Chapter II

In many Papuan villages the visiting magistrates have raised one of the chief men to the rank of local policeman, rewarding him with the princely salary of ten shillings per annum (usually paid in tobacco) and two uniforms. The latter consist of a neckless tunic with long sleeves, and a strip of dark blue cloth covering the wearer from waist to knee. A flaming red belt lends colour to the costume.

The Wedau policeman lived a peaceful life on the whole, though when an energetic magistrate swooped suddenly down on the village the functionary’s life was, for the time being, scarcely worth living. Luckily, the magistrate’s little vessel could be seen directly it rounded the cape and long before it had crossed the bay, so that there was time for preparations. Women set frantically to work with handfuls of stiff stalks, which served as brooms, and swept fallen leaves into heaps, which were immediately burned. Children buzzed backwards and forwards, carrying loads of stones and rubbish, which they threw into the swamp on the beach. “Gabemani” (Government) had ordered it to be filled in long ago, but the villagers preferred swarms of malaria-disseminating mosquitoes rather than exerting themselves to do away with the cause of them.

_From a Photograph._]

The magistrate would find the village suspiciously neat and clean, and after trying a few cases of petty theft would sail away satisfied, leaving the policeman to distribute small portions of the tobacco he had received and to enjoy his hard-earned rest.

Another of the officer’s duties was to make journeys into the interior and capture murderers, when such were heard of, and convey them down the coast to Samarai to be tried. I saw one insignificant-looking little man on his way to jail, whom I knew to have committed a cruel murder. A white man named Sexton, a “fossicker,” whom we had entertained at the mission station, had gone a few miles inland in quest of gold. One day, while seated at his midday meal, he was seized from behind and his throat cut. It seemed that a native of the village had died while working for a white man; therefore, in accordance with Papuan ideas of justice, the next man of that race who came along had to be slain in revenge for the native’s life.

The first photograph shows a house at Wamira where I lived for seven months soon after my arrival in Papua. The missionary for whom it was built was going on furlough, and during her absence I was in charge there. It was situated on the edge of a coral cliff which rose straight up out of the sea, so that the Pacific Ocean was, so to speak, at the door. Close by was another house, used as a dormitory for the village girls who came as boarders to the mission. There was also a boys’ dormitory and a kitchen. This kitchen one day caught fire and was burnt to the ground in a very little while. I rushed in and saved the pudding from the oven, while the pupil-teacher, a Papuan boy, brought out our tin of kerosene before it ignited. The kitchen was the only building that suffered, and the villagers promptly built me a new one for five shillings, labour and materials included! From this it will be obvious that there is not much scope for a fire-insurance agent in Papua.

My house was divided into two apartments, a bed and a sitting room, and was built of native timber, the walls being composed of plaited coco-leaf and the roof of grass. The floor was made of slender strips of wood laid side by side, and, though airy, was anything but durable. It was slightly discomposing to see a small boy enter at the doorway and then suddenly disappear through a gap in the floor, though, having sufficient presence of mind to spread out his arms, he was able to hold himself in that position until someone could rescue him. For windows I had openings in the leaf walls, closed when necessary by means of wooden shutters.

Soon after I took charge the girls became much alarmed on account of some midnight visitor who, they said, had tried to get into their house. The natives were inclined to think the intruder was a prowling “bariawa,” or spirit, and there were frightened faces and hushed voices among them as night fell. Unfortunately, I was a heavy sleeper, and was usually only roused by the girls’ shrieks after their mysterious visitor had left. A few of the elder boys sat up one night, but saw nothing. Some barbed wire was sent me, and complicated and formidable entanglements were constructed between the girls’ house and mine. Soon after they had been placed there, however, when we were congratulating ourselves that we were safe at last, a little village child who was playing near fell over the wire and severely injured himself, so I had to order the entanglement to be taken away. One of the missionaries then lent me a revolver, but I am sure I should never have been able to use it, even on a spirit. However, I showed it to the old chief, and published the news of my acquisition, and soon afterwards we were relieved to find that our mysterious visitor came no longer.

Another source of excitement at Wamira was a kind of madness which attacked a man now and again, a state of exaltation somewhat resembling the Malay “amok.” At first the victim only sat in the house suffering from “heat in the heart.” Then, after muttering unintelligibly, he would seize a handful of spears, rush out of the house, and career wildly through the villages, flinging the spears to right and left and shouting as he ran. Women would come shrieking to my house and take refuge inside the fence, hoping to be safe with the “foreigner.” Once one of these half-crazed men, exhausted after an attack, came up the path and demanded water. I gave him some particularly nauseous medicine, which he drank greedily, afterwards asking for more. On another occasion one of them, who had already aimed a spear at a villager, came on to the school, where the pupil teacher and I had our flock of fifty or sixty children. Seeing him approaching, however, we hastily closed and barricaded the doors, standing the siege until the old chief influenced our would-be assailant to withdraw.

