Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Courage came back to the _capitan_ of the lighter then, and with it all his powers of mean impertinence. He shouted up curses at the first-officer. They were vile, as curses can only be vile in that “language of prayer.” And the first-officer understood them perfectly. But he had no time to take notice of them. The ship had got to get off that night. And the stacks had got to be unloaded. But it was far from simple to get even this first one lowered into the launch. Several times they dropped it almost to its place, then, because the empty scow bobbed one way in a swell, and the ship another, it had to be hoisted once more. And once the windlass refused to work at a signal. There was a delay until it could be repaired. The _capitan_ of the _lancheros_ waxed more impertinent and abusive; the _tequila_ with which he had been refreshing himself on shore was beginning to take its violent effect. In the absorption of his abuse of the ship and all its crew, he forgot to order his own men. The stack was coming down once again, with a fair chance of landing squarely in the bottom at last--if the _lancheros_ should be quick enough at guiding it. But they were doing nothing, frightened half out of their little available senses. And their _capitan_ was yelling foul words aloft. It was a critical instant. The white _lanchero_ knew it. He gave an order. It was all the men needed--a head. They made to obey. But the boss, in the madness of _tequila_, turned on his white hand. Was _he_ the _capitan_? Was _he_ in command? He had the signal conch shell in his hand. He brought it down with a cracking blow on Stanwood’s head.

The first-officer, watching the critical descent of the iron monster with all his attention, saw Stanwood spring at the boss’s throat, saw the knives of the other _lancheros_ drawn, saw them swarming astern to the rescue of their fellow, ten of them against one. And the iron stack was swaying just above them. Another starboard roll--they would be crushed under it. And another moment lost and the Gringo would have ten knives in his neck and back. The little whistle shrilled sharply twice, and even as its order was obeyed and the windlass reversed, the first-officer was sliding overside down the manrope, had kicked himself off from the hull, and landed in the launch.

It was a short fight. The first-officer had his six-shooter, the white _lanchero_ his knife, like another. The natives were fierce with blood lust, and the drunkenness of knife gleam and _tequila_. But it was a matter of coolness and of the dominant race. Before the captain on the hurricane-deck could run to his cabin for his carbine, it was over with. Two _lancheros_ had disabling bullet wounds, and the rest had retreated to the bow, all the flush of fight gone out of them, whipped and cringing and scared.

The first-officer and the white _lanchero_ stood astern. They had been cut, and the ducks of the first-officer were red. Blood oozed through the _lanchero’s_ rags. He got breath for a moment clutching at the gunwale. Then he turned to the first-officer. “Thank you,” he said.

Marsden looked at him, slowly, from his shaggy black hair to his bare feet. “Don’t mention it,” he answered. Then he looked up at the ship. “Unhook that stack for the present, and send down the chair for us,” he ordered, coolly.

He considered his left arm. The blood was bubbling out just above the elbow. He knew what it meant. He had seen the thing before. It would be all right once a tourniquet should be put above it. But before that, before the doctor could get down in the chair, he would very likely faint. He was feeling light-headed already--and his eyes were glazing over. He shut his right hand hard above the wound.

“You can’t stay with this, Stanwood,” he told the _lanchero_. His voice sounded to himself far away and dead. He was not altogether sure what he was saying. He glanced up. Away and away overhead in a vague distance of hot blue, the chair was beginning to lower. He must make haste. He spoke carefully, with precision, swaying unsteadily as the launch rolled.

“We lost a man at Corinto,” he went on; “we--need an--other. You can ship to Frisco with us if----” he staggered, then caught himself, “if you--like.”

The chair with the doctor touched the bottom of the scow. The first-officer had fallen, and was lying quite still. The white _lanchero_ was bending over him, clenching his two hands tight about the wounded arm.

THE RAJAH’S NEMESIS

By W. C. Morrow

In my travels abroad I once encountered an extraordinary illustration of the shifts to which Nature will resort in her efforts to overcome the inconvenience arising from a deprivation of the tools with which she is accustomed to work; and the facts of the case are sufficiently peculiar and tragic to warrant their relation.

I was summoned from Calcutta to proceed to the heart of India, being wanted by a certain rich and powerful rajah to perform a dangerous surgical operation upon one of the women of his household. I found the rajah to be a man of lofty character, noble and generous; but, as circumstances afterward developed, he was possessed of a sense of cruelty purely Oriental and in sharp contrast to the extreme indolence of his disposition. He was so grateful for the success which attended my mission that he urged me to remain his guest at the palace as long as it should please me to stay; and, as may be surmised, I thankfully accepted the invitation.

One of his servants early attracted my notice, for he was a man of marvelous capacity of malice and vindictiveness. His name was Neranya, and I am certain that there must have been a large proportion of Malay blood in his veins; for, unlike the Indians (from whom he differed also in complexion), he was extremely active, alert, nervous, and sensitive. He had one redeeming trait, and that was love for his master.

