Fear No Evil

by John Gordon Davis

  So while Frank fortified himself with the whiskey and changed into his ringmaster’s outfit, the circus barrels were arranged in tiers outside the mineshaft next to the lions’ cage, and the television cameramen hid up trees and behind rocks. Then, after a long last pull on the bottle, Frank reluctantly took up his position beside the cage, his .45 very handy, the fresh meat ready, while Worthy kept him covered with a rifle from behind a tree. Frank took a deep breath, put on his cavalier smile glassily, cracked his whip, said ‘Wuzza, wuzza, wuzza,’ and threw a chunk of meat into the black mineshaft.

  Cowering in the darkness, the hungry lions smelled it, and heard the familiar voice of authority. Big Charlie whispered hoarsely, ‘No, no’ but Tommy could not bear it. He darted forward to grab the meat, and scurried back and gobbled it. Frank threw another piece into the darkness, and this time both Tommy and Princess scrambled for it, snarling at each other. Big Charlie rasped ‘No.’ Frank threw another, and another, closer to the mouth each time, and now he could just make out the two lions. Only Kitty held back.

  They were crouched just inside the mineshaft, waiting to pounce on the next piece. They could see their ringmaster clearly and their barrels. They knew what they had to do to get the reward. Frank Hunt was smiling, dangling meat and saying, ‘Wuzza-wuzza … Wuzza-wuzza …’

  It took them a long time to get up the courage. Finally Tommy could stand it no longer, and out he came, slinking low, trembling, ready to whirl around and flee back. He hesitated, ears back, fangs bared; then he bounded for his barrel and leaped onto it. He cowered up there and roared for his reward, as he did in the circus. Frank tossed him a piece of meat, and Tommy snapped at it. Frank held up his hand to the television viewers, smiling, and the cameras rolled.

  Then he tossed a big hunk of meat into the cage, cracked the whip and said, ‘In, Tommy.’ And Tommy jumped off his barrel, slunk hungrily in, and fell ravenously upon the meat. Frank slammed the door.

  He raised his hat to the television cameras and gave his smile. He was almost enjoying himself now. He began to seduce Princess out of the mine.

  Crouched in the blackness was Kitty. She was drooling, and she knew what she had to do. Big Charlie lay, one hand clutching his bloody stomach, the other trying to reach Kitty.

  ‘No, Kitty. No. Don’t go.’

  Kitty crouched, tail sweeping, her stomach growling in hunger. Big Charlie whispered, ‘No, Kitty … they’ll go away and you’ll be free …’

  Then Princess went slinking out and bounding up onto her barrel for her reward, and Kitty jerked. Big Charlie’s hand grabbed her swishing tail, and she moaned in protest, her eyes fixed on Frank Hunt tossing Princess her reward. ‘No, Kitty!’ Then Frank tossed another piece of meat into the black mouth, and it was more than Kitty could stand.

  She scrambled for it, and Charlie clutched her tail. Kitty snarled over her shoulder and wrenched, and she was gone. She fell upon the meat. Then she looked out to Frank Hunt for more. Frank dangled a big hunk and said, ‘Wuzza-wuzza …’ and waved it at the barrels. Kitty hesitated, then she went dashing low out of the mine for her reward, and leaped up onto the barrels—and Big Charlie bellowed ‘No.’

  He scrambled up, clutching his gut, his dirty face contorted, and he stumbled fiercely through the blackness, doubled-up, bellowing ‘No, Kitty.’ Frank jerked backward, astonished. Big Charlie burst out of the mineshaft, lurching, wild-eyed, and he screamed ‘Aaaaarrrrh!…’ and he threw himself at the barrels. They crashed like ninepins, and Kitty snarled and leaped. She jumped over Big Charlie and bounded down the rock embankment, ears back and tail streaming. She dashed for the bushes, and she was gone.

  Charlie heaved himself up amid the scattered barrels, his face screwed up in agony; he gave another roar to terrify them all, Frank jerked backward, and Charlie threw himself at the cage. He wrenched open the door of Tommy’s compartment and bellowed, ‘Out, Tommy.’ And Worthy’s rifle cracked into the air above his head, and again. But Charlie was going to die anyway, and he shook the cage furiously and bellowed. Tommy bounded through the door and fled down the embankment; then Frank Hunt slugged Charlie.

