In response to Steele’s trenchant glance, Kirby significantly tapped his forehead.
“I don’t think I’m balmy yet, but I dare say I soon shall be. But if I told all that I know, Powell would order me to Rangoon and before I could say three words he’d have me in the booby-hatch—on the evidence of my own report.”
Kirby was oppressively serious. And while Steele had been unable to conjure up the last trace of cordiality—beyond decent politeness—he was heartily sorry for the manager. The poor devil was in a blue funk; but his tacit admission that his reason was beginning to waver was a hopeful indication. If the man were mad, he would be the last to question his own sanity.
“The hell you say?” Steele’s exclamation carried a distinct query. Kirby’s hazel eyes were disturbingly unwavering for several seconds, but he ignored the hint. Steele then persisted, “Don’t write it, then. While I can scarcely demand your confidence, I’m in a way entitled to it. You needn’t worry about my quoting you. I won’t. And if I did—well, who’d believe me?”
Kirby nodded, declined a cigarette, and finally said, “Last year, just before the freshets, we had an unusual tangle of logs and little time, as usual, to get them to the creek. The roundabout road my predecessor had built seemed insufferably stupid, so I laid out a new route for the elephants.
“I jolly well had a mutiny on my hands, but I fairly booted the woodcutters into clearing a direct approach that skirted the village, just over the hill. That road, it seemed, passed directly through a sacred grove, or some such rot—and there was no end of muttering about the nats—”
Kirby gritted his teeth, snarled a compound oath, and continued, “And the long and short of it is they claim that this leopard is a devil sent to avenge my—our—violating the home of the forest nats—the blasted unspeakable country is filthy with nats! The natives count ’em off by the million—offer sacrifices to them—shiver when they think of ’em—and by the Lord, I’m getting that way myself!
“Damn it, Steele—I’m convinced this devil leopard is a nat!—that it’s hounding me to death, killing my men—but can I report that story to Powell? Can I?” Steele stroked his chin and exhaled a jet of smoke. He could not offer Kirby any assurance. You can’t assure a grown white man against the wrath of wizards and evil spirits. And regardless of what alienists might say, Kirby was painfully sane. He elaborated on the apparent chain of cause and effect, and concluded, “Irrespective of my personal sanity, there is a leopard, and the camp is demoralized, and if I ask Powell to shift operations to the eastern sector, I’ll have to offer him some reason other than that this one is devil-haunted.
“The only thing I can tell him is that I’m not competent to handle these woodcutters. Just one whimper about native wizards, and—”
“Correct,” agreed Steele. “But just between the two of us—how about giving me the address of this wizard?”
Kirby eyed him suspiciously. He seemed on the point of answering but instead, he abruptly rose and said, “I’m placing an elephant and a mahout at your disposal. Also some shikaris, though they’ll no more beat the brush than they’ll fly. After all, Powell sent you to hunt a leopard, not a wizard. And I’m not so sure that I appreciate your trying to humor my whims.”
And that, Steele perceived, put an end to any chance of getting Kirby’s confidence. His only resource was to look for the spoor of the killer: which should not be difficult, as it was improbable that there was more than one beast of such unusual size in the district.
One thought, however, gnawed at Steele’s mind. The demon leopard had human allies, and native wizards were involved—unless the headman of Hlai-bin-doung had been fabricating to deflect suspicion from his villagers. Yet he could as well, and much more logically, have asserted that the man Achmet had brained was a dacoit.
“Just a few more kinks like that,” muttered Steele, “and I’ll join Achmet’s astaghfir ’ullah chorus! I’ll be as screwy as Kirby.”
CHAPTER 4
Steele soon learned that tracking the demon leopard was a thankless job. Neither he nor Achmet could pick up the beast’s trail; and while a native shikari would undoubtedly find some mark that survived the milling of many feet about the place where the leopard had last struck, none could be bribed or browbeaten into the attempt. And as the result of their futile efforts, Steele and Achmet patrolled the logging-camp by night, hoping to catch the marauder as he made a raid. But again they reckoned without taking into account the diabolical cunning of the leopard; the beast avoided the huts of the woodcutters and, instead, struck at the neighboring village.
