Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  The dim light from the clay lamp handicapped Prothero. There was just enough of it to let him see the other’s fists as they came on his guard. Sight and sensation were almost simultaneous, and although Ommony could not hit like Bob Fitzsimmons, his blows were amply hard enough to shake the teeth of the other, who felt himself weakening, sickening, dizzying, more and more distressed — and had no regard for what decent fellows call the game in any event.

  Some men can take punishment, consider it as punishment, fight back but bear no malice, knowing they deserve what they are getting but intent on coming off as little damaged as may be in their own or the enemy’s estimation. You may bet on those men safely — not that they will win; but that they are fit to laugh and live with — fit to be fought and forgiven.

  Prothero was the other kind. Punishment, that he so loved to inflict, brought out the yellow devil in him either way. He could not hit except to kill. His vices were his virtues in his own opinion. Sportsmanship was cant, that he could use to his own advantage on occasion, but that he was never bound by. He was incapable of liking — of admiring — of respecting; but he could fear, and he could hate. He began to hate Ommony poisonously, as fear increased and he felt himself at his intended victim’s mercy.

  We hate men for the wrongs we have inflicted or intended to inflict on them. To Prothero, backing away around and around the altar, it began to seem an outrage that Ommony should not be tried for treason. Each blow that passed inside his weakening guard increased the sense of it. He, Prothero, needed someone to be blamed for the fact that Mahommed Babar was at large and in command of men. Why, then, not Ommony? What right had Ommony to resent being a victim. Or to refuse? Or to hit back? Damn him! Had he the impudence to think himself an equal! The son of a dusty old Cambridge bookseller the equal of Colonel Prothero of Cheltenham and the Intelligence?

  By Gad! Was he, Prothero, going to take a thrashing from a shopkeeper’s son? Not while he knew it! He would teach the fellow!

  One eye was nearly out of commission. Glassy, over-fed, protruding things, they were only too easy to hit. But the one that Ommony had not yet reached caught sight of an iron, the size of a tavern poker, that had rolled against the wall and been forgotten. It was under the lamp. The dim light glinted on it. He had to look away, lest Ommony should see it too and be forewarned. Turning his head exposed the angle of his jawbone to a right-hand punch that sent him reeling backward, but it also gave him the excuse to give ground unsuspected. He sprang for the wall, jumped, smashed the clay lamp with his fist, and ducked instantly in the total darkness to grope along the floor.

  Ommony’s fist crashed against the wall, and the next he knew was a stinging blow as the iron struck him from behind between the shoulder-blades. The blow almost produced paralysis, but missed it by a fraction of an inch.

  Colonel Prothero could see no sense in sportsmanship. But Diana could not even understand the meaning of the word! Subtle canine reasoning convinced her that the sudden darkness canceled previous orders. And possibly her huntress eyes could see in the total darkness, where Ommony’s could not.

  Prothero groped for the back of Ommony’s head with his left hand and raised the heavy iron for the blow that should finish the argument — taking his time — making sure of his aim — laughing as Ommony turned half-toward him. He seized him by the hair with his left hand to force the head downward in position, and the laugh changed to a gurgle as Diana took him from behind with paws on his shoulders that bore him downward and jaws that tore his neck. He went down in the darkness, crying out.

  No iron — no torture — nothing less than Ommony’s voice and hand could have caused Diana’s fanged hold to relax, as it did reluctantly. Then, because Ommony’s back still pained him where the iron had struck, Diana was given the seat of Prothero’s pants to haul by, and master and hound together dragged the Chief of the Intelligence upstairs into the temple, where the gloom was not quite so opaque, and there Prothero recovered, not having quite lost consciousness at any time. He was only torn and punched, whereas Ommony had been clubbed from behind, which is almost the worst thing that can happen to a man.

  “Damn that dog of yours! Well, have you worked your temper off? You’d better shake hands,” suggested Prothero, running true to type, as men do in most emergencies and using what he believed to be psychology.

