Biggles - the Boy

by W E Johns

  “If you have not touched a woman how did you get these things?” demanded James, although he knew the answer. This was the property of the murdered woman.

  With that, hissing like a snake, the younger of the two Thugs sprang, one arm raised high, holding a curved dagger which he had snatched from his rags. James’ rifle blazed. He did not take aim. There was no time for that. Instinctively he pointed the weapon and pulled the trigger. Sparks ended at the man’s shoulder. The dagger flew out of his hand and he fell screaming on the floor where he rolled about, groaning. The older man, his eyes gleaming with fanatical hate, was groping under his ragged garments.

  James jerked another cartridge into the breech. “Draw that knife and you die,” he warned with iron in his voice.

  There was a moment of brittle silence except for the groans of the man on the floor, now clutching at his shoulder where apparently he had been hit. James’ brain was racing. Speaking to Sula he went on: “Run home and fetch your father, and men with ropes to tie up these Thugs.”

  “But you—”

  “I shall stay here to see they do not run away. Do as I order. Go!”

  Sula dashed out of the door to disappear into the night.

  James regarded his two prisoners with cold hostility. He was beginning to tremble from shock but he kept himself under control knowing his life depended on it. The old man lay muttering incoherently. The other, still groaning, lay in a comer trying to stem the flow of blood now running down his arm. James did nothing to help him, realizing that to go near him would be madness. Anyway, to admit the truth, at that moment he didn’t care if the man died. He was a murderer and deserved to die, he thought.

  The next hour seemed the longest he had ever had to endure. The strain of standing there, watching for the slightest movement, muscles braced, became almost unbearable. Not for an instant did he dare to relax his vigilance, knowing what the price of weakness would be. The old man, he knew, had a knife, and given half a chance would not hesitate to use it. No doubt he knew how to throw it. His fanatical, ghoulish eyes blazed unwinkingly at James. Twice he made a slight movement, but froze with a snarl like a wild animal as James’ rifle lined up on him.

  The ordeal ended, to James’ unspeakable relief, with a tumult of shouting rapidly approaching. Then men poured into the room, not only Sula’s father with workers from the plantations but Lalu Din and some of the house staff. It turned out he had been looking for James, and hearing the noise on the hill had joined the rescue party. Sula was there, too, of course. He stood close to James, touching him and muttering his thanks.

  The two Thugs were trussed up like chickens ready for market and dragged away to await the arrival of the police, for whom a runner had already been sent. James never saw them again.

  As they plodded homewards Lalu Din said in a voice heavy with reproach: “O master, what will the sahib say to me when he hears of this?”

  To which James answered, sadly: “What he will say to you, O Lalu Din, I do not know, but I can guess what he will say to me.”

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  1 Rest-house.

  THE BLACK INTRUDER

  HUNTERS and naturalists have long argued about the panther. Some aver that the leopard and the panther are one and the same creature. Certainly they are very much alike both in appearance and in habits. The truth may be that the animal varies slightly in different countries. The “rosettes”, or spots, may vary in pattern. The Indian leopard is larger than the African. It may weigh up to 200 lbs. The Indian panther may not weigh quite as much as the leopard. It is certain they can have the same murderous qualities when they go “bad”. One thing the panther can do, which its larger carnivorous cousins, the lions and tigers, cannot do, is run up a tree like a house cat. This enables it to catch monkeys. And the monkeys know it.

  It is largely nocturnal. Normally it is shy and retiring, lying up in dense shade during the heat of the day. Yet, curiously enough, it is not afraid of man, and will often take up residence near a village. He is an expert at hiding himself and will take cover in a patch of grass apparently too small to conceal anything of his size. He can be bold to the point of recklessness. He probably possesses more cunning than his larger relations but he is just as fierce. Over a short distance he can run as fast as any creature on four legs. He does not roar like a lion or tiger, but when looking for a mate mews more like a cat. He is of course a flesh eater, preying chiefly on deer, goats, dogs and monkeys. He is particularly fond of dog, which may be why he will hang about a village, in the hope of pouncing on one. In India he can become a man-eater, and when he does he can become as much a curse as a man-eating tiger.

  One famous man-eating leopard killed 125 people before he was slain. Another, in the Mandali district, killed 30 men and mauled many more. This sort of menace is not uncommon. The beast is difficult to kill because, as he can climb trees, it is not safe to wait for him in a machan—a platform in a tree.

  Another animal about which there has been much argument is the black panther. At one time this, too, was thought to be a separate species, but it is now generally accepted that it is merely a case of melanism (black coloration) which can happen to other animals.

  There may not be a more ferocious-looking animal in the world than a black panther. If Satan has a counterpart on earth surely this is it. There is one in the London Zoo. If ever you are there have a good look at it. Catch those hate-filled eyes and notice the way he flattens his ears and lifts a lip in a snarl to show those gleaming white fangs. He as good as tells you that were it not for those iron bars he would tear you to pieces and love to do it. He is found in tropical America as well as in Asia. Unfortunately, unlike the lion, which kills only for food and is then satisfied, its smaller relation will kill wantonly, regardless of whether or not it is hungry. Hence its unpopularity.