  Frank recovered his wits and remembered the cameras. Charlie’s back was turned as he shook the cage furiously to chase out Princess, and Frank pulled out his .45 like a club and hit Charlie on the back of the head. Charlie lurched and clung to the bars, and Frank slammed the door in Princess’s face.

  Big Charlie sort of shook himself, and he turned murderously on Frank. His fist pulled back slowly, the blood flooding out of his stomach and from his head; Frank staggered back, aghast, and swiped him with the pistol across his temple.

  seventy-eight

  Something even more spectacular was happening in Hawkstown, though no television men were there to cover it. That afternoon Sheriff Lonnogan brought in David Jordan and the elephant which had killed his son.

  He had radioed for an ambulance and had Davey Jordan sent straight to Knoxville hospital, lest he be accused of not doing his duty. He brought in the rest in Jeb Wiggins’s You-Wreck-’em-We-Fetch-’em tow truck, with the dead Sam tied across the bonnet, and the wildcat doctor handcuffed at the back, gagged to stop her hollering. And, best of all, the killer elephant was in tow behind the truck, dragged by the stout break-down chain around his neck.

  Fred Wiggins and Freddie Bushel sat on the back of the truck, keeping the elephant covered with their rifles, in case he gave trouble. Rajah stumbled along behind, half-running, half-dragged by the tight chain, the noose digging into his hide, squeezing his windpipe so he had to keep up to be able to breathe. Sheriff Lonnogan watched him in the rearview mirror and made sure he kept the chain good and tight, accelerating when it went slack, to wrench the elephant on his way. When he fell, the sheriff slammed into low gear and kept going, dragging him along by his neck for a while, to teach him a lesson. If he charged at the truck in his desperation, as he had done in the first few miles, or tried to charge off the road into the forest, Lonnogan accelerated hard and jerked him off balance, which was not only very funny to watch, but it taught the bastard not to mess with Sheriff Boots Lonnogan.

  It was very spectacular, the sight of the sheriff driving into town. Rajah had fallen so often that his knees were raw from being dragged along the road, and his neck was swollen by the big chain biting his hide; his eyes were bulging bloodshot, and he was making sucking noises, rasping for air as he staggered along, trying to keep up with the truck.

  Lonnogan had radioed ahead to his wife and told her to spread the word, so the whole town was standing down Main Street to applaud their sheriff—who had done what the hired-gun from South Africa had failed to do. Dr. Elizabeth Johnson was handed over to Prissie Lonnogan on a holding charge of obstructing a law officer, and lodged in the cells.

  Then the trial of Rajah began.

  The trial was held in the You-Bust-’em-We-Buy-’em Scrapyard. A jury of twelve honest men was empanelled, and Turkey-George Sparks, the auctioneer, was sworn in as judge. The elephant was towed before the court and kept chained by the neck to the truck in case he gave trouble, although his feet were chained too.

  The prosecutor and principal witness was Sheriff Lonnogan. He took the oath to tell the truth, whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and he loudly, and with real tears in his eyes, told the court exactly what had happened; how this here elephant had charged and killed his son in the course of his son’s duty. Thereafter Judge Turkey-George Sparks asked the elephant if it had any cross-examination of the witness, and Rajah just blinked, bleeding and rasping. As there was no cross-examination, Sheriff Lonnogan rested his case, and Judge Sparks called upon Rajah to present his defense, to call witnesses and give evidence himself. The elephant just stood there, groaning. So that closed the case for the defense, and Judge Sparks put the case to the jury. The jury did not have to retire to consider the case, and loudly returned a verdict of guilty, to roars of applause. Judge Turkey-George Sparks then sentenced the elephant to death.

  Raja
h was dragged off by Jeb Wiggins’s tow truck down Main Street, with the judge and jury and the crowd all following, to the timber and papermill company. The timber yard had a very big crane for lifting logs off railway flatcars.

  Jeb Wiggins’s tow truck dragged Rajah over to the crane, and townsfolk clambered up onto the stacks of logs to watch. Sheriff Lonnogan tied Rajah’s feet together again. Logger-Bert Waller, the owner of the mill, swung the crane over the rasping elephant and lowered the chain. Sheriff Lonnogan and two men, standing on crates, hefted it over the elephant’s neck and hooked it. Rajah did not understand what was happening and he just stood there. The execution began.

