Chapter II (2)

Meanwhile we were advancing steadily, and every time a huge frontal bone or a giant muzzle appeared above the level of the water I pulled trigger. There were frequently quite long intervals, for the hippopotamus is able to remain over three minutes under water without coming up for breath.

Presently, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a female and her little one on the river bank; then I saw her take to the water. My attention, however, was riveted on a spot in the river where I had seen an old male plunge. Every instant I expected him to reappear.

Suddenly, ere I fully realized what was occurring, I found myself projected upwards in the air with incredible violence. Before I descended I had time to see a gigantic jaw open wide, and then close with a snap on the unfortunate canoe which followed mine. An instant later I was in the water, striking out madly for the bank, almost persuaded that I felt the sharp teeth of a crocodile nipping off a thigh or an arm. I was fortunate enough to reach the shore, however, without mishap. Then we called over the roll. At first I supposed nobody was missing, but we soon perceived that our number was one short. We never saw the poor fellow again. Doubtless he had been injured when the jaws of the hippopotamus closed over his canoe, and was thus unable to reach the bank. At that moment, probably, a crocodile was devouring his body at the bottom of the river.

By dint of a few questions I was able to piece together what had happened. The female, thinking to defend her young, had thrown herself upon the canoe behind mine, and almost simultaneously the old male had emerged from the water with irresistible violence beneath my own craft, pitching me upwards. It was a very narrow escape, all things considered, and I can assure you that, for the rest of that day at least, we left the poor “river horses” in peace.

The Tale the Doctor Told.

A CHRISTMAS STORY OF THE WESTERN PLAINS.

WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY STANLEY L. WOOD.

Concerning this narrative, Mr. Wood writes: “I was a boy at the
time, living with my parents on the plains, the nearest point of
civilization being Fort Hayes, now Hayes City, Kansas. The doctor
had occasion to ride out to our place, and told us of his adventure,
and the sequel, much as I have set it down.”

It was Christmas Eve.

“Hear that wind?” said Dr. McDonnell. “It sounds like a pack of wolves, the way it howls; and the snow means to keep on coming.”

“Yes, and stayin’,” answered the cow-puncher, nodding gravely at the stove.

“Not a nice night to go walking,” ventured the tenderfoot; “in fact, I think I’d rather be here. It’d take a bit to get me out--and Christmas Eve, too. As you say, doctor, the wind _does_ sound like wolves; and no doubt if one were out they’d find the wolves--or the wolves find them.”

“No doubt whatever, young feller,” remarked the puncher, dryly. “Wolves _are_ out this weather for grub; and when they’re out for grub they’re out on a business trip, dead sure.”

The doctor bit the end off a fresh cigar.

“Do you boys want a story?” said he.

“Go ahead, doc,” replied the cow-puncher, proffering a match. And the doctor, after lighting up, went ahead to the following effect.

* * * * *

Well, boys, it’s a long time ago now--a Christmas Eve, too--way back in the ’seventies, when things on the prairies were very different. It was usual in those days to get a brush with the Utes or the Cheyennes pretty regularly once or twice a month.

The twenty-third of December was a bright, sunny day, with not more than three or four inches of snow on the plains. Over the thin snow-crust galloped Jimmie Dink--“Darky Dink” we called him, because of his swarthy hair and skin.

“Doc,” said he, pulling his broncho up short before me, “Wolfie Jim’s about done. Can’t you go to him? He’s ’most busted up.”

Poor old Wolfie! I knew why.

Some time previously he had run in among his dogs, which were attacking a timber wolf they had turned up on the creek bank. He intended to knife it, as he had done many a time before, but the old fellow, maybe, was not so agile as formerly, and things had gone a bit wrong. Anyhow, he’d knifed the wolf all right, but the wolf bit his foot badly, and Wolfie doctored it in his own peculiar manner with unlimited bad whisky, taken both outside and in. Well, the foot didn’t heal, and Wolfie couldn’t understand it.

He was one of the old fur-cap-and-buckskin-shirt trappers who never consulted even a medicine-man, let alone a white doctor. I’d stopped at his shack once or twice and got a liking for the quaint old fellow, so I told Darky to get one of the boys to put a saddle on my old horse Pete while I got my “murder-bag,” as they called my medicine outfit, and was soon ready for Wolfie and his trouble.

