Part 25 (2/2)
Lower Burma is much too wet a district for the great cat tribe.”
”But I am told that there are plenty of elephants and tigers in this district,” argued Shafto. ”And what about the tiger that was actually crawling on the PaG.o.da not so very long ago! Why, hundreds of people saw the brute; it was shot by a fellow called Bacon.”
As this was a hard and unanswerable fact Roscoe was for the moment silenced. After a short pause he continued:
”All the same, I don't believe in the Elephant Point tiger; the other was no doubt a pious beast--who came from Chin Hills to make a pilgrimage.”
”You'll have a fine, rough journey, me boy.” said FitzGerald; ”nasty deep swamps, terrible thorn thickets, gra.s.s ten foot high--it wouldn't be _my_ idea of pleasure.”
”No,” retorted Shafto, ”tiger shooting and turkey-trotting are widely apart.”
”But look here,” exclaimed FitzGerald, as if struck by a thought and now sitting holt upright. ”Mind you keep your eyes skinned and your ears p.r.i.c.ked when you are down there,” and he threw his friend a significant glance; ”you never know your luck, and you might happen on valuable _kubber_--and start some rare sort of game.”
FitzGerald's warning was amply justified; the tiger-shooting expedition proved a much rougher business than the sportsmen had antic.i.p.ated.
Once they quitted the roads and foot-path, vegetation became rank and overpowering and in places impa.s.sable. Swampy ground, dense thorn thickets and elephant gra.s.s made progress enormously difficult--the jungle guards well its many secrets and is full of dangers to mankind.
It was a bright moonlight night when Shafto and his companions alighted at the selected area and tossed for posts. These were at a considerable distance apart, each in a tree, over a ”tie-up”--which, on this occasion, happened to be a goat.
The hours dragged along slowly; Shafto, doubled up in a cramped position on a _machan_, felt painfully stiff and was obliged to deny himself the comfort of a cigarette. There was no sound beyond the bleat of the victim--unwittingly summoning its executioner, the buzz of myriads of insects, the ba.s.s booming of frogs and the stealthy, mysterious movements of night birds and small animals. Then by degrees the moon waned and the stars faded--though the sky was still light. It was about three o'clock in the morning and Shafto was beginning to agree with Roscoe respecting the tiger myth and to feel uncommonly drowsy, when his ear was struck by a far-away sound, entirely distinct from buzzing insects or booming frogs.
The spot which had been thoughtfully selected by the trapper, was within a few hundred yards of a small cove, chosen as an inviting place for the tiger to come and slake his thirst. The distant sound came from this direction and, by degrees, a faint but definite pulsation grew more audible and distinct, and finally resolved itself, into the steady throbbing of a motor-launch. It was approaching.
Then from the back of Shafto's mind he dragged out a memory of FitzGerald's mention of a broken-down petrol boat. Here was probably the very one--by no means a derelict; on the contrary, a fast traveller. For a moment he was startled, then promptly made up his mind. This was a chance, perhaps, to secure some really valuable _kubber_. More than once he had heard it rumoured that, in these distant creeks and bays, some of the smugglers had discharged their valuable cargo. Well, if the cargo was now about to be landed, here was his opportunity! As the bleating of the goat would undoubtedly give him away, he must get rid of the animal immediately, so he quickly s.h.i.+nned down the tree and commanded the trapper to remove it.
”Tiger not coming to-night,” he explained to the astonished Burman, who rejoined:
”Tiger coming soon, soon, now; after the waning of the moon.”
”Oh well, never mind,” said Shafto impatiently, ”you take away the goat. Look sharp--take him quickly, quickly and _keep_ him.”
This was an extraordinary _thakin_, who, at the very climax of the tiger hour, climbed out of the _machan_ and liberated the bait!
Certainly these English folk were mad.
”You go towards the camp,” he ordered, ”and take my gun.”
The Burman, still completely bewildered, obeyed; he could not understand the situation, but he felt bound to do what he was told, and presently he disappeared, moving with obvious reluctance, leading the goat and carrying gun and cartridges. His employer did not immediately follow, but remained for a considerable time motionless--listening.
The pulsation had almost ceased--evidently the motor-boat had arrived at her destination, which was unfortunately not in his immediate vicinity. He crept stealthily along in the direction of the possible anchorage, fighting his way through roots and undergrowth; it was all of no use--a barrier of mora.s.s and elephant gra.s.s proved absolutely impa.s.sable, so he turned back towards his camp, pausing now and then to listen. He could make out voices--one in an authoritative key summoning ”Mung Li.” Well, he had at least discovered something definite--he was in the vicinity of smugglers. In a short time he discovered something else; through a breach in the undergrowth he caught a glimpse of a Burman leading a stout, grey pony carrying a European saddle and--unless his eyes entirely deceived him--the animal was Krauss's well-known weight carrier, ”Dacoit.”
Two evenings later, at the Gymkhana Club, Krauss lounged up to Shafto, who happened to be looking on at a billiard match. Taking a cigar out of his mouth he astonished him by saying:
”Well, so you had no luck after that tiger down the river!”
This was taking the bull by the horns indeed. ”No,” replied Shafto, ”but Stafford saw him and got a shot. He is there all right.”
”Perhaps you will have another try?” suggested Krauss.
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