  Conscious of pain between his shoulders and its origin Ommony said nothing yet. He knew exactly what he was going to do — needed no suggestion. But he waited, for he was curious.

  “A man who won’t shake hands after a fight—” Prothero began.

  “How did you hit me in the back?” asked Ommony.

  “I didn’t. I hit you on the chin. You staggered back against the wall and hurt yourself. I was bending forward to steady you when your infernal dog seized me from behind. D’you realize what he’s done to my neck, confound it? He’s torn the flesh out! Missed my jugular by half an inch. And you sit there refusing to shake hands! That’s a nice return for my trying to steady you on your feet. You hit me first anyhow — attacked me like a madman.”

  “I suppose that’s the story you’ll tell at headquarters,” said Ommony, smiling at last. The smile was invisible, because of darkness, but there, and as unmistakable as pain.

  “Headquarters?”

  “Yes. Have you still got that iron?”

  He reached to make sure, and Prothero neglected the opportunity thus provided to strike him behind the ear because of Diana, whose shaggy hair was bristling and who was making music of a kind.

  “Get up!” commanded Ommony, seizing a handful of Diana’s scruff and leaning his whole weight on her as he got to his feet. “Get out into the jungle! Walk home and tell any lies you like! Cheat — chouse — perjure yourself — and have first move! I’ll play what I have and beat you! Get out of here!”

  Prothero ran to escape being kicked — ran faster because of Diana’s music growling through her teeth behind him — and was bitten by the other two dogs that had been caught and held at the temple door by Mahommed Babar’s orders. No Mohammedan quite likes the company of dogs in his living-quarters, and he had ordered all three kept outside, but nobody had dared handle Diana, whom Ommony now had to hold with all his might to prevent her from joining the other two and tearing Prothero to pieces.

  The other two dogs were dragged off at last, Ommony contrived to leash Diana, and Prothero, refusing to believe his senses, yet aware of the toe of his enemy’s boot, was driven past the fires, and past the elephants, and out into the jungle — bleeding, bruised, sans weapons, sans cook or cooking-pot, sans cigarette, sans anything.

  But after Prothero had gone, with Diana’s deep voice belling from behind to hasten him, Ommony whistled in a way that was peculiar to him, and a jungli came flitting between the tree trunks no nearer than was necessary. Only his outline was vaguely visible — that and the reflection of the firelight in his eyes — but he grunted, and Ommony answered. After about a minute’s interchange of gutturals the jungli disappeared again along the trail of Prothero.

  CHAPTER 7. “A cur, never!”

  It is not good to be bleeding in the jungle in the dark, and all alone, especially if you can only see a star or two at intervals between the over- arching trees and have lost a great part of your sense of direction because one eye is nearly out of commission and the other bruised. Ill-temper and hatred are no help.

  There are creatures that see in the dark and have wings and like blood and can sting. There are four-footed “fellamilads” with fangs that moisten at the smell of warm blood from far off. Eyes that gather up the almost non- existent jungle light and gleam as they dodge from tree to tree. Voices that whimper and whisper and yelp of hunger — voices that roar — and, the worst of all! — stealthy footfalls, announcing the approach of none knows what, but it may be a black panther. And there are snakes which rustle in the undergrowth, or hang down swaying among the creepers.

  Prothero elected to climb a tree and wait in its branches u
ntil morning. But even as he raised his right foot painfully, using a hand to help his thigh that ached on the under part where Ommony’s toe had met meat, a silent form, almost invisible, moved in the velvet gloom beside him and he leaped for the narrow glade again, where a man at any rate had room to swing his fists.

  Whereat a low noise like the mewing of a cat made his blood run cold, and he retreated along the glade, slapping the back of his neck to kill mosquitoes and turning at every second stride to see what he should see, but hoping to see nothing.

  The mewing ceased when he went forward. When he paused to listen it began again — sometimes so close that the goose-flesh rose up all one side of his body as if some creeping thing had touched him. He was being followed, but could hear no footsteps. He could almost feel the presence of a living being, but could see none. Once, when he struck out suddenly in a sort of panic of despair, he thought his fist actually brushed against something, but it might have been one of the countless winged insects that were fluttering all about him — there were lots of those.