When my predecessor returned to her work a somewhat similar house to the one I have described was built for me at Wedau, where I remained for nearly two years. Ordinary village houses are built in very much the same style: they possess only one room, and the supporting piles are higher. The means of access to the interior is a sloping pole. These odd “staircases” have slight notches cut in them, which afford very slight purchase for a shod foot, though the nimble natives run up and down them easily enough.

While I was living at Wamira news was brought of a murder in the hills. The girl who came to tell me said that her uncle had taken a journey there to obtain betel-nut. On the way he heard voices and promptly hid himself. From his place of concealment he saw two men attacking a third. One held the victim’s arms while the other cut his throat with a “gatigati” (long knife). As he did so the dying man cried, “Au dobu, au dobu!” (“Oh, my home!” or, literally, village). The hidden onlooker, being a Papuan, did not dream of interfering. His “skin trembled,” he said, and he hastily made his way back to safety.

_From a Photograph._]

The village policeman went out to capture the miscreants, and was successful in bringing one to punishment. The crime, it was discovered, had been committed for a very simple reason. The dead man had been visiting a sick friend, who was the murderer’s brother. The invalid received every kindness from his friend, but eventually, in the course of nature, died. Therefore, argued the murderer, it was clear that the visitor had bewitched the sick man and caused his death, and his own life must necessarily be forfeited.

The hill-folk generally only came into prominence through committing murders or other crimes. Being removed from the coast, and able to hide in many obscure caves and lurking-places, they naturally stood less in awe of the power of Government than the coastal tribes.

One day we were visited by two hill-women who had run away from their husbands. Their bodies were covered with hideous raised scars, the result, they assured us, of spear-thrusts inflicted on them by their inhuman partners. They were in much fear of being pursued, but were given shelter for the night at Dogura, the head station on the hill behind Wedau, where I was living.

That same evening I was startled by cries from the village. The natives called to me to bring my lantern, and I ran down to find the place in an uproar. The men were rushing about, searching and looking up in the trees, while the women were huddled together, talking excitedly. I managed to make out that the husbands of the two fugitives had traced them as far as Wedau. One of the men had lurked outside a house in the village, and, so a woman averred, would have speared her as she came out, thinking her to be his missing wife. Fortunately for herself, however, she spoke, and he, knowing her by her voice to be a Wedauan, ran off in the darkness.

The villagers searched in vain, and the tumult subsided, but rumours soon reached us that the baffled husbands were collecting a force and intended to visit the head station at night and carry off the recalcitrant wives by force.

It was not thought safe for me to sleep alone in the village, so I went up the hill to add one more to the crowded house. Our girl boarders were packed in dozens into the different bedrooms, having forsaken their native dormitories for the night, and I was accommodated with a cane lounge. It was not furnished with mosquito curtains, and I decided by morning that even the hill men’s spears could scarcely be sharper than the bites of the vicious insects. No invaders arrived, however, so we put the story of their intended raid down as an idle rumour. The women stayed with us for some weeks and then slipped away. Some months later a policeman from up the coast told me that the brothers of one of the injured wives had taken summary vengeance on her husband, who paid for his cruelty with his life.

We got excellent drinking water from a little stream, though care was necessary in selecting the place from which to draw it, as the village pigs were only too apt to bathe indiscriminately. The natives used water-bottles made from hollowed coco-nut shells, fitted with a stopper of twisted leaves, and carried six or seven at a time in a netted bag suspended from the head. One of my girls, with a fine disregard for proportion, styled them “New Guinea tanks.”

_From a Photograph._]

The natives of Papua have some very curious superstitions, giving rise to barbarous customs. For instance, a woman gave birth to twin boys. The mother died, and the villagers, coming to the conclusion that the infants were accursed, decided to bury the hapless babies alive on the woman’s grave! This terrible deed would actually have been carried out had not a native who had come under mission influence told his teacher what was intended before it was too late. The missionary was thus able to save the little mites, who were taken care of by a nurse. She is seen in the annexed photograph with “Tommy” and “Teddy” when they were a year or two old. Other babies, for various superstitious reasons, have been killed at birth or hung in trees to die a slow and terrible death from starvation.

_From a Photograph._]

A favourite pastime with the village boys was sailing model boats, which were surprisingly well made. The picture at the bottom of the page shows lads sailing their “sikunas” (schooners) at a Papuan “Serpentine,” for all the world like youngsters at home.

_From a Photograph._]

Favourite sports, though their object was utilitarian enough, are fish-spearing and pig-hunting. The natives are wonderfully quick in detecting the presence of a fish under the surface, and the many-pronged fish-spear, shooting violently downwards, is more often than not recovered with a brightly-coloured victim impaled upon it. The snapshot above shows a group of Papuans, spear in hand, watching for fish in the shallow water.

The lower picture shows a number of fishing-nets hung up to dry. These are made, of course, by the natives themselves. The twine is woven from the peelings of liquorice-stalks netted together, the floats are light pieces of wood, and the sinkers are cockle shells in which holes have been bored.

_From a Photograph._]

Pig-hunting is carried out in a very thorough fashion. Stout nets are placed across the forest paths and clearings, and one party of natives then beat the jungle, driving the game before them, while the spearmen wait, as seen in the photograph, for the arrival of the quarry.