His victims were a native girl, and a mahout en route to the camp.
And then woodcutters began disappearing without a trace. No sign of struggle, no blood, no mangled remains indicated by the low-flying scavenger birds collecting about the scene of a slaying.
“They’re deserting,” said Kirby, alternating between inertia and high-pitched wrath. “By the Lord, Steele, you’ve not a chance. Neither have I—but I’ll hunt the beast myself until one of us is accounted for.”
And thus, at sunset, Kirby would slip into the forest for a night of bushwhacking as Steele and Achmet began their vigil at camp.
The manager had scarcely reached the edge of the forest when Saya-myo, the kansammah, accosted Steele. The fellow was obviously perturbed, and seemed to be mustering up his courage for some desperate step, but his remarks were scattered and irrelevant.
“Sound off,” encouraged Steele. “What’s on your mind, Saya-myo? Has that Afghan ruffian of mine been monopolizing all the ladies of the village?”
That, however, was not the trouble. It was something much more serious. And it in no wise concerned Achmet. Saya-myo glanced over one shoulder, then the other, and fingered the nine-jeweled amulet that hung from his neck. The amulet business had enjoyed a boom at the expense of teak logging.
“It is Kirby Sahib,” the Burmese finally said. “He is the leopard. At night the man disappears, and he becomes a beast. He—”
“Shaytan rip him open! I suspected as much!” boomed the voice of Achmet, as his red beard heralded his advance around the corner of the bungalow. “Es-Steele Sahib, I will kill this man. There be only these Burmese apes, who will dare not tell what I have done.”
“Shut up, you jackass!” snapped Steele. “Allah gave you much valor and no brains. Who ever heard of a man becoming a leopard by night?”
Steele had heard all too much of such things, but this was no occasion to admit it.
“Wallah,” grumbled the Afghan, “that at least is better than having neither brains nor valor. If that shaitan-leopard had killed even one of my kinsmen, I would have slit him crosswise as soon as he took back the shape of a man.
“Is it not plain as your nose that this man Kirby is the slayer? Does he not always walk by night? Is he ever seen near a slaying? Is he ever attacked by night by any beast? And mark you this: I found no footprints of a leopard near the body of the woodcutter who was killed before our eyes, but there were marks left by the boots of an infidel—”
“My own boots,” interrupted Steele. “Before you could get a good look, there had been so much trampling about that all heel marks looked alike.”
“The Red Beard is right,” interposed Saya-myo. “And we are all dead men if he does not kill Kirby. If we stay, we die. If we run, he will hunt us down and kill us.”
The three-cornered debate was interrupted by a scarcely perceptible rustling at the edge of the clearing. Steele whirled, rifle at the ready. But it was no beast of prey that stepped from black shadow into light of the waning moon. It was Don Kirby, and the feral gleam of his eyes showed that he had heard more than enough.
“I think, Steele,” was his ironic remark, “that your red-bearded wild man is nearly as bad as the Burmese. Now if you think you can keep that Afghan within the limits of the clearing, I’ll risk resuming the hunt. As yo
u say, he has more nerve than brains, and unless you restrain him, he would venture into the bush to track me down.”
“God, by God, by the One True God!” growled Achmet, “verily, I would not risk meeting you in the forest by night! But saving my lord’s presence, I would throttle you at sunrise when you resume the form of a man.”
Kirby shook his head, eyed Steele, then said, “You begin to see what a madhouse this has become. And you, Saya-myo, what manner of talk was this you made?”
Kirby’s voice was low, but vibrant. The kansammah’s brown face had become ghastly with fright. He licked his lips, made a false start at speech, then ran howling into the forest.
“The fool’s going to the temple to get some more charms,” explained Kirby.
“Temple?” queried Steele. “That’s a bit odd, up here in the hills. Or is it that monastery up over the hill, and beyond the village?”
Kirby shook his head.
“Not a monastery. Ruined temple. Something like those square heaps in Pagan—you might have seen them on the way up.”
“Didn’t cross the river,” replied Steele. “But speaking of temples—is that the nest of wizards that’s put the jinx on this camp?”