  Oddly enough, many big game hunters in India who have killed tigers have never seen a panther, even the ordinary spotted type, although it is not uncommon. It has a trick of not being where one might be expected, but will turn up in a most unlikely place. Perhaps for that reason James had never seen one; wherefore he gave little thought to them. Certainly he never went out deliberately to look for one. He had no such ambition. On the contrary, he took care to keep well away from any place where one had been reported. Killing a panther was work for an experienced shikari, not for him.

  As far as he knew, only one had been killed recently in the district. There was much talk of it at the time because it died in unusual circumstances. It seemed that two men, brothers, had gone out to cut firewood, for which purpose one carried an axe. Suddenly, for no reason at all, a panther sprang from a bush and seizing one of the men dragged him down. Whereupon the other, who happened to be the one carrying the axe, with great courage leapt to the rescue. Swinging the axe he brought it down on the panther’s head, splitting it open and killing it on the spot; a feat which excited James’ admiration although he had no desire to try to emulate it. His father had often told him that big game hunting was not for small boys.

  Yet it was probably only a matter of time before a panther crossed his path, and this is how it happened.

  He was lounging in the garden when he saw Habu Din going out. He carried a plaited wickerwork basket. The conversation that followed was a natural one between two boys. James said: “Where are you going?”

  Habu replied: “I’m going to get some honey.”

  James smiled. He had once seen Habu with a jar of wild honey, an unholy mixture of syrup and wax mixed with dead bees, like a currant cake. Habu’s method of eating it was to stick in a finger and suck it. He invited James to try it. He did, and found it excellent. As Habu proudly claimed, you could taste the flowers in it. This way of eating sweets may not be to everyone’s taste, but it must be remembered that if Habu wanted something sweet there was little choice. There was no shop just round the corner, as in Europe, with shelves piled high with toffees, candies, chocolates and other delicacies
dear to the boyish heart.

  James said: “Where are you going to get the honey?”

  “In the bharbar.” (This is the belt of jungle that divides the plains from the high ground.)

  “How are you going to find it?” inquired James.

  “I know where some is.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve marked down a bees’ nest.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  Habu smiled knowingly. “I’m an Indian boy. I know how.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s easy.”

  “How?”

  “All you have to do is catch a bee.”

  “Then what?”

  “You put a spot of gum on its back. On that you stick a little piece of feather.”

  “What for?”

  “So you can see it and watch which way it goes back home.”

  “You mean you let the bee go?”

  “Of course. All you have to do is follow it.”

  “How do you get the honey out of the nest?”

  “Scoop it out with my hand.”

  “Don’t you get stung?”

  “Not much. I light a fire under the tree. The smoke stupefies the bees. If I get stung I don’t mind. The honey is worth a few stings.”

  “Where exactly is this nest?”

  “In an old tree.”

  “What sort of tree?”

  “Mulberry. Why don’t you come? You can have some of the honey.”

  James looked doubtful. “Bears like mulberries.”

  “They don’t come so far down. There are better mulberries higher up, where they are.”

  “Bears also like honey.”

  “I’ve never seen a bear where I’m going, and I’ve been often.”

  “There could be all sorts of things in the bharbar.”

  “Nothing to hurt. It’s not far past the plantations, where men will be working.”

  James began to weaken. “How far past the plantations?”

  “A mile. Perhaps a little more.”

  James looked suspicious. He knew Habu’s notion of a mile. “It’s dangerous,” he said.

  “Of course, if you’re afraid—”

  “I’m not afraid,” protested James hotly.

  “If you’re not afraid why don’t you come?”

  Of course, that did it. “I’ll bring my rifle,” James said.

  “If you like, but you won’t need it.”

  “Does your father know where you’re going?”

  “No. There’s no need to tell him. He knows I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” returned James. “But I’ll come with you. Wait till I get my rifle.”

  In five minutes the boys were on their way, and in rather more than an hour they were on the fringe of the bharbar, here a mixture of jungle and forest, James not in the least surprised that Habu’s idea of a mile was well short of the actual distance.

  “This way,” said Habu, taking the lead.

  Not sharing Habu’s confidence that they were not likely to encounter anything dangerous James loaded his rifle before entering that mysterious world where nature, animal and vegetable, works unimpeded by the strange things that men do, in freedom and in harmony; where there comes a feeling that time has stood still for centuries. Of course the forest teemed with life. Birds called and twittered; monkeys chattered as they gambolled in the trees.

  Habu seemed to know exactly where he was going, but from time to time, from force of habit, he stopped to listen for any sound that might indicate danger. In this way they reached the area of mulberry trees that was their destination. There were several, forming a group in a fairly open glade, broken here and there by tussocks of tall grass and patches of straggling lantana scrub.

  Almost at once they came upon something that brought James to a halt. On the ground lay a gory mess of blood and beautiful feathers that had once been a peacock.

  “What killed it, I wonder?” James said frowning.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “The blood’s still wet. The bird hasn’t long been dead.”

  “Forget it,” Habu said impatiently. “Something is always killing something. Help me to collect grass to make smoke.”