Once his violent temper led him to the commission of an atrocious crime--the fatal stabbing of a dwarf. In punishment for this the rajah ordered that Neranya’s right arm (the offending one) be severed from his body. The sentence was executed in rather a bungling fashion by a stupid fellow armed with an axe; and I, being a surgeon, was compelled, in order to save Neranya’s life, to perform a second amputation upon the stump of the arm, which left not a vestige of the limb remaining.

Just here, as a possible partial explanation of the terrible and extraordinary things which followed, I must call intelligent attention to a matter which has long engaged my notice.

We see that when one arm has been lost, the other acquires an unwonted dexterity, thus measurably compensating for the loss. Further, if both arms have been removed, an extraordinary nimbleness is exhibited in the feet, for they come to discharge to a considerable extent the functions of hands--to so great an extent that the toes display a power of prehension which one might suppose had not existed in them since our abandonment, in the evolutionary process, of the tree-climbing habit. Thus, with the toes an armless man may learn to hold a pen and to write, to load and fire a pistol, to cut food with a knife, and convey it to his mouth with a fork, to sew, and to do a hundred other useful things, and some which are purely ornamental, as painting, playing a harp, and the like. I once saw an armless man give his wife a sound thrashing with a rawhide whip.

If, now, one of the legs be removed, the remaining foot will develop an almost redoubled capacity, its agility being marvelous. But suppose that this member, too, should be parted with--has Nature reached the end of her resources? Remember, the dexterity that she developed in those members which remained after the amputation of others was primarily of a character to take the place of that which enabled the others to minister to the needs of life. Granted that both arms and both legs are gone, has Nature, I have asked, reached the limit of her resources, in the accomplishment of an earnest and controlling purpose, praiseworthy or perverted?

Let us inquire into the philosophy of the process by which this compensating dexterity is developed. It is easy for the scientists to tell us that this is done by the concentration of the will and the persistent exercise of the muscles in obedience thereto; but to my understanding this explanation is not sufficient. The principle of life, the amazing persistence of this principle, and the ways in which this persistence is maintained, are all inscrutable mysteries, necessarily and forever beyond our comprehension. It is the fashion of transcendentalism (not followed, however, by the greater scientists) to maintain that we have a spiritual, as well as a material, nature; and by evolution there has grown out of that belief another, that this spiritual nature is imperishable, indestructible--the fashionable, though inaccurate, term is “immortal.” The spirit is assumed to be the _ego_, the consciousness--that which fixes individuality and determines identity.

Now, we know that mind is consciousness, and that the mind has its seat within the brain. But the brain is identical in its chemical, structural, molecular, and functional characteristics with the nerves which lead from it and ramify throughout the body; therefore the mind, and consequently the spirit, ramifies throughout the body; and hence it follows that if the spirit is indestructible and should be separated from the body (by death or otherwise) it must have the essential form and appearance of the body. The fact of our being unable to see it presents no obstacle to the argument; for we are unable to see countless things which we are certain exist. The argument thus put in logical shape may account, by unconscious synthetical reasoning, for the prevalent belief, seemingly inherent, that the spirit retains the form of the body after death; for there is no other conception of the human spirit’s form--we never imagine it as having the shape of a ball, or a comet, or a balloon, or a cloud, or as being formless.

Then it must follow that, assuming the spirit to be indestructible and as having the form of the body, the amputation of a limb does not exterminate that part of the spirit which occupied that limb; but as the indivisibility of the spirit must be admitted as an essential factor of identity and individuality, that part of the spirit which had occupied the amputated limb must always be present in the place where the limb had been, and must there, in that place, possess all the consciousness and intelligence which belonged to it before the limb was amputated.

This argument may be pursued to some astonishing conclusions which do not vitally concern the purposes of this relation. I might be asked, for instance, if the potentiality of a spirit is dependent upon its possession and control of a body, of what avail is it to speculate upon the unseparated existence of the spirit of an amputated limb? But there are some who declare that this dependence need not and does not always exist.

This, it must be understood, is not the line of argument pursued by scientists, for they have a purely materialistic explanation for all the singular phenomena resulting from amputation; but are they not inconsistent? They admit the inscrutable mystery of the principle of life and all its countless corollaries, and yet they glibly explain the evidently marvelous results of a serious interference with the normal operation of that principle, as in the case of amputation. Is it not possible that there is danger of too much explanation of these wonderful mysteries?

Let us proceed with the strange story of Neranya. After the loss of his arm, he developed an increased fiendishness, an augmented vindictiveness. His love for his master was changed to hate, and in his mad anger, he flung discretion to the winds. He was so unruly and violent in disposition that he could not conceal his feelings. The rajah, a proud, scornful man, increased Neranya’s hate by treating him with contempt and scorn, which had the effect of driving the wretch to frenzy. In a mad moment he sprang upon the rajah with a knife, but he was seized and disarmed. To his unspeakable dismay the rajah sentenced him for this offense to suffer amputation of the remaining arm. It was done as in the former instance.