  Logger-Bert Waller revved the crane’s engine, and the big winch rattled up the slack in the heavy-duty chain; the noose began to tighten around Rajah’s neck. Rajah stood there, wheezing, his trunk hanging down. Logger-Bert changed to low gear, and for a moment there was complete, expectant silence. Then he opened the throttle again, and the chain began to tighten.

  First it just gouged, so Rajah lurched in panic, and almost fell over because of his bound feet; then it ground his head upward, strangling him so that he gave a terrified squeal and tried to wrench backward. But the chain held him, biting deep into his gullet. He scrambled his bound feet desperately to get up and fight, but the chain dragged his head higher. Trunk upflung, he screamed in the panic of strangulation, and now his back was stretched. His bound forefeet were pawing the air, his hind feet were scrambling, and his eyes were bulging wide; he screamed again. Then the chain was so tight that his hind feet were just scrabbling the earth, his body almost vertical, his forefeet thrashing, and he flung his trunk up around the chain.

  Squealing, his eyes bulging, his trunk wrapped around the chain, he heaved with all his might, trying to lift his great body upward to take the weight off his neck; then his hind feet were winched off the ground, his whole body twisted, and he was hanging.

  Logger-Bert Waller winched him twenty feet up into the air, above the walls of the yard, for all the world to see, and there he hung.

  But the noose was made of chain, and it took Rajah a long time to die, almost an hour of twisting and kicking, his rasping trunk trying to heave himself up. Then he was exhausted; his trunk slowly, jerkily, unwound from the chain, and he just hung there, his giant body slowly turning, his trunk and ears hanging down.

  seventy-nine

  Only one cub reporter from Knoxville covered that hanging, and he arrived late. But his story went worldwide on radio and television, and the next morning the photograph of Rajah’s hanging was on the front page of almost every newspaper in the world.

  Before dawn it was on the desk of the president of the United States. Dr. Elizabeth Johnson had released a statement to the press and television men through a famous Houston lawyer, who flew up in a chartered airplane to Hawkstown and got her out on bail. Elizabeth Johnson had a hell of a lot to say. The whole world was up in arms.

  That morning the president called off Operation Noah, and appointed a commission of inquiry to investigate the viability of the Great Smoky Mountains as a ‘suitable habitat for certain exotic species of animals,’ and to inquire into the conditions in zoos and circuses throughout the United States of America.

  But it took longer than that day for the presidential order to become effective in the vast valleys, and for local huntsmen to be flushed out and forced to quit.

  That day the three men from Sylva crossed Jamba’s spoor. It was fresh, and heading up the Tennessee side of the mountains toward the crest. They started tracking her. And five young men were tracking them.

  They had been doing so for several days, ever since the three hunters had been reported setting out from the house in Sylva with the dogs. Now they were only a mile behind. It was midafternoon when they sighted them, fifty yards ahead, sitting, eating, their rifles propped against a tree. The young men pulled handkerchiefs over their faces as masks.

  The first man from Sylva was smashed across the head, then the others. They sprawled, stunned; then the young men set upon them, kicking with all their might, in the ribs and in their crotches, and the air was full of the thudding and grunting, the gasping and the smashing in the undergrowth. The young men kicked them senseless, bloody, and broken; then they tied their hands behind their backs. They pulled a boot and a sock off each one; then they dashed water over their faces to bring them around. The three men lay gasping, faces contorted.

  ‘What the hell? …’

  One masked man slowly held up his hand. It was bandaged, and one finger was missing.

  The man stared, aghast.

  ‘Now wait a minute …’

  The young man swung his leg and kicked him in the ribs again. He kicked him over onto his stomach. Then sat astride his back. He pulled out a big hunting knife. He held it up to the other two men from Sylva.

  ‘Now watch … because the same’s gonna happen to you two. It’s gonna take you a long time to get out of these woods. And a doctor’s gonna be too late to fix you …’

  The young man slowly brought the big sharp knife down onto the man’s hamstring, above his heel.

  He paused a dramatic moment: then he slowly began to saw the knife through the tendon.

  The man from Sylva bucked and writhed, and his screams rose up out of the wilderness.

  It was sunset when Jamba came toiling up the steep sides of Thunderhead Mountain.

  She stood on a rocky bald of Thunderhead, the sunset glinting on the two silver darts that hung from her hide, getting her breath back. She lifted her trunk, searching for a familiar smell; she slowly turned her head, getting her bearings. Directly below lay the steep wooded slopes leading down to the Garden of Eden. But she did not want to go down there while there was still light, for fear of hunters. She wanted to wait until it was dark.