  A bat crashed into his face, filling his nostrils with a stink beyond analysis. He struck the creature to the ground and killed it, but cried out, almost on the verge of tears — he, Prothero of the Intelligence!

  He mastered himself with an effort and continued down the glade, but stopped again after a minute, for he heard the crunch of strong jaws that devoured the bat. He had to consider. Only two animals in all the jungle would devour that filthiness — pig or hyena — the bravest and the meanest beasts that live. He was not afraid of hyenas, or need not be; but if it was pig — the lords of the jungle, the tiger and leopard, give right of way to the boar, and he would better choose a tree accordingly.

  He chose a tree, and even as he raised his foot to climb some other creature struck the brute that ate the bat. It snarled and yelped and ran off whimpering. So he knew it was hyena and not pig. But who — what had struck the brute? Not another hyena, for he heard the blow — almost a thump — it might have been a kick — a hoof he would have thought, only he could hear no footfalls. He started to climb the tree, and that infernal mewing began again.

  No use trying to climb away from any of the big cats. Each to his own element, and a man, even in extremity, is better on the hard ground and his own two feet. He groped about in utter darkness for a stick that would serve for a club, and his hand touched something neither warm nor cold that moved and drew an oath from him.

  It might have been a snake, although it was hardly clammy enough. It had not feathers, nor any hair that he could feel. He had touched it, or it had touched him — which was it? — on a level with his waist. A snake can sit up to that height — some snakes can — but it had not struck, it had retreated.

  Then a twig broke on his left, and another twig behind him, and the mewing began again. Colonel Arthur Prothero of the Intelligence cried out, on the threshold of hysteria.

  After that he ran for a little while, hoping that the sound of his heavy footfall might scare away creatures given to mistrust of unfamiliar sounds. But the life of the jungle is lived by night, as it sleeps by day, and nearly all waking life is curious. He heard the crashing of the undergrowth as some big beast that knew his own power too well to worry about caution hurried to investigate. Stopping to hunt frenziedly for any kind of weapon — going on his knees to grope for down-wood — he heard what sounded like a fight. There were a dozen blows, a deal of crashing, snarling, growling, guttural grunting followed by retreat. But retreat of what he could not guess, any more than he could see what had caused retreat.

  Had some beast — someone of the big cats — chosen him? Was it playing cat-and-mouse with him, and driving away competitors meanwhile? It felt, looked, sounded like it! He began to run again, partly to find out whether he was followed.

  It was easy to run along the jungle lane, for the narrow slit overhead made the gloom luminous and the irregular line of trees on either hand was like two walls of blackness leaning inward, only just a trifle darker than the night itself. He could not hear anything following, and as he grew out of breath he stopped again to listen. Instantly, under the sound of his breathing and the humming of his own heart, he heard the mewing as distinctly as ever — closer than ever. He almost felt breath on his cheek, it was so close. He struck out, kicked, shouted, and his foot struck something neither soft nor hard that yielded and vanished, for when he kicked a second time there was nothing there.

  The mewing resumed from behind him; not quite so close this time, but near enough to make his blood run cold — from about the height of his waist, or perhaps a bit higher, as well as he could judge.

  At last he found a stick that would come away in his hand and was heavy enough for a weapon. He wielded it, whirled it about him, and shouted to raise his own courage, which was parlous near to disappearing altogether.

  The stick struck something and broke. Whatever it struck was alive, for it grunted and gave way. Then instead of one sound of mewing there were three, distinct, from separate directions, and they seemed to be closing in on him. So he gripped the short end of the stick that was left in his hand and started off running again.

  There came footfalls from behind him this time, but he could see nothing when he glanced over his shoulder. It was like the sound of soft feet galloping — not wolves or wild dogs, for they made no other sound and did not come fast enough — perhaps a hyena again. He stopped to stand at bay, and pursuit ceased instantly, which suggested a hyena more than any other brute.