This had a temporary effect in curbing the man’s spirit, or rather in changing the outward manifestation of his diabolic nature. Being armless, he was at first largely at the mercy of those who ministered to his wants--a duty which I undertook to see was properly discharged, for I felt an interest in this horribly perverted and distorted nature. This sense of helplessness, combined with a damnable scheme for revenge which he had secretly formed, caused Neranya to change his fierce, impetuous, and unruly conduct into a smooth, quiet, insinuating manner, which he carried so artfully as not only to secure a peace and comfort which he had never known before, but also to deceive those with whom he was brought in contact, including the rajah himself.

Neranya, being exceedingly quick, nimble, and intelligent, and having a tremendous will, turned his attention to the cultivation of dexterity in his legs, feet, and toes; and in due time he was able to perform wonderful feats with those members, such as I have noticed already. His capacity especially for destructive mischief was restored.

One morning, the rajah’s only son, a young man of an exceedingly lovable and noble character, was found dead in bed. His murder was a singularly atrocious one, the body being mutilated in a sickening manner; but, in my eyes, the most significant of all the mutilations was _the entire removal and disappearance of the young man’s arms_. In the wild distraction which ensued in the palace upon the discovery of the mutilated body, the importance of that one fact was overlooked. It was the basis, however, of a minute investigation, which I made, and which, in time, led me to the discovery of the murderer.

The murder of the young man nearly proved the death of the rajah, who was thrown into a serious illness, which required all my skill and attention to combat. It was not, therefore, until his recovery that there began a systematic and intelligent inquiry into the murder. I said nothing of my own discoveries and conclusions, and in no way interfered with the work of the rajah and his officers; but, after their efforts had failed and I had completed my own work, I submitted to the rajah a written report, making a close analysis of all the circumstances, and closing by charging Neranya with the murder. (I still have a copy of that singular report, and I regret that its length prevents its insertion here. It deals with unusual facts and is an illustration of the value of special knowledge and pure reason in the detection of crime.) My facts, arguments, and deductions were so convincing that the rajah at once ordered Neranya to be put to death, this to be accomplished by slow and frightful torture. The sentence was so cruel, so revolting, that it filled me with horror, and I implored that the wretch might be shot. Finally, purely through a sense of noble gratitude, the rajah yielded. When Neranya was charged with the crime, he denied it, of course; but, seeing that the rajah was convinced, and upon being shown my report (which embodied a knowledge of anatomy and surgery that he had never dreamed of), he threw aside all restraint, and, dancing, laughing, and shrieking in the most horrible manner, confessed his guilt and gloated over it--all this, believing that he would be shot on the morrow.

During the night, however, the rajah changed his mind, and sending for me in the morning, informed me of his new decision. It was that Neranya’s life should be spared, but that both his legs should be crushed with heavy hammers and then that I should amputate both limbs as close to the trunk as possible! I was too much astounded to utter a protest; and, besides there was grounded within me that unyielding, and often inhuman, medical principle, which counts the saving of life at any cost the highest duty. I may add that, appended to this horrible sentence, was a provision for keeping the maimed wretch a prisoner and torturing him at regular intervals by such means as afterward might be devised.

Sickened to the heart by the awful duty which confronted me, I nevertheless performed it with success, and I must pass over in silence the hideous details of the whole affair. Let it suffice to say that Neranya escaped death very narrowly, and that he was a long time in recovering his wonted vitality. During all these weeks the rajah neither saw him nor made inquiries concerning him, but when, as in duty bound, I made an official report that the man had recovered his strength, the rajah’s eyes brightened, and he emerged with deadly activity from the stupor of grief in which he so long had been plunged. He ordered certain preparations made for the future care of his now helpless victim.

The rajah’s palace was a noble structure, but it is necessary here to describe only the grand hall. It was an immense room, with a floor of polished stone and a lofty arched ceiling. A subdued light stole into it through stained glass set in the roof and in windows on the sides. In the middle of the room was a fountain which threw up a tall, slender column of water in the centre, with smaller jets grouped around it. Across one end of the hall, half-way to the ceiling, was a balcony, which communicated with the upper story of a wing, and from which a flight of stairs descended to the stone floor of the hall. This room was kept at a uniform temperature, and during the hot summers it was delightfully cool. This was the rajah’s favorite lounging-place, and when the nights were hot, he had his cot brought hither and here he slept.

This hall was chosen for Neranya’s permanent abiding-place; here was he to stay as long as he might live, without ever a glimpse of the face of nature or the glorious heavens. To one of his restless, nervous, energetic, discontented nature, the cruelty of such confinement was worse than death; but there was more yet of suffering in store for him, for at the rajah’s order there was constructed a small iron pen, in which Neranya was to be kept. This pen was circular and about four feet in diameter. It was elevated on four slender iron posts, ten feet from the floor, and was placed half-way between the fountain and the balcony. Around the edge of the pen was erected an iron railing, four feet high, but the top was left open for the convenience of the servants whose duty it should be to care for him. These precautions for his safe confinement were taken at my suggestion, for, although the man was deprived of all four of his limbs, I still feared that he might develop some extraordinary, unheard-of power for mischief. It was provided that the attendants should reach his cage by means of a movable ladder. All these arrangements having been made and Neranya hoisted into his prison, the rajah emerged upon the balcony to see him, and the two deadly enemies faced each other. The rajah’s stern face paled at the hideous sight which met his gaze, but he soon recovered, and the old, hard, cruel, sinister look returned. Neranya, by an extraordinary motion, had wriggled himself into an upright position, his back propped against the railing. His black hair and beard had grown long, and they added to the natural ferocity of his aspect. Upon seeing the rajah his eyes blazed with a terrible light, his lips parted, and he gasped for breath. His face was white with rage and despair, and his thin, distended nostrils quivered.

