled. On their two Gond friends being consulted Mata Dhinn at once volunteered to take the note himself. He knew the way to the lake. It was no trouble. He admitted frankly that he would rather go to it than to Toxan’s camp, for Ram Shan had told him where it was, and it had the reput
ation of being an evil place, which was why it was seldom visited. To go to the lake would be no trouble. As it would in any case mean spending a night in the jungle he would start at once so as to arrive in good time the next day.
This being agreed Biggles tore a leaf from his notebook, wrote the message, folded it and handed it to the Gond hunter. “You shall be rewarded when we have finished here,” he promised.
Mata Dhinn reminded Biggles that he had shot the tiger and for that they were all grateful. It was sufficient reward. He set off on his journey forthwith.
“Well, that seems to be all we can do for the present,” Biggles told Bertie. “We’ll turn in early.”
“Are you feeling all right?” asked Bertie, looking hard at him.
“A bit shaky, that’s all. Only shock. It’ll soon wear off. But it would have been a different story if the tiger had had a kick left in him when he fell on me.”
“Never mind, old boy, you got your tiger.”
“I’m not so sure of that. You might have got him.”
“What say we share him!”
“That’s okay with me. Now let’s get some shut-eye.”
They spent the night, rather uncomfortably, in the village, for they could hear the moans of the woman who had been mauled. There was nothing they could do for her, but Biggles asked Bertie to remind him to send some antiseptic along, from the medicine chest in the machine, at the first opportunity. “She’ll probably get over it,” he said. “These people are pretty tough. They have to be.”
Whether or not the woman recovered they never knew, but she was still alive in the morning when they began their march to the nullah in which, according to Ram Shan, Toxan had his camp. Bira Shah told them confidently that she would be all right because the wound had been rubbed with a piece of tiger fat, the best medicine of all. He himself had managed to get some of the tiger’s whiskers. They were a wonderful protection against danger.
Biggles did not dispute it. As he said quietly to Bertie, if you believe in a medicine it probably works.
CHAPTER VII