  But you can generally see a hyena’s eyes, hung low and moving sidewise, and he could see nothing. He found another stick and charged with it, striking at the spot where he supposed the brute might be; but only beat the air and presently abandoned that, for it made him feel more impotent than ever.

  Meanwhile the bruises Ommony’s fists had made and the flesh torn by Diana’s teeth had become a spread feast for the insects. He had come away without a handkerchief, so he tore off the tail of his shirt to make a bandage. In the dark he tore it badly. It was too short. He had to tear the whole shirt up to get a piece long enough to be any good. That did serve to cover up the actual open wounds; but it stuck to them and hurt nearly as badly as the insects had. Moreover, it left the bruises exposed, and his torso arrayed in nothing but a cotton singlet, through which the mosquitoes could drive their gimlets comfortably with the additional advantage of a foothold.

  “Just like that cad Ommony to kick me out without coat or hat!”

  Rage against Ommony helped for a little while, but gave place to chagrin. He did not feel proud of having been kicked out of camp by the bookseller’s son. Ommony was a person who had friends. He, Prothero, was indisputably blessed with a number of steadfast enemies. He had always regarded his enemies as useful hitherto. They had provided him with opportunities to score vindictively and call attention to his dangerous qualities, which was the same thing in his mind as importance.

  Ommony’s friends were not only numerous, some of them were highly placed. That made the situation awkward. Damn the man! Why couldn’t he be the nincompoop a bookseller’s brat ought to be, and take the consequences! A mere Woods and Forests man who was friendly with rebels and knew the junglebat was such an obviously easy mark for a Colonel of Intelligence in search of a scapegoat! Friends or no friends, he could have contrived to blame Ommony for Mahommed Babar’s continuance in the field if only the bally man hadn’t presumed to take his own part so damned effectively!

  He could have made a lovely scandal of it. A minor British official charged with treason! An insignificant but famous Woods and Forests man convicted of harboring his country’s enemies! A notorious pacifist caught in the act of fostering rebellion! Suspected, tracked down, seen, overheard and taken by the famous Arthur Prothero, hero of so-and-so and such-and-such. He might have got a decoration out of it! And the leverage it would have given him over Ommony’s erstwhile friends would have been priceless.

  “That’s what you think, is it? Well, I’m
told you used to believe in Ommony, so your opinion—”

  But who was going to be convinced now by circumstantial evidence without investigation? No one, except that ass Macaulay, who was known to hate Ommony and always to be convinced, in advance of the evidence, on whichever side his prejudices leaned.

  Macaulay on your side was worse than useless. All the other influential men would wait before passing judgment. They would ask why Ommony had thrashed him, Prothero. And what would the answer be? Damn it!

  He knew what the answer would be. People who liked Ommony were fanatics about him, and all fanatics were fools. They would assert and maintain that Ommony, being such as he was known to be, would never thrash a man without good reason. They would look into the reason. And, damn it! — whatever Ommony might say, there would be men who would believe, implicitly!

  Dread of future developments added itself to immediate fear and the torture of insects. There were moments when it almost seemed better to face about and wait for the wild beasts that dogged him so persistently. He wished he knew more zoology, so as to know what animal mewed like that. Come to think of it, he had never heard an exactly similar noise, but that might be because he had never studied leopards except by way of shooting them occasionally. It might be a cheetah.

  Someone told him once that cheetahs mew when tracking down their prey. If it was a cheetah there were very likely several of them. That made the recent chorus of mewing comprehensible. There were two or three hours yet until dawn. They kill at dawn or just before it preferably, he remembered — or so somebody had said.

  Well, he always did hate a man who funked death when it could not be escaped. If it could be avoided, then any course was justifiable for a man of position and means. But was it avoidable now? Was there any other victim for the cheetahs, to be substituted for himself? No. Not even Lal Rai — that impudent, lying, rascally, useful dog Lal Rai.