The rajah folded his arms and gazed down upon the frightful wreck which he had made. Neranya returned the gaze with blazing eyes. Oh, the pathos of that picture, the inhumanity of it, the deep and dismal tragedy of it! Who might look into that wild, desperate heart and see and understand the frightful turmoil there, the surging, choking passions, unbridled but impotent ferocity, frantic thirst for a vengeance that should be deeper than hell! Neranya gazed, his shapeless body heaving, his eyes ablaze, and then, in a strong, clear voice which rang throughout the great hall, with rapid speech he hurled at the rajah the most insulting defiance, the most awful curses. He cursed the womb that conceived him, the food that nourished him, the wealth that brought him power; cursed him in the name of Buddha and all the prophets, in the name of heaven and of hell; cursed him by the sun, the moon, and the stars, by all continents, oceans, mountains, and rivers, by all things living; cursed his head, his heart, his entrails; cursed him in a furious outpouring of unmentionable words; heaped insults and contumely upon him; called him a knave, a beast, a fool, a liar, an infamous and damnable coward. Never had I heard such eloquence of defiance, curses, and vituperation; never had heard so terrible a denunciation, so frightful and impetuous an outflow of insults.

The rajah heard it all calmly, without the movement of a muscle or the slightest change of countenance, and when the poor wretch had exhausted his strength and fallen helpless and silent to the floor, the rajah, with a grim, cold smile, turned and strode away.

The days passed. The rajah, not deterred by Neranya’s curses often heaped upon him, spent even more time than formerly in the great hall, and slept there oftener at night, and finally Neranya, wearied of cursing and defying him, maintained a sullen silence. The man was a study for me, and I noticed every change in his fleeting moods. Generally his condition was one of miserable despair, which he attempted bravely to conceal. Even the boon of suicide had been denied him, for when he was erect the top of the rail was a foot above his head, and he could not throw himself over it and crush his skull on the stone floor below; and when he had tried to starve himself the attendants forced food down his throat, so that he abandoned such attempts. At times his eyes would blaze and his breath would come in gasps, for imaginary vengeance was working within him; but steadily he became quieter and more tractable, and was pleasant and responsive when I conversed with him. Whatever the tortures the rajah had decided upon, none had as yet been ordered, and although Neranya knew that they were in contemplation, he never referred to them or complained of his lot.

The awful climax of this terrible situation was reached one night, and even after this lapse of years I can not approach a description of it without a shudder.

It was a hot night, and the rajah had gone to sleep in the great hall of the palace, lying on a high cot. I had been unable to sleep in my apartment, and so I stole softly into the hall through the heavily curtained entrance at the end furthest from the balcony. As I did so, I heard a peculiar soft sound above the gentle patter of the fountain. Neranya’s cage was partly concealed from my view by the spraying water, but I suspected that the unusual sound came from him. Stealing a little to one side and crouching against the dark hangings of the wall, I could faintly see him in the dim light which illumined the hall, and then I discovered that my surmise was correct--Neranya was at work. Curious to learn more, I sank into a thick robe on the floor and watched him. My sight was keen and my eyes soon became accustomed to the faint, soft light.

To my great astonishment Neranya was tearing off with his teeth the bag which served as his outer garment. He did it cautiously, casting sharp glances frequently at the rajah, who, sleeping soundly on his cot, breathed heavily. After starting a strip with his teeth, Neranya would by the same means attach it to the railing of his cage and then wriggle away, much after the manner of a caterpillar’s crawling, and this would cause the strip to be torn out the full length of his garment. He repeated this operation with incredible patience and skill until his entire garment had been torn into strips. Two or three of these he tied together with his tongue, lips, and teeth, and secured the ends in a similar way to the railing, thus making a short swing on one side. This done, he tied the other strips together, doubling some which were weak, and in this way he made a rope several feet in length, one end of which he made fast to the rail. It then began to dawn upon me that he was going to make an insane attempt--impossible of achievement without hands or feet, arms or legs--to escape from his cage! For what purpose? The rajah was asleep in the hall----! I caught my breath. Oh, the desperate, insane thirst for revenge which consumed the impotent, miserable Neranya! Even though he should accomplish the impossible feat of climbing over the railing of his cage and falling to the stone floor below (for how could he slide down the rope?), he would in all probability be killed or stunned; and even if he should escape these dangers it would be impossible for him to climb upon the cot without rousing the rajah, and impossible even though the rajah were dead! A man without arms or legs might descend by falling, he never could ascend by climbing. Amazed at his daring, and fully convinced that his sufferings had destroyed his reason, I watched him with breathless, absorbing interest.

