Part 36 (2/2)

The thrash of the chase was nearer; the jungle was clearing as they made their way to the border near Hurda. The low rumbling was from Nels. He would stand, turning back an instant, then trot to overtake them. . . . No question now. One pig at least, was clear of the beaters, coming this way, someone in chase.

The great trees were far apart. They were near _their_ place, after many minutes. They had caught a glimpse of a mounted man through the trees--playing his game alone--the pig, but a crash in the undergrowth. . . . There was silence, as if the hunter were listening--then a cutting squeal, a laugh from the absorbed horseman, and it was all before their eyes!

The tusker halted at the border of their little clearing. He had just seen them and the dog--more enemies. . . . Hideous bone-rack--long as a pony, tapering to the absurd piggy haunches--head as long as a pony's head, with a look of decay round the yellow tusks--dripping gash from a lance-wound under one ear--standing stock just now, at the end of all flight!

Nels seemed to slide forward two feet, like a shoved statue. It was a penetrating silence before the voice of Ian Deal:

”You two--what in G.o.d's name--”

That was all of words.

His black Arab, Kala Khan, had come to halt twice a lance-length from the tusker. Carlin and Skag and Nels stood half the circle away from the man and mount, a little farther from the still beast, the red right eye of which made the central point of the whole tableau.

Ian looked hunched. He seemed suddenly ungainly--as if all sport like this were mockery and he had merely been carried on in these lower currents for a price. His lance wobbled across his bridle-arm which was too rigid, the curb checking the perfect spring of the Arab's action.

The tusker was bone-still, with that c.o.c.ked look which means anything but flight. Skag moved a step forward. His knees touched Nels; his left hand was stretched back to hold Carlin in her place. There was no word, no sound--and that was the last second of the tableau.

The tusker broke the picture. Flick of the head, a snort--and he wasn't there. He wasn't on the lance! His side-charge, with no turn which the eye could follow, carried him under the point of Ian's thrust in direct drive at the black Arab's belly.

Kala Khan was standing straight up, yet they heard his scream. The boar's head seemed on a swivel as he pa.s.sed beneath. Ian Deal standing in the stirrups swung forward, one arm round his mount's neck, but badly out of the saddle. . . . The tusker turned to do it again.

Skag spoke. That was the instant Nels charged. In the same second, the Arab, still on his hind legs, made a teetering plunge back, to dodge the second drive of the beast, and Ian Deal fell, head-long on the far side, his narrow boot locked in the steel stirrup.

Skag spoke again. It was to Kala Khan this time. Nels' smas.h.i.+ng drive at the throat had carried the tusker from under the Arab's feet. His rumbling challenge had seemed to take up the scream of the horse; it ended in the piercing squeal of the throated boar.

Skag still talked to Kala Khan, as he moved forward. The Arab stood braced, facing him now--the tumbled head-down thing to the left, arms sprawled, face turned away. A thousand to one, among the best mounts, would have broken before the second charge and thrashed the hanging head against the ground.

Skag's tones were continuous, his empty hand held out. There was never a glance of his eye to the battle of the Dane and the beast. Four feet from his hand was the hanging rein, his eyes to the eyes of the black, his tones steadily lower, never rising, never ceasing. His loose fingers closed upon the bridle rein; his free hand pressed the Arab's cheek.

He felt Carlin beside him and turned--one of the tremendous moments of life to find her there. (It was like the last instant of the cobra fight, when he had seen her over the hood--utterly white, utterly tall.) She took the rein from his hand. Her face turned to Nels'

struggle--but her eyes pressed shut.

Skag stepped to Kala Khan's side, lifted the leather fender, slipped the cinch, and let the light hunting saddle slide over, releasing Ian Deal. Then he sprang to Nels, calling as he caught up the fallen lance:

”Coming, old man--coming to you!”

Nels on his feet was bent to the task--the tusker sprawling, the piggy haunches settling flat.

”. . . So, it's all done, son,” the man said softly. ”You're the best of them all to-day.”

He laughed. Nels looked up at him in a bored way, but he still held.

Skag went back to Carlin. Ian Deal had partly risen. The American did not catch his eye, and now Kala Khan stood between them, Carlin still holding the rein. Skag's hand rested upon the wet trembling withers, where the saddle had covered. There was a blue glisten to the moisture. Skag loved the Arab very hard that moment, and no less afterward. Kala Khan needed care at once. His wound was long and deep, from the hock on the inside, up to the stifle-joint.

Ian Deal was on his feet, the Arab still between him and Skag's eyes.

But now her brother drew off, back turned, walking away, his arms and hands fumbling queerly about his head, as he staggered a little.

”He will come back!” Carlin whispered.

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