  “Which is the tree?”

  “That one.” Habu pointed to a great old tree that must have stood there for centuries. But its days were nearly done. Half of it was dead. About twenty feet up a branch, torn from the trunk but not quite severed, hung to the ground to form an easy means of ascent. The scar showed that it was rotten. There was a large hole at the junction of the branch and the trunk around which bees were buzzing.

  “We’ll soon have the honey,” declared Habu, putting down the basket and the jar that was to hold the spoils.

  Suddenly something happened. A hush fell. Not a sound. As at a given signal the monkeys and the birds fell silent, as if stricken dumb. It was all the more striking after the incessant babble of sound to which their ears were now attuned. James froze to a statue, his eyes on Habu’s face. Habu, too, stood stock still. An explanation was unnecessary. Both knew the signs.

  James spoke in a whisper. “There’s something here.”

  Habu did not answer. His attitude was tense, eyes alert, restless.

  “There it goes,” James said tersely, as a dark shadow flashed from one patch of lantana to another.

  “A porcupine,” Habu said, with a sigh of relief.

  “No. It wasn’t tall enough.”

  “A hyena.”

  “It wasn’t the shape of any hyena I’ve seen.”

  “It must have been a jackal.”

  “It was too big for a jackal.”

  “It wasn’t a tiger,” Habu said hopefully.

  “Of course it wasn’t. Any fool can tell a tiger.”

  “Then what could it be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It is no matter for wonder that the boys were puzzled. Even when James got his first clear view of the animal it took him a second to realize what it was.

  James went on, still speaking in a whisper as if in a church. “I don’t like this. Don’t forget that peacock we saw. Don’t you think we’d better go?”

  “Not till I’ve got some honey,” Habu said obstinately, and without waiting for James to protest started walking towards the old tree plucking grass as he went. James did not move. He was still staring at where he had last seen the shadow.

  Then it happened. The air was rent with a piercing shriek; the sound that comes when death strikes. It was hard to say just where it came from. In the treetops a troop of monkeys screamed together. Again silence fell: a solemn hush more nerve-chilling than the noise. James’ thumb slid up the rifle and took off the safety catch.

  “A hyena,” Habu said. But there was no confidence in his voice.

  “You know better than that,” replied James shortly. “Don’t fool yourself, Habu. Something has killed a monkey. A hyena couldn’t catch a monkey.”

  “A leopard, perhaps. Leopards catch monkeys.”

  “What I saw didn’t look like a leopard to me,” declared James. “It was too dark. I’m sure there were no spots on it. There’s a killer here. Let’s go.”

  “If it has caught a monkey it won’t bother with us, whatever it is,” stated Habu, more in hope, James thought, than confidence.

  The boys stood still, hesitant, looking, listening, every nerve taut, for two or three minutes. They saw nothing. They heard nothing.

  Habu said: “It’s gone!”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, but I sincerely hope you’re right,” answered James grimly. “I’m going, too. I’ve had enough of this.”

  They began to walk away. Instantly from somewhere near came a low, rasping snarl.

  Dropping the grass he had plucked Habu went up the fallen branch like a monkey.

  James stood his ground. He knew it was the best thing to do. The only movement he made, and he made it slowly, was to bring his rifle h
alf-way to the shoulder, finger on the trigger. He knew that a sudden movement was almost certain to provoke a charge.

  Nothing happened.

  Beginning to breathe more freely he said to Habu: “You can please yourself what you do but I’m going home.”

  “Wait for me, I’m being stung,” pleaded Habu from a perch in the tree, and returned to earth via the fallen branch.

  James continued walking. But not for long. He had taken only two or three paces when from a tussock of grass that looked too small to hold anything larger than a hare sprang an animal that must have been stalking them. It was black. Jet black. Against which its teeth gleamed like ivory. From its size and shape James knew it could only be one thing. A panther. That rare creature, a black panther. For some reason known only to itself, but possibly because he was standing still, it ignored James. Habu, on the other hand, was on his way back to the tree, and he was losing no time on the way. Reaching it with a yard or two to spare he went up it like a jack-in-the-box.

  Seeing what was likely to happen James snapped a shot at the panther; but, low on the ground, it was travelling like a black arrow and he did not make sufficient allowance. From the way it growled and bit at its foot he judged he had struck one of its hind paws. But this did not stop it. It went on up the tree after Habu.

  All this happened in a matter of seconds. Habu was now well on his way to the top of the tree, apparently forgetting that he was being pursued by an expert at the business. But, of course, there was no other way for him to go. He screamed when he saw the panther coming up after him. James’ fear now was that he would fall. Having reloaded he fired again, this time more carefully, at the black shape spread-eagled against the trunk of the tree as it went on up. He heard the bullet thud home.

  The panther stopped. It turned its head and looked round, and down, and James was never to forget the expression of demoniac hate in the eyes that glared down at him. The face was twisted into a hideous mask as the great cat spat at him. Then it tried to climb, but failed. It began to slide, slowly at first, but faster as the weakening claws lost their grip on the bark. It fell the last few yards, tore up the earth for a moment or two and lay still.