Away loped Pete over the beautiful glistening prairie; I could have found my way to Wolfie’s with my eyes shut.

It occurred to me soon that I was foolish not to have brought a heavier overcoat, but I knew if I didn’t start on my return journey before sundown I could either stay with old Wolf or borrow something to make me warm; besides, although it was December, it was one of those prairie days that would almost fool a wise man into the belief that it was spring.

I shall never forget the shock I received as I pushed the door of the little hut open. I had started with my case full of all I thought I should want--even to vitriol, in case of a last resource. But Wolfie was beyond my skill. He lay stretched out on his blankets, dead, with his two dead hounds beside him. There was a half-empty bottle in his left hand and a big six-shooter in his right. There were three cartridges in the revolver and three empty shells. The old man and both hounds had each been killed with a bullet through the head.

I examined the injured foot and understood the whole thing.

Wolfie had doctored himself, but the wound had got worse and worse, and at last the old fellow, in awful, never-ending pain, had drunk himself half-dead and completed the work with his trigger finger.

Meanwhile the weather had been growing gradually colder, and the wind started to moan as I fastened the door from the outside, after quitting that abode of death. The sky, too, was rapidly darkening, and Pete shook his head up and down and stamped uneasily.

Mounting, I rode off; but I had not been going long when, away in the distance, I heard the dismal, long-drawn howl of a prairie wolf, then another, and another. Not till that moment did it flash upon me what an all-round fool I was.

I had brought no revolver with me. It had started to snow, evening was drawing in, and there were those gaunt brutes in the distance--yet I had no protection against either the weather or the wolves. I touched up old Pete, and we started to travel fast for home.

We had not gone more than a mile farther before a real, genuine blizzard sprang up. How it came down! Waves, absolute waves of snow, whirred, cut, and beat about my face, while the wind howled and shrieked dismally.

Then I did the worst, most foolish thing a man could have done. I tried to guide old Pete! I steered him, and, though Pete knew better, he obeyed; and so, between a good old horse and a fool of a young man, we made a fine mess of it. We got lost, tangled up, with the snow whirling about us in sheets. Every minute it got deeper and thicker, and at last poor old Pete staggered, tried vainly to right himself, fell over, and collapsed.

Try as I would I couldn’t get him up, and--well, I fear I lost my nerve, what with the blinding snow and the distant howl of those wretched wolves.

As the snow beat down upon me, piling up pitilessly over the now stiffening form of the poor old horse, I thought it time to move on. To stay where I was meant being frozen to death, to go on might mean the same; but there was just a chance, and I stumbled forward and took the chance.

Heaven only knows how long I ploughed and pushed through those awful snow-drifts with the falling flakes eddying about me in clouds; I lost all account of time. I went stumbling blindly forward until I seemed not to be myself, but just some machine without feeling or hope, mechanically pulling one foot before the other, and groping through the freezing dark.

I was just beginning to experience a drowsy, comfortable feeling, when--bump!--the little sense left in me was nearly knocked out as my head struck against something hard.

That deadly, comfortable feeling left me at once. I felt about in the darkness and touched boards. It was a cabin! With my half-frozen hands I hammered at the woodwork, and I shall never forget my feelings as a door opened and I was pulled in out of the storm, the door banging to behind me.

I couldn’t speak for a minute, and my eyes were blurred coming in from the darkness and snow, but when they got accustomed to what little light there was I didn’t feel I wanted to say much.

Before me was a giant. He must have stood a good six-foot-six, but all I could see of his face was his eyes. He was masked in what was called in those days a “storm-cap,” which completely hid the face of the wearer, showing only the eyes. A long, heavy overcoat, with collar upturned, reached to his ankles.

“Having arrived here, stranger,” he remarked, in an unpleasant, metallic sort of voice, with a half laugh, “and it now being near Christmas Eve, I’d be interested in knowing how you managed to bump up against this building.”

This was not the sort of greeting one would have expected under the circumstances, and the man’s language did not smack of the prairie, but I was too weak after my exertions and too thankful to be out of the storm to notice trifles, and so I told him as briefly as possible that I was lost, and should be grateful if he would give me shelter for the night.