He caught the longer rope in his teeth at a point not far from the rail. Then, wriggling with great effort to an upright position, his back braced against the rail, he put his chin over the swing and worked toward one end. He tightened the grasp of his chin upon the swing, and, with tremendous exertion, working the lower end of his spine against the railing, he began gradually to ascend. The labor was so great that he was compelled to pause at intervals, and his breathing was hard and painful, and even while thus resting he was in a position of terrible strain, and his pushing against the swing caused it to press hard against his windpipe and nearly suffocate him.

After amazing effort he elevated the lower end of his body until it protruded above the railing, the top of which was now across the lower end of his abdomen. Gradually he worked his body over, going backward, until there was sufficient excess of weight on the outer side, and then with a quick lurch he raised his head and shoulders and swung into a horizontal position. Of course, he would have fallen to the floor below had it not been for the rope which he held in his teeth. With such nicety had he calculated the distance between his mouth and the point of fastening, that the rope tightened and checked him just as he reached the horizontal position on the rail. If one had told me beforehand that such a feat as this man had accomplished was possible, I would have thought him a fool. I continued to watch with intense interest.

Neranya was now balanced on his stomach across the top of the railing, and he eased his position somewhat by bending his spine and hanging down as much as possible. Having rested in this position for some minutes, he began cautiously to slide off, slowly paying out the rope through his teeth. Now, it is quite evident that the rope would have escaped from his teeth laterally when he slightly relaxed his hold to let it slip, had it not been for a very ingenious device to which he had resorted. This consisted in his having made a turn of the rope around his neck before he attached the swing, thus securing a three-fold control of the rope--one by his teeth, another by friction against his neck, and a third by his ability to compress it between his cheek and shoulder.

A stupendous and seemingly impossible part of his task was accomplished. Could he reach the floor in safety? Gradually he worked himself backward over the rail, in momentary imminent danger of falling; but his nerve never quivered, and I could see a wonderful glitter in his eyes. With something of a lurch, his body fell against the outer side of the railing, and he was hanging by his chin. Slowly he worked his chin away and then hung suspended by the rope, his neck bearing the weight of his trunk. By almost imperceptible degrees, with infinite caution, he descended the rope, and finally his unwieldy body rolled upon the floor, safe and unhurt!

What next? Was this some superhuman monster who had accomplished this impossible miracle? Would he immediately spring to invisible feet, run to the rajah’s bedside, and stab him with an invisible dagger held in an invisible hand? No; I was too philosophic for such mad thoughts; there was plenty of time for interference. I was quick and strong. I would wait awhile and see what other impossible things this monster could do.

Imagine my astonishment when, instead of approaching the sleeping rajah, Neranya took another direction. Then it was only escape after all that the miserable wretch contemplated and not the murder of the rajah! But how could he escape? The only possible way to reach the outer air was by ascending the stairs to the balcony and leaving by the corridor, which opened upon it, and surely it was impossible for Neranya to ascend that long flight of stairs! Nevertheless, he made for the stairs. He progressed by lying on his back, with his face toward the point of destination, bowing his spine upward, and thus causing his head and shoulders to slip nearly an inch forward, straightening his spine and pushing forward the lower end of his back a distance equal to that which his head had advanced, each time pressing his head to the floor to keep it from slipping. His progress was slow, painful, and laborious, as the floor was slippery, rendering difficult the task of taking a firm hold with his head. Finally, he arrived at the foot of the stairs.

It was at once manifest that his purpose was to ascend them. The desire for freedom must have been strong within him. Wriggling to an upright position against the newel-post, he looked up at the great height which he had to climb and sighed; but there was no dimming of the bright light in his eyes. How could he accomplish the impossible task before him?

His solution of the problem was very simple. While leaning against the newel-post, he fell in a diagonal position and lay safe upon the bottom step on his side. Turning upon his back, he wriggled forward along the step the necessary few inches to reach the rail, scrambled to an upright, but inverted, position against the rail, and then fell and landed safely on the second step. This explains the manner in which, with inconceivable labor, he accomplished the ascent of the entire flight of stairs.

It being evident that the rajah was not the object of Neranya’s movements, the anxiety which I had felt on that account was entirely dispelled, and I watched Neranya now only with a sense of absorbing interest and curiosity. The things which he had accomplished were entirely beyond the wildest imagination, and, in a sense, I was in a condition of helpless wonder. The sympathy which I had always felt for the unhappy man was now greatly quickened; and as small as I knew the chances of his ultimate escape to be, I nevertheless hoped that he would succeed. There was a bare chance that he would fall into the hands of the British soldiery not far away, and I inwardly prayed for his success. Any assistance from me, however, was out of the question; nor should it ever be known that I had witnessed the escape.

