Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  It is the King’s right to drink first, but after bending his head above the spring and shaking it vigorously Barrag drew back, and turned to the others.

  “Come! I will prove that I bear no ill will,” said he, treacherously. “Prince Oknu is the eldest son of our dead but venerated King Dakt. It is not for me to usurp his rights. Prince Oknu shall drink first.”

  Hearing this, the patriarchs looked upon one another in surprise. It was not like Barrag the Bull to give way to another. But the Queen-mother was delighted at the favor shown her son, and eagerly pushed him forward. So Oknu advanced proudly to the spring and drank, while Barrag bent his thoughts intently upon the black panther.

  An instant later a roar of horror and consternation came from the Royal Tribe; for the form of Prince Oknu had vanished, and in its place crouched the dark form of a trembling, terrified panther.

  Barrag sprang forward. “Death to the vermin!” he cried, and raised his cloven hoof to crush in the panther’s skull.

  A sudden spring, a flash through the air, and the black panther alighted upon Barrag’s shoulders. Then its powerful jaws closed over the buffalo’s neck, pressing the sharp teeth far into the flesh.

  With a cry of pain and terror the King reared upright, striving to shake off his tormentor; but the panther held fast. Again Barrag reared, whirling this way and that, his eyes staring, his breath quick and short, his great body trembling convulsively.

  The others looked on fearfully. They saw the King kneel and roll upon the grass; they saw him arise with his foe still clinging to his back with claw and tooth; they heard the moan of despair that burg from their stricken leader, and the next instant Barrag was speeding away across the prairie like an arrow fresh from a bow, and his bellows of terror grew gradually fainter as he passed from their sight.

  The prairie is vast. It is lonely, as well. A vulture, resting on outstretched wings, watched anxiously the flight of Bar-rag the Bull as hour by hour he sped away to the southward--the one moving thing on all that great expanse.

  The sun sank low and buried itself in the prairie’s edge. Twilight succeeded, and faded into night. And still a black shadow, leap by leap, sprang madly through the gloom. The jackals paused, listening to the short, quick pants of breath--the irregular hoof-beats of the galloping bull. But while they hesitated the buffalo passed on, with the silent panther still crouched upon its shoulders.

  In the black night Barrag suddenly lifted up his voice. “Come to me, 0 Pagshat--Evil Genius that thou art--come to my rescue!” he cried.

  And presently it seemed that another dark form rushed along beside his own.

  “Save me, Pagshat!” he moaned. “Crush thou mine enemy, and set me free!”

  A cold whisper reached him in reply: “I cannot!”

  “Change him again into his own form,” panted Barrag; “hark ye, Pagshat: ‘tis the King’s son--the cub--the weakling! Disenchant him, ere he proves my death!”

  Again came the calm reply, like a breath of Winter sending a chill to his very bones: “I cannot.”

  Barrag groaned, dashing onward--ever onward.

  “When you are dead,” continued the Voice, “Prince Oknu will resume his own form. But not before?’

  “Did we not make a compact?” questioned Barrag, in despairing tone.

  “We did,” said the Evil Genius, “and I have kept my pact. But you have still to fulfil a pledge to me.”

  “At my death--only at my death, Pagshat!” cried the bull, trembling violently.

  A cruel laugh was the only response. The moon broke through a rift in the clouds, flooding the prairie with silver light. The Evil Genius had disappeared, and the form of the solitary buffalo, with its clinging, silent foe, stumbled blindly across the endless plains.

  Barrag had bargained with the Evil One for strength, and the strength of ten bulls was his. The legends do not say how many days and nights the great buffalo fled across the prairies with the black panther upon his shoulders. We know that the Utes saw him, and the Apaches, for their legends tell of it. Far to the south, hundreds of miles away, lived the tribe of the Comanches; and those Indians for many years told their children of Barrag the Bull, and how the Evil Genius of the Prairies, having tempted him to sin, betrayed the self-made King and abandoned him to the vengeance of the Black Panther, who was the enchanted son of the murdered King Dakt.