“Shelter?” said he. “Shelter? Yes, why not? All the shelter a man could want. I wouldn’t turn a dog out such a night like this. Yes, stranger, you can sleep here to-night, nice and quiet. I’ve nothing to give you to eat, but there’s whisky here. Being nearly Christmas Eve, drink up, and then--_go_ up!”

As he spoke he poured whisky from a demi-john into two tin mugs and picked up a lantern. Then, for the first time, I saw there was a rough ladder, up which he went to a room above.

Now all shacks, dug-outs, and cabins I had seen hitherto were of only one storey. There was something uncanny about the man and the place, and tired and knocked up as I was I did _not_ drink the whisky; I just wetted my lips with it as my host’s feet clumped around above, and ere he descended I carefully poured the contents of the tin cup into the ramshackle stove.

“Now, up you go and sleep the sleep you’ve asked for,” said he, when he came down. “A merry Christmas to you!” With that he tossed off his whisky at a gulp.

Up I went through the rough opening; it was not a trap-door, for there was no flap to shut down. I found myself in a kind of loft, in which was a wooden apology for a bed, heaped over with some evil-smelling blankets. All this I saw by the light of a guttering candle stuck in the neck of a cracked bottle. Though I was very, very weary, all thoughts of going to sleep went out of my head. I distrusted that sinister-looking fellow below.

Pulling my flask from my pocket, I look a long drink, and the neat spirit gradually warmed me. Then I sat down in the semi-darkness to think.

Suddenly an inspiration came to me. Taking out my medicine-case I quickly charged a syringe with whisky. This frail thing, in case of attack, was my only weapon, with the exception of the cracked bottle holding the candle.

As I crouched there in the attic there came crowding into my memory stories of lonely travellers lost on these plains who had left not even a button to tell how or where they had gone. There had been talk during the last month of at least three men, settlers near the Fort, who had mysteriously vanished, leaving not the faintest clue to their whereabouts. At first their disappearance had been put down to raiding parties of Utes, but careful scouting by some of the best men disproved this theory.

Why should these thoughts come to me now? I asked myself, uneasily. Could that villainous-looking giant below have had anything to do with the disappearances? Lying prone, I peered cautiously through the trap, striving to see what was going on below. Indistinctly I saw the big man fill his tin cup three times and drain it off, muttering the while. Then, struck by a sudden inspiration, I went back to the bed, pulled off my coats, and heaped them up in a bundle on the bed to resemble as much as possible a sleeping form. Next I took off my boots and hat and placed them also in such a position, partly covered with the blankets, as to suggest the idea that, worn out with fatigue, I had thrown myself down to sleep fully clothed. Then I blew out the light and, keeping the bottle in my hand, crept again to the opening by the ladder head.

What I saw made my blood, which was chilly already, go colder yet.

The big man was taking off his overcoat. He threw it to the floor, and from his waist detached a belt from which dangled a heavy revolver and a long bowie-knife. The latter he drew from its sheath, running his thumb caressingly along the edge; then he laid it on the table.

Crossing the room he returned with an iron bar about three feet long. I heard it ring as he dumped it down on the table near the knife.

Then, tossing off more whisky--this time from the demi-john--he snatched up the bar and lantern and unsteadily approached the ladder. So my half-formed suspicions were correct; he meant to murder me!

With my heart beating like a sledge-hammer, I silently crouched behind the bed.

Never, if I live to be a hundred, shall I forget the next few minutes. He emerged through the opening, tiptoed to the bed, swung up the bar, and with a dull thwack brought it down just where my head might have lain. Again and yet again he thrashed and beat the tumbled clothes. Then, as he paused, from my place of concealment I squirted the whisky from the syringe straight into his eyes. Dropping the bar, he staggered and rubbed at his eyes, swearing horribly. As he reeled, half blinded, I sprang up and brought the bottle down with all my strength on his head, at the same time giving him a sideways push that sent him crashing through the opening to the floor below.

I was trembling in every limb with excitement, but I managed to get my boots, hat, and coats on.