Neranya was now upon the balcony, and I could dimly see him wriggling along as he slowly approached the door. The rail was low, and I could barely see him beyond it. Finally he stopped and wriggled to an upright position. His back was toward the hall, but he slowly turned around and faced me. At that great distance I could not distinguish his features, but the slowness with which he had worked, even before he had fully accomplished the ascent of the stairs, was evidence all too eloquent of his extreme exhaustion. Nothing but a most desperate resolution could have sustained him thus far, but he had about drawn upon the last remnant of his strength.

He looked around the hall with a sweeping glance, and then upon the rajah, who was soundly sleeping immediately beneath him, over twenty feet down. He looked long and earnestly, sinking lower, and lower, and lower upon the rail. Suddenly, to my inconceivable astonishment and dismay, he toppled over and shot downward from his lofty height. I held my breath, expecting to see him crushed into a bloody mass on the stones beneath, but instead of that he fell full upon the rajah’s breast, crashing through the cot, and hurling him to the floor. I sprang forward with a loud cry for help, and was instantly at the scene of the disaster. Imagine my indescribable horror when I found that Neranya’s teeth were buried in the rajah’s throat! With a fierce clutch I tore the wretch away, but the blood was pouring out in torrents from the frightfully lacerated throat, the chest was crushed in, and the rajah was gasping in the death agony. People came running in, terrified. I turned to Neranya. He lay upon his back, his face hideously smeared with blood. Murder, and not escape, was his intention from the beginning; he had adopted the only plan by which there was a possibility of accomplishing it. I knelt beside him, and saw that he was dying--his back had been broken by the fall. He smiled sweetly into my face; and the triumphant look of accomplished revenge sat upon his face even in death.

THE MAN-HUNTERS’ REWARD

By Buckey O’Neill

“That isn’t a bad reward!”

“No; if a fellow could catch him, he would make pretty good wages. Let’s see,” and the second speaker began to read the postal-card that the postmaster at Hard Scrabble had just tacked to the door of the store that constituted the “office,” so that every one might read:

TAKE HIM IN!

$500 Reward will be paid for the arrest and delivery of Rube
White to the sheriff of Yavapai County. He is about
twenty-five years old, six feet tall, and slim, with light
complexion, and has a big scar on the right side of his
face. He is wanted for robbery and other crimes. If killed
in resisting arrest the reward will be paid on satisfactory
proof of his identity. When last heard from was making for
the Tonto Basin country.

By the time the reader had finished, a crowd of half a dozen or more men surrounded him.

“Now, if that feller is headed for the Tonto Basin country, it wouldn’t be much of a trick to take him,” said the first speaker, reflectively, as if debating with himself the advisability of making the attempt.

“If you hear me, he ain’t going to be taken in, and the feller that tries it is going to have his hands full. They have been after him for two or three years and aint got him yet. They say he’s right on the shoot,” remarked another of the crowd.

“Well, a feller ought to know him as soon as he sees him, from that description,” hazarded the first speaker, “if he got up close enough to see the scar; and then all he’d have to do would be to turn loose at him if he didn’t throw up his hands when you told him. Besides, nobody but him would try to cross over the mountains into the basin with this snow on the ground. Blamed if I don’t think I’ll go after him.”

“Well, somebody ought to round him up,” asserted some one in the crowd; “he’s been foolin’ roun’ hyah long enough, jes havin’ his own way, sorter as if the country belonged to him. Durned if I wouldn’t go with you, Hi, if I didn’t have to take this grub over to the boys in camp.”

“Well, if any of you want to go, all right. I’m going,” replied the man addressed as Hi.

It was not the first time that Hi Lansing had been on such expeditions. He was one of those men for whom danger seems to have a fascination. At his remark, Frank Crandall, a young fellow who had been standing quietly by, volunteered to accompany him. The crowd turned toward him with more interest than they had thus far evinced during the entire proceedings. It was but a few months since he had come among them, fresh from the East, to take charge of one of the mines which had been closed down by the winter’s storms. For weeks he had been cooped up in the isolated settlement, and he longed for something to break its monotony.

“Well, get your horse and gun, and come,” replied Hi, and, in an instant, the two men had left the room to arm and equip themselves for the chase, while the loungers gathered around the stove to discuss the probabilities of their success. In a few minutes, the two men rode past the door, each armed with a rifle and six-shooter, and the crowd, stepping out, bade them good-by, with the oft-repeated warning: “Be keerful and don’t let him get the drop on ye.”

The crust of the unbroken snow cracked crisply under foot as the two rode on fast, leaving the little settlement in their rear. For some time neither spoke; but, at last, the silence was broken by Lansing, asking his young companion: “Did you ever try this kind of thing before?”

“No,” replied the young man; “I never have.”

“Well, then, you want to be keerful. If you don’t lose yer head, you’re all right. The only danger is that we may run on him before we know it.”

“And if we do, what then?” asked the young man.