  The strength of ten bulls was in Barrag; but even that could not endure forever. The end of the wild run came at last, and as Barrag fell lifeless upon the prairie the black panther relaxed its hold and was transformed into its original shape. For the enchantment of the Evil Genius was broken, and, restored to his own proper form, Prince Oknu cast one last glance upon his fallen enemy and then turned his head to the north.

  It would be many moons before he could rejoin the Royal Tribe of the Okolom.

  Since King Barrag had left them in his mad dash to the southward the Royal Tribe had wandered without a leader. They knew Oknu, as the black panther, would never relax his hold on his father’s murderer; but how the strange adventure might end all were unable to guess.

  So they remained in their well-known feeding grounds and patiently awaited news of the absent ones.

  A full year had passed when a buffalo bull was discovered one day crossing the prairie in the direction of the Okolom. Dignity and pride was in his step; his glance was fearless, but full of wisdom. As he stalked majestically to the very centre of the herd his gigantic form towered far above that of any buffalo among them.

  A stillness fraught with awe settled upon the Royal Tribe. “It is old King Dakt, cope to life again!” finally exclaimed one of the patriarchs.

  “Not so,” answered the newcomer, in a clear voice; “but it is the son of Dakt--who has avenged his father’s death. Look upon me! I am Oknu, King of the Royal Tribe of Okolom. Dares any dispute my right to rule?”

  No voice answered the challenge. Instead, every head of the seven hundred was bowed in silent homage to Oknu the son of Dakt, the first King of the Okolom.

  The Pea-Green Poodle

  (June 1905)

  There were few dogs on Kaynyn Island that were smaller or more insignificant in appearance than Pippo-Tib. He was undersized and over-fat — even for a poodle — and so shaggy you could scarcely see his little black eyes gleaming through the mass of curly hair. Perhaps, had you noted those bright eyes, you would not have thought Pippo-Tib insignificant, for the eyes were droll and mischievous and questioning by turns. But in general Pippo slouched along in a very careless, undignified way, and paid so little attention to his toilet that often there were a dozen burrs clinging to his hair at the same time.

  Kaynyn Island has been inhabited only by dogs for many generations, and the animals have become exceedingly intelligent and quite civilized, building cities of large size, establishing laws for their government and surrounding themselves with numerous comforts and conveniences. Upon the Island are many trees bearing dog-fruit and acres of bushes filled with chugu nuts, which all dogs prefer to any other food; so there is never any scarcity of provisions.

  They were ruled by a King, who had three Counsellors to advise him what to do (if he didn’t know himself), and there were many high officers of various sorts to carry out the King’s orders.

  The King was supposed to be the strongest and wisest dog in all the Island, and once every year any one of his subjects might challenge him to a trial of strength and wisdom, and — if he won the contest — could become King and rule in the place of his fallen adversary. But at the time of which I write, when Pippo-Tib was a mere puppy, the King of the Island was a great St. Bernard named Herowag, who had ruled many years because no one cared to oppose him.

  In preceding years Herowag had fought many battles to protect his throne, and won them all, and he was so wise that when his strength finally failed, through old age, he hit upon a plan to maintain his regal title. For he made his Counsellors choose each year the one who should contend against him; and the Coun
sellors, by the King’s secret order, always chose a dog so old and puny and weak that even the aged Herowag had no trouble whatever in defeating him.

  This was no doubt unjust, but it was strictly within the letter of the Law, so that all the great Danes and Newfoundlands and Mastiffs who were fitted to take the old King’s place had never a chance to prove their superior strength and wisdom. There was a great deal of grumbling (for the dogs of Kaynyn Island speak together in a language simple and easily understood), but what could be done? The Counsellors dared not disobey the King, and the King always insisted upon having the weakest opponent they could find. So he won, of course, and continued to rule.

  There was one other thing that sustained the King. He had appealed to the Dog Fairies, years ago, and they had promised he should never be defeated except by a dog of a pea-green color. So he had no fear, however old and weak he might become; for no pea-green dog existed in all the Island, and, so far as he knew, none had ever existed in the world.