“Suppose you figure that out,” was Kirby’s somber challenge. “I’m fairly addle-brained from guessing. And in the meanwhile, I’m taking a jaunt out to the jeel again. I saw his footprints there, last night.”
So saying, Kirby turned, toward the clearing. Steele frowned as he watched his lithe, cat-like tread.
“How that guy supervises a logging-camp and stalks game every night is something to think about,” he muttered. “It’s a blistering cinch he can’t turn into a leopard at night, but Saya-myo’s mortally afraid of him. Somebody’s going to get hurt. And it’s not a leopard that’ll put period-quotes to Kirby.”
Steele hailed Achmet.
“Thou blustering oaf,” he said in Pushtu, “keep a sharp eye on this camp. I am walking by the jeel myself.”
“By Allah, Sahib—it is death!” warned the Afghan. “Wait until morning to slay him.”
“If I see him turn into a leopard,” compromised Steele, “then will we kill him as you say. Not until then.”
Steele headed for the path that led through the forest to the adjoining village, but he checked his stride at the stockade that had just been built around the huts of the native foresters and hailed his mahout in a low voice.
The mahout was a fellow of indeterminate race, and named Jang. Jang’s mother had doubtless bestowed the name on him in memory of some wandering Gurka. At all events, his resemblance to the Nepalese mountaineers was striking.
“Shall I get my brother?” wondered Jang, referring to his elephant. “I hear his kalouk over there.”
“No. Hunting that pukka shaytan (out-and-out evil spirit) from a howdah,” said Steele, “is like trying to spear porpoises from a battleship. Bring your kukri and we will walk by moonlight—near the jeel.”
Jang swallowed his aversion to walking, and in a moment reappeared with the short, heavy-bladed Kurka knife which served every purpose, from paring radishes to clipping the nose from an unfaithful wife.
And as they plunged into the forest, Steele whispered, “I have changed my mind about the jeel. Lead the way to the village, and especially toward that temple.”
Jang’s teeth flashed in the moonlight. The sooner the sahib showed some sense and made magic, the sooner the marauder would cease his depredations.
Steele’s suspicions concerning Kirby were far more grave than he had dared to admit to the hot-headed Afghan or the morose woodcutters. Reviling Achmet’s somber mutterings was no more than a move to put a damper on the Afghan’s tendency to solve all difficulties by sudden violence; and while Steele was convinced that something was startlingly wrong with Kirby, he dared not make any admissions that might lead to the camp manager’s summary and secret assassination.
Leopards can be trained to hunt. And Kirby’s alternation of frankness and reticence hinted that he knew more than he admitted. It was conceivable that some enemy of the teak company was using a trained leopard of unusual size to demoralize the camp, and that Kirby dared not reveal his knowledge or suspicion. And Steele’s real mission that night was to overtake Saya-myo, the kansammah whose fear of Kirby had driven him in a panic toward the temple beyond the village.
Jang bore a straight course among the teak trunks, with his kukri deftly chopping the underbrush that blocked his advance. And save for such interruptions, their progress was swift and silent. Presently, as they cleared the first range of hills, Steele saw the fires of the Burmese village flickering among the vegetation and huts within the zariba that enclosed it.
They descended the slope, crossed a clearing, skirted a small paddy field; and in a cleft that ran cross-wise of the range, Steele saw the squarish, quasi-pyramidal bulk of the temple.
“There is a shrine of Thagya Min, King of Demons, sahib,” said Jang. “Give him gifts and perhaps he will recall his servant.”
“Maybe,” countered Steele with a wry grimace, “that’s why Thagya Min sent him in the first place!”
And then Steele perceived a moving blot in the darkness ahead. It had charged from the shadows cast by the further side of the village stockade. Someone was heading for the ruined temple.
“Cut over, Jang,” whispered Steele. “But don’t let him know we’re following him.”
He had only Kirby’s word for Saya-myo’s destination, and in the darkness it was impossible to decide whether or not it was the kansammah who had slipped from the village to go to the temple; but whoever it was, it would be worth investigation. Eavesdropping would be more informative than any possible questioning of the frightened natives whose panic would inevitably intensify their distrust of any white man associated with Kirby.