“Well, he will probably commence shooting, and if he does, and you arn’t hit the first rattle out of the box, why you want to git off’n your horse and git behind something and shoot back. If ther aint anything to git behind, keep your horse between you and him, and keep a-shooting. Whatever you do, don’t let go of your gun. But what we want to do is to see him first, and then we’ve got the play on him, and all you have to do is to tell him to throw up.”

“And if he don’t throw up?” asked Crandall.

“Why, then you let him have it. The reward will be paid just the same.”

The apparent indifference with which Lansing spoke of the entire matter, much as if he were discussing the best method of hunting a wild animal, shocked the young man; but he had committed himself too far to withdraw. Besides he had that feeling that all men have when they are young--the curiosity to know whether or not he could rely on himself when danger threatened.

“We should strike his trail on the hills here, if he is really headed for the basin country,” said Lansing. They had been riding for several hours in silence through the snow, unbroken by aught save the scattered pines that here and there dotted the mesa. Before them towered the mountains through whose passes the man whom they were after would have to pass in his search for safety in the half-settled wilds beyond.

As the two men rode along, scanning in each direction the snow-covered mesa, Lansing suddenly wheeled his horse to the right, and when Crandall joined him he pointed to a narrow trail where two horses had passed through the snow.

“That’s him. He’s driving one horse and leading another, and he hasn’t passed by very long, either. See, the snow hasn’t had time to drift in it,” said he.

With the discovery his whole demeanor had changed. A new look came into his eyes, and his voice sounded strange. He even grasped his weapons in a manner different to that he had heretofore displayed. “He’s right ahead, and we want to look out,” the older man continued, as they began to follow the trail. As they approached the summit of each hill they would stop their horses, and Lansing would dismount and crawl to the top so that he might look, without being discovered, into the valley beyond, in order that they might not come on the fugitive too suddenly.

They had traveled this way for several miles, when, reining in his horse, Lansing pointed to what seemed an old road leading off to the right of the one they were following, and said: “That’s the ‘cut-off’ into the basin. I thought he would take it, but he probably doesn’t know the country. You had better take it and ride on ahead until you strike the road we’re on again. Then if you can’t find his tracks, you had better ride back to meet me until you do. I will follow the trail up.”

The young man tried to expostulate with Lansing for the great risk he was assuming, in thus following the trail alone, but his companion was obdurate, and, cutting the argument short by again warning the young man to be on his guard, he rode on, following the trail in the snow, while the younger man, finding objection useless, took the “cut-off” road. He had no difficulty in following it, and he wondered why the man they were in pursuit of had not taken advantage of it. The whole pursuit seemed almost like a dream to him. The snow, unbroken save by his horse’s footfall, stretched away mile after mile in every direction, with here and there a pine through whose branches the wind seemed to sob and sigh, making the only noise that broke the stillness of the wintry afternoon. It added to this feeling. Not a thing in sight. He began to depict in his own mind the manner of man they were pursuing. He had almost forgotten his name. After all, what had the man done that he, Frank Crandall, should be seeking his blood? Perhaps, like himself, the man had a mother and sisters to grieve over any misfortune that would overtake him. These and a hundred kindred thoughts passed through his mind. The sun was fast declining as he passed from the “cutoff” into the main road again. The air was getting chilly with the coming of evening, and the snow in the distance took on colors of pink and purple where the rays of the setting sun touched the mountain peaks. He scanned the main road eagerly to see if the man they were in pursuit of had passed, but the snow that covered it was unbroken. Then he rode back on the main road, in the direction from which he had come, to meet his comrade and the fugitive. He had just ascended one of the many rolling hills, when, in the distance, he discovered a man riding one horse and driving another. At the sight his heart almost stood still. He dismounted, and leading his horse to one side, concealed him in a clump of young pines. Then he returned to the road-side and waited. The man was urging his horses forward, but they seemed to be wearied, and made but slow progress. Crandall felt his heart beat faster and faster at the length of time it took the man to reach him. He examined his revolver and rifle, cocking each, to see that they were in order. It seemed to relieve the tension of his nerves. After he had done this, he knelt down so that he could fire with surer aim, and waited. He did not care much now whether the man resisted or not. If the fugitive resisted, he would have to stand the consequence of resistance. It was nothing to him. He could hear the footfall of the approaching horses in the snow, and he cocked his rifle so as to be ready. The setting sun shone full in the man’s face, but Crandall forgot to look for the scar that the notice had said was on the right cheek, although he had resolved to do so particularly. When he first discovered the fugitive, he scanned the road behind him to discover Lansing, but the nearer the man approached, the less Crandall cared whether Lansing came or not. He let the man approach nearer and nearer, so that his aim would be the more accurate. He could not afford to throw away the first shot. The face of the man grew more and more distinct. He seemed to be oblivious to his surroundings. Crandall felt almost disposed to let him pass, but the thought that every one would think him a coward if he did so, spurred him on, and, rising erect, he ordered the man to surrender. The horse that the man was driving in front of him, frightened at Crandall’s appearance, swerved from the road, leaving the two men facing each other. For an instant, Crandall looked straight into the other’s eyes. Then the man raised his rifle from the pommel of the saddle, and Crandall fired. The horse which the man was riding sprang from the road, and, at the same moment, its rider’s gun was discharged. The smoke from Crandall’s own gun blew back into his eyes, and he turned from it to follow the movements of the man at whom he had fired. As he saw the man still erect in his saddle, he felt the feverish haste to fire again come over him that men feel when they have shot and missed, and know that their life may be the forfeit of their failure. He threw another cartridge into the chamber of his rifle, and raised it to his shoulder, but before he could fire, the man reeled from his saddle and fell, while his frightened horse galloped off through the pines.