  However, the yearly contests, although conceded to be mere farces, were made occasions of great display, with feasting, games and processions enough to keep the common dogs amused. And it seemed only a question of how long the old King could manage to live as to when he would cease to reign.

  It was while the undersized and over-fat Pippo-Tib was still a puppy that King Herowag held his seventeenth tournament, amid a great assemblage and with much splendor.

  The King had only about half his teeth left, and everyone could see that he moved stiffly and awkwardly to meet his foe; but the champion chosen by the three Counsellors was in even a worse plight, so Herowag easily vanquished him.

  It was Pippo-Tib who now burst out laughing, while all the other spectators remained grave and silent. And the scornful sound of the small poodle’s laughter aroused the King’s anger.

  “Why do you laugh?” he demanded, turning upon the offender.

  “Because,” answered Pippo-Tib, irreverently, “if your Majesty had waited another five minutes the champion would have died without your assistance.”

  A titter arose at this, but was quickly silenced by a stern glance from the King.

  “You shall repent this impudence!” the monarch cried, glaring upon the poodle. And, as Pippo-Tib stood exactly in front of him, the contrast between the huge St. Bernard with his golden crown and the wee poodledog covered with burrs was so great that even the three Counsellors could hardly repress their laughter.

  As for Pippo-Tib, he shook the hair out of his eyes, the better to see the King, and said, in a flippant tone:

  “I challenge your Majesty to fight next year for the crown.”

  And while the crowd roared at this joke Pippo gave a jump and brought both his fore feet down upon the King’s left toes, which were remarkably tender because of two bunions upon them.

  The monarch uttered an undignified howl of agony, and cried to his officers: “Arrest this traitor!”

  But Pippo-Tib’s bright eyes had long before this noted a small hole in the wall, just big enough for his body to pass; so he made a dash for the hole and squeezed through it before the officers could reach him. As they were all much bigger than the hole, they were forced to go around the wall, and by that time the poodle had escaped and was well out of sight.

  King Herowag was really furious, and a shrewd idea came into his head that would enable him to have revenge, and retain his crown at the same time.

  “I accept the challenge of Pippo-Tib,” he cried aloud. “He shall fight me for the crown a year from to-day — if the three Counsellors agree.”

  A growl of protest arose from the other big dogs, who wanted to fight for the crown themselves; but of course the Counsellors agreed to anything the King desired, and immediately named Pippo-Tib as the King’s next adversary. So those friends of the poodle who had been laughing at his mischievous pranks began to look serious.

  For in the opinion of everyone present the huge old St. Bernard, in choosing Pippo-Tib to fight him, had positively condemned the little dog to death.

  Pippo-Tib lived in a village down by the sea-shore, where most of the smaller and poorer dogs resided — the larger and wealthier classes inhabiting the interior. When the poodle returned home that night he had just amused himself by destroying a hornets’ nest, and had been stung in so many places that there were little knobs all over his body, making him look more queer than ever.

  As he came into the village several acquaintances met him, saying:

  “Poor Pippo-Tib! We are awfully sorry for you.”

  “What’s the matter now?” asked the poodle.

  “You are so young to die!” they replied. “It is so sad and unfortunate.”

  “Who’s going to die, did you say?” asked Pippo-Tib.

  “You are. The King has selected you to fight him for the crown next year.”

  “Very well,” answered the poodle, rubbing one of the lamps with his front paw; “then I am likely to become your King.”

  The absurdity of this retort aroused a shout of laughter but Pippo’s friends soon resumed their gravity.

  “Why, King Herowag could easily snap your head off,” said one.

  “Or even if he fell upon you, the weight of his great body would crush you to death,” said another.

  “And you forget that the Fairies are protecting Herowag,” a third suggested. “I don’t believe that,” returned the poodle, stoutly. “The Fairies stand for right and justice, and the King is an unjust tyrant.”