Then I cautiously descended. I had no doubt that the fall had killed him, but I felt no pity; it was either his life or mine. Greatly to my surprise, however, the giant was still breathing. He lay huddled up at the ladder-foot, with blood on and about him. I tied his hands with a rope, and then, turning him on his chest, cut away the back part of his flannel shirt collar with his own villainous bowie-knife. Next, taking the small phial of vitriol from my case, I spilt a few drops on the back of his bare neck. The awful burning partly restored his senses, and he moaned. I had no compunction, but proceeded to tear the visored cap from his head.

I have never seen such a fiendish face in all my wanderings! The lower part was covered with a thick jet-black beard and moustache, but the face, taken altogether, was that of a murderer--the most horrible, wolfish-looking visage I have ever gazed on. Like a cornered wolf, even as he slowly revived he struggled and snapped to break the cords that bound him, cursing savagely in his semi-drunken frenzy.

Many a man would have shot him out of hand with his own weapon; but I could not bring myself to that. I had left an indelible mark on him, however, that he would carry with him to the grave, and should we ever meet again there could be no disguising those awful eyes and his enormous proportions. But, unless I killed or disabled him, it was obviously unsafe to remain in the cabin. The storm had now ceased, so taking the villain’s revolver, and leaving him struggling to unfasten his bonds, I set out to try to find my way to the Fort, hoping against hope that I should soon sight some familiar landmark.

How long I blundered over the snow before I lost consciousness I do not know, but I remember it flashed upon me once that this was the dawn of Christmas Eve! Then I felt myself getting drowsier and drowsier.

When I recovered my senses it had to be explained to me how I came to be in bed back at my old quarters at Fort Hayes, minus two toes, which I had bequeathed to “Jack Frost” during my stroll over the snow-clad prairies.

A merciful Providence and three friendly Utes had found me and brought me in. If it had not been for Black Cloud, one of the three Indians, and a pretty big chief in his way, this story would never have been told. He was the means of saving my life, and I thankfully presented him with the big revolver I had taken from the rascal at the hut.

Guided by Black Cloud, some of the boys and scouts a few days later located the spot where the Indians had found me unconscious, slowly freezing to death. From there they hunted in all directions, and at last found the two-storeyed hut--empty.

It was miles from the way I ought to have taken when I left the trapper’s shack, which showed that trying to guide my poor old horse was the worst thing I could have done.

Later, when the weather broke and I was able to get about, I got two of the boys to ride over to the hut with me.

My tale had sent search-parties scouring the countryside to try to run the would-be murderer down, but they never got him. What made the settlers and the sheriff more than keen to catch him was the gruesome discovery the two scouts and I made at the hut--three male skeletons, with their skulls smashed in, roughly buried in the earth! I thought of the iron bar and shuddered at my narrow escape.

Three years after I happened to stroll into a crowded court-house in San Jaleta, Southern Texas. A man was on trial for the murder of a lonely rancher, and seemed likely to be acquitted, for the evidence was too slight to convict him. There was no doubt that the motive of the crime had been robbery; and there was no doubt, when I’d had a good look at the prisoner, as to who he was. He was clean-shaven now, but, nevertheless, I remembered those awful eyes. Making my way to the front, I asked permission to give evidence for the prosecution.

After I had told my story--although it took five men to master the prisoner--the sheriff at last laid bare the scar on the neck where my vitriol had branded him the night of the storm.

Some of the crowd in court were pretty well worked up over the manner in which the lonely ranchman had been done to death, and the tale I told did not help to calm them. That night the jail at San Jaleta was “held up” by an armed mob, and when the sun rose it shone down on the body of a giant dangling from a telegraph pole at the end of a lariat.

That’s my story, and every word of it is true. I am afraid it’s taken a bit long in the telling, but I never hear the wind howling and moaning on a Christmas Eve as it does to-night without thinking of that other Christmas Eve on the Kansas plains so many years ago.

A White Woman in Cannibal-Land.

BY ANNIE KER.

Some incidents of a lady’s life in the wilds of New Guinea. Miss Ker
went out to Papua--as the country is now called--attached to a
mission, and describes the many strange, amusing, and exciting
experiences she encountered during her seven years’ sojourn among
the natives, who, not so very long ago, were always fighting and
much addicted to cannibalism--a practice which still prevails among
the wild tribes of the unexplored interior.