Crandall stepped toward him, holding his rifle prepared to fire again, if necessary. As he did so, the man raised his hand and said, simply: “Don’t fire--you’ve got me.”

The snow was already red with blood where he lay. For the first time, Crandall looked for the scar that the description said was on the right cheek. For an instant he did not see it, and his heart seemed to stop beating with the fear of having made a mistake, and when, on drawing nearer, he saw that it was there, that only the pallor which had spread over the man’s face had made it indistinct, he could have cried out with joy at the feeling of relief that passed over him.

“Are you badly wounded?” he asked.

“I don’t know how bad it is. It is here somewhere,” the man said, placing his hand on his breast, as if not certain of the exact spot. “It feels numb-like,” he added. Stooping down, Crandall unbuckled and took off the man’s pistol-belt and threw it into the snow, where lay his rifle, and then he tore open the man’s shirt. As he did so his fingers came in contact with the warm blood, and he involuntarily drew back, with a feeling of disgust.

“Did you find it?” asked the man, who was watching him closely, and who had observed the movement.

Recalled to himself by the question, Crandall again tore at the shirt, exposing the breast. Where the blood did not cover it, it looked like marble, despite the dark hair on it. He could not see the wound, on account of the blood, until he had wiped the latter from the breast, and then he found it.

“What do you think of it?” the man asked.

“There it is,” replied Crandall. He could not say more. The appealing tone in the man’s voice for some hope--some encouragement--made him feel faint and sick.

“What do you think of it?” the man repeated, in a querulous voice, and, as he did so, he coughed until his mouth filled with blood, and he spat it out on the white snow.

Crandall shook his head and walked toward where his horse was tied. He felt that if he watched the wounded man any longer he would faint. Noticing his walking away, the wounded man said: “For God’s sake, don’t leave me. Now that you have killed me, stay with me, and don’t let me die like a dog.”

The voice was one of entreaty, and Crandall returned and seated himself in the snow by the man’s side. The sun had gone down, and the twilight had come on, bringing with it the chill of night. Crandall covered the wounded man’s body with his overcoat, and raised his head from the snow. Almost unconsciously he noted that as the patch of red made by the blood grew larger and larger, the face of the wounded man grew whiter and whiter. He never took his eyes from Crandall’s face, while his breath came quicker and shorter, as if he breathed with labor. With each breath the blood seemed to bubble from the wound in the breast. One of the man’s hands fell from under the coat that covered him. As Crandall raised it from the snow, its coldness sent a chill through him. Once he had asked the wounded man if he could do anything for him; but the man had only shaken his head in reply. Crandall felt like reviling himself for what he had done, and wondered why the wounded man did not reproach him. Even when he expressed his sorrow at having shot him, the dying man had said, gently: “Don’t mind it. It’s too late now.”

The twilight gave way to darkness, and still he sat there. He could not hear the dying man breathe without leaning over his face. He did not do this but once, though, and then the dying man had opened his eyes and looked up into his face, inquiringly. Crandall would rather have stayed there until morning than to have caught that look again.

Suddenly he heard a voice call to him. He started as if he had been fired at, but it was only Lansing. As he answered the call, Lansing rode forward and, seeing the outstretched form on the snow, said: “By God, you got him!”

“Hush!” replied Crandall, fearful lest the wounded man would hear the exulting tone which grated on his own ears as nothing had ever before done. But not minding the admonition, Lansing dismounted, and striking a match held it close to the man’s face. It was pale and cold, and the half-opened eyes were glazed. They did not even reflect the light made from the match, but from the partly opened mouth a tiny stream of half-congealed blood seemed to be still flowing down over the beard.

“That’s him, and it’s a pretty good day’s work we have done by earning that reward,” said Lansing, coolly, as the match went out.

Somehow, though, as Crandall lay awake through the night, within a few yards of the body, to keep the wolves from it so that it would be unmarred in the morning when they would lash it to a horse and take it into the settlements for identification, he wondered why Lansing could sleep so soundly. As for himself, the rigid form, covered with only a saddle-blanket, lying where the snow was red instead of white, was always before his eyes, even when he closed them.

CONSCIENCE MONEY

By Geraldine Bonner

In January the darkness settles early in Paris. It was not yet five, and it was closing in, soft and sudden. This particular night it was rendered denser by the light rain that was falling--one of those needle-pointed, noiseless rains that come in the midst of a Paris winter and persist for days.