As Jang beat a swift, silent course, the solitary pilgrim broke from shadow and into a moonlight clearing. It was Saya-myo, hurrying as though the devil pursued. Whether his object was a charm or counsel, it must be potent indeed to induce him to leave the zariba.
“Steady, there,” cautioned Steele, as Jang pushed forward.
Jang halted. And then the moon patch exploded in a blaze of action. In an instant it became a contest between feline swiftness and the speed of a man whose moves short-circuited reason and perception. A snarling streak of spotted ferocity catapulted from the farther shadows. Saya-myo yelled, instinctively threw up a warding, futile arm; but the flying mass of whipcord sinews, raking claws and ivory fangs bore him to the ground as Steele’s rifle-blast shook the clearing. He knew that he would miss; no marksman could possibly hit that inhumanly swift streak of tawny doom. He bounded forward, heard the savage snarl, the half-stifled yell of the kansammah, and leveled his rifle as his leap gave him a line of fire quite clear of the leopard’s victim.
Another tearing, crackling blast of cordite; the whine of a ricochet bullet, and then a second shot. They were closely spaced as blows of a riveting hammer. Only then did Steele realize that he had again missed a perfect target. The beast should have been torn in half by the expanding bullets aimed just in the back of his shoulder.
Steele ejected the spent shells and with trembling fingers thrust fresh ones into the breech. Saya-myo was thrashing and yelling. The leopard’s head shifted from his victim, and his feral eyes blazed like monstrous topazes as he snarled and spat at Steele.
Smack-smack!
The leopard’s head should be a tangle of shattered bone and brains. But as the concussion of Steele’s rifle died, the leopard blurred in fluent flash of motion. One long, soaring leap, and it plunged into a thicket, and disappeared. Steele and Jang pulled Saya-myo to his feet. He was pawed, and bleeding, but his throat had not been torn.
“Can’t find him by daylight, and can’t hit him by moonlight!” Steele wrathfully growled.
“But you did hit him!” yelled
Jang, thrusting the wounded kansammah aside. “Look at the blood—”
“Saya-myo’s.”
“No, sahib! Yonder—see the splash?”
Jang was right. The splashes were small, but unmistakably beyond where the kansammah’s wounds had reddened the ground. Steele, however, shared neither Saya-myo’s fear of the leopard’s vengeance, nor Jang’s triumph and confidence. Instead of scratching the beast, the expanding slugs should have torn it to a tangled heap of bones and fur. As he fired, Steele had “spotted” his shots, and knew that at the instant of concussion, his rifle had been aligned on the leopard’s shoulder. When a trained marksman cannot call his shots, something is entirely out of gear.
“Let’s see the priest,” was Steele’s next remark.
Saya-myo led the way. Tapers were flickering in one of the four shrines of the temple. The priest listened to the story of the encounter. His comment was brief.
“This beast is Kirby Sahib. He is a leopard by night. His very name—Kirba—in the Kanarese language means leopard. You cannot kill him unless you learn from the King of Wizards what weapon can hurt him.”
“Kalay-Thoung-Toht?” queried Steele.
“Yes. The-Small-Town-at-the-Top-of-the-Sandbank. And if you still doubt that this Kirby is a leopard, consider that he knew Saya-myo’s destination, and followed him—even as you did. It is plain.”
CHAPTER 5
“By Allah, sahib!” boomed a deep voice from the doorway. “That man speaks sense.”
Achmet was at the threshold, nodding and stroking his red beard.
“I told you to stay and watch the camp,” reproved Steele.
“Wallah, seeing that thou wert gone, there was nothing to watch, except these ape men. And I heard the sound of firing.”
There was no arguing with the Afghan. True to type, he masked his breach of discipline by appealing to Steele’s appreciation of loyalty. The worst of it was that Achmet had heard the old priest’s ideas on Kirby. Something had to be done to keep the Afghan from setting out at once to hunt Kirby; but before Steele could find words, his attention was distracted by the wailing of pipes and the mutter of drums from within the temple. And Steele had unpleasant memories of eerie music by moonlight.
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