  Thus she stood on top of the Great Smoky Mountains, a giant silhouette against the sunset, waiting for the safety of darkness. On all sides stretched the vast misty mauve of America, with the faraway clusters of town lights coming on, then more mauveness all the way to the horizon.

  She waited. Way up there, high overhead, another leviathan screamed silently, slowly overhead in the sunset, trailing its long white tail of pollution. Down in the valleys the mauve had turned to darkness.

  She started cautiously down the steep mountain, to look for Davey Jordan and Rajah.

  eighty

  It took both Professor Ford and Stephen Leigh-Forsythe three days to make it out of the Great Smoky Mountains, and they were exhausted. Then they heard that the president had suspended Operation Noah, pending the determinations of the Commission of Inquiry.

  Jonas Ford was dismayed, though secretly, grimly pleased that he had not been the only one to fail—and he was very relieved to have the respite Forsythe was furious, and he stormed to his tents and started packing. He refused to speak to reporters. He left that night by taxi for Nashville, flew to New York, and got on the first connection to South Africa.

  Jonas Ford left immediately to go to Elizabeth. Charles Worthy was angry that the show had been cut short, but he was consoled by his spectacular film footage from the capture of Princess. Frank Hunt was delighted that Operation Noah was suspended and promptly disappeared on a well-deserved bar crawl of Knoxville.

  The charges against Elizabeth were dropped by the district attorney, and she was advised by very competent counsel to sue Sheriff Lonnogan for a great deal of money. She spurned that advice, but personally laid criminal charges against the sheriff and every member of his posse. That trial is still pending. But, as folk around Tennessee see it, even pundits in legal circles, there ‘ain’t no jury round here that going to hang a man for hangin’ the elephant that killed his son, nor for shootin’ the sumbitch’s keeper who started the whole danged thing.’

  The Commission of Inquiry set to work, sitting first in New York and then in Gatlinburg. The commissioners were a senior supreme court judge, a veterinary surgeon, and a prominent conservationist from the Audubo
n Society. Twelve lawyers, representing various interest groups, led testimony from one hundred eighty-one witnesses. Dr. Elizabeth Johnson was the most important witness; She was asked a general question.

  ‘What is my opinion of David Jordan?’

  She paused, then slowly shook her head.

  ‘What can one say about a man who had such love for his fellow creatures that he was compelled by both compassion and … human honor to act, when all the rest of us looked on and did nothing to alleviate such misery? Even me … What do you say about a man who had such understanding of God’s creations, who gave such love and understanding, and natural leadership, that they would follow him through the wilderness, through thick and thin; across rivers and through gunfire and a host of other civilized savageries; who would cluster about him by night and day, who would follow him to the ends of the earth? What do you say about a man who refused to abandon those animals even though he knew a crazed sheriff …’ (Here there was a loud objection from counsel holding a watching brief for Sheriff Lonnogan, and the commissioner warned her not to usurp their function, nor to prejudice Mr. Lonnogan’s position.) ‘What do you say about a wonderful young man like that, who was mercilessly gunned down?’ (Again there was objection, which was also sustained.) She looked at the commissioners fiercely. ‘Listen to me! In another age I think he would have been called a saint.’

  ‘I think you were asked for a scientific opinion rather than an emotional one, Doctor,’ the commissioner stated.

  ‘What does science know about a man who had such compelling sweetness that he could call wild birds out of the trees? Can science explain that? No. A man who could almost talk to animals. Who could project his thoughts into an animal’s head, and they obeyed him because they loved him? Can science explain that? No. What can science say about a man who had the vision of putting God’s creatures back where they are meant to be under the sky and sun, free … as God made them. Who looked at the misery man has made of life and who had the courage .. to do what had to be done. What does science know about a man like that? Science lets animals suffer for its own ends. Science makes factories belch fumes to pollute the sky and kill the streams and oceans, and does not lift a finger. Science lets man rape his own earth and gives him the wherewithal to do it—more, better, cheaper, faster! And you ask me for a scientific opinion, sir? About a man who knew it was possible and necessary to re-create a Garden of Eden?’ She had tears in her eyes. ‘I tell you, sir—as scientifically as I can—that science is a bumbling, dangerous, self-destructive infant, and it does not understand the likes of David Jordan!’