  “Did not the Fairies promise he should never be defeated except by a dog of a pea-green color?” asked the other.

  “I don’t know. But that was a queer promise to make. What color am I?” inquired Pippo-Tib.

  An old dog present answered: “When you were first born, I remember you were white; but ever since you have been of a decided dirt color. Certainly you are not pea-green.”

  They laughed again, at this sally, and the poodle joined in the laugh with his usual good nature. Indeed, he refused to be worried because he was destined to fight the tyrannical old King; so, of course, his friends soon forgot to sympathize with him.

  But Pippo-Tib was not so indifferent as he seemed. He fully realized that he was liable to meet death in the coming conflict, and he thought about the matter more seriously than any of his friends supposed.

  His selection as the King’s adversary caused him to become of importance in the Island, for the first time in his life; for wherever he went he was pointed out as the King’s next victim, and everyone expressed sorrow for him because he was so small and insignificant.

  One effect of this was to make Pippo-Tib ashamed of his dirt. So he began taking a morning bath in the brook, and before many weeks had passed the poodle had grown so white in color and so fleecy of fur that he was really pretty to look upon. All he needed to make him beautiful was a pink ribbon around his neck; but there were no pink ribbons in Kaynyn Island.

  Half the year had passed away before Pippo could think of any plan to escape his doom. Then he resolved to consult the wise and powerful Dog Fairies, and ask their assistance.

  Now, in order to invoke the Fairies it was necessary to gather a bouquet consisting of five different flowers: a dandelion, a daisy, a red clover, a buttercup and a featherblow. Pippo-Tib sought diligently, and soon was able to find all but the featherblow. These had disappeared, and would not blossom again before the last of April. And the first of May was the time set for the contest. So the poodle was obliged to wait, and if the featherblow failed to blossom on time he would be unable to summon the Fairies to his assistance, and his last hope would be gone.

  Still, he refused to be discouraged. Wisdom and strength were needed to defeat the present King, and if he could but manage to win the contest he would not only save his life but become ruler of all the big and little dogs in the Island.

  “I am glad,” said Pippo-Tib to himself, “that this chance has come to me. The stake is really worth fighting for, and if I am vanquished I won’t be m
uch worse off than I am now. I’d as soon die young as remain insignificant all my life. And if I win I shall be King of all Kaynyn Island — and the biggest dog in the world, in spite of my size!”

  Now it was not only necessary to fight the King, but to defeat him also in an exchange of wits. Usually Herowag overcame his adversary in the fight, so that the second part of the programme had never been carried out; but Pippo knew he must reckon on being put to the test. Thinking the matter over with care, he decided he was fully a match for King Herowag in wit and wisdom, and that if he could but manage to win the fight the rest would be easy.

  The Winter passed. Spring came and the flowers began to bloom. Pippo watched them anxiously, wandering day by day through field and grove. He found thousands of buttercups, daisies and dandelions, and soon the red clover also bloomed plentifully; but a featherblow was nowhere to be seen. The month of April was slipping away; already preparations were being made for the yearly festivities in the great square before the King’s palace.

  No one paid much attention to the approaching annual fight for the crown, for it was well known that Pippo-Tib was to be the opponent of the big Herowag, and it was thought the tiny poodle’s death would be but an incident of the occasion. But all the dogs loved the processions and gorgeous displays, the feasts and amusements of the yearly festivities; and these were what they looked forward to most.

  When the morning of April 30th dawned, the sun looked down upon a very anxious poodle. Pippo had searched weeks for a featherblow, without finding one, and now he almost gave way to despair. He had wandered away from all the towns and villages and had explored every place except a beech forest that lay in a low, marshy valley far to the left of the inhabited portion of the Island. It was a dreary, deserted sort of place, and seldom visited by anyone; but Pippo-Tib was desperate, and resolved to go there.

  On his way he plucked a red clover, a daisy, a dandelion and a buttercup. “For,” he thought, “these do not grow’ in forests, and if by any chance I should find a featherblow, I need not waste time coming back to look for the other flowers.”