_From a Photograph._]

Although stationed in a village, I often took short trips to other places, travelling either by canoe or whale-boat. The native canoes are made of logs, hollowed out with much labour, having an outrigger attached and a small platform lashed between the two at either end. This the passengers--myself and often Maebo, my little girl friend--shared with the cargo. Canoes were of many shapes, varying according to the tribe of the maker. Canoe travelling was idyllic in calm weather. Sometimes a turtle would lift his lazy head and take a long look at us before diving, and we could gaze far down into the depths of the crystal water and watch brilliantly-hued fish disporting themselves among the branches of still more dazzlingly-tinted coral, while the golden sunlight filtered mistily down in cloudy rays. The crews paddled well, and we crossed the bay in fine style, the men being quite content with a penny each as wages.

_From a Photograph._]

But, alas! it was very different in rough weather. Tired and hungry, perhaps several miles from my destination, the captain would call to me, “Misika (my native name), you’ll have to get out and go by the beach, for the wind is rising.” My heart would sink, and I would beseech him to make the crew paddle on; but the wind caught us up, and the waves broke mercilessly over the little vessel, which was hugging the shore. Then, perforce, after a thorough drenching, I got out, the canoe was hauled up, and we tramped wearily home, the captain carrying me over the streams on his back. This was rather a pleasant mode of crossing; but when the stream was very deep I had to sit on the boy’s shoulders and hold on to his chin, which--I speak from bitter experience--is a very unsafe position. Once, with myself thus perched on high, we attempted to cross a wide river at the mouth of which some natives were fishing with a drag-net. It so happened that when we reached mid-stream--I holding only too insecurely to a wobbly chin--something very special, I don’t know what, occurred in connection with the fish, and we were ordered to remain where we were! It seemed impossible, but there I remained, clinging desperately to my human steed, until the slow old fishermen had gathered their net in and--to my rather malicious satisfaction--discovered not a single fish in the meshes.

_From a Photograph._]

My little girl companion, Maebo, who is seen in the annexed photograph, had much charm of manner, but was not exactly pretty. She wore, as did all Wedauan woman, several skirts of shredded coco-nut leaf; she had even, while teeth, pretty hands and arms, and a satiny brown skin. On the many occasions when she shaved her head, and even her eyebrows, her appearance was certainly not improved. She was a nice child, however, and accompanied me on many journeys.

Maebo was betrothed to a village boy by her father when she was only ten years old, though that did not prevent many others from wishing to marry her. But she would have none of them, not even the highly educated, who applied for the honour of her hand by letter. She would not marry out of her village, she said, for fear of her life being taken by a sorcerer. A short time ago her _fiancé_ became her husband, and so I lost my travelling companion.

Suicide is committed in Papua for what would seem very inadequate reasons to white people. For instance, if a man goes on a long journey without bidding farewell to his nearest relatives, one of them may feel it incumbent on him to climb a coco palm and fling himself off it to his death. A village girl who was very anxious to accompany me on a trip up the coast finally reluctantly refused to go. If she did, she said, her father would “throw himself from a high tree.”

Ridicule and opposition are always very trying to a Papuan, and a sad case of double suicide took place in consequence of the latter.

A girl and a young man became much attached to each other and met regularly. Each morning, however, the girl’s father and mother would say to her, “Why do you talk to that boy? He is poor, and has not enough food to give you.” At the same time the boy’s parents told him continually how foolish he was to have anything to do with a girl who would never do good work for him at the gardens. The constant opposition told on the unhappy couple and at last the girl’s patience wore out. She said to her lover--the speech is truly characteristic of a Papuan--“The tongues of our people will never be silent. Let us cease to live, and their talk will be done!” And the boy agreed.

The next night they decked themselves in their best ornaments--necklaces, shell armlets, and sweet-scented flowers--so that they appeared as though dressed for a feast. Then they took a piece of tough jungle creeper and, having made nooses, bade farewell to each other. They were found when morning came hanging dead in the same tree.

_From a Photograph._]

The mission launch was, on the whole, my quickest mode of travelling--that is to say, as long as it was whole. As seen in the accompanying picture, it is being repaired after one of its many mishaps. It would be quite beyond me to relate all the adventures that have befallen it during its period of existence. It has not, I believe, been blown up yet, though it came perilously near it when on fire once, for an over-zealous native, imagining the benzine tank to hold water, was only hindered just in time from chopping it open with an axe!

(_To be concluded._)

SHORT STORIES.

The second instalment of a budget of breezy little
narratives--exciting, humorous, and curious--hailing from all parts
of the world. This month we publish a humorous Canadian episode and
a terrible affair which occurred on an American train.

A BLUFF THAT WORKED.

BY J. K. STRACHAN, J.P., OF BRITISH COLUMBIA.

This amusing little story was told to me by Mr. John Wood, in the Tecumseh Hotel at Winnipeg. He happened to see there the character I have called “Slippery Dick,” whom he had known in 1881 or 1882 at a small village near London, Ontario, where he then lived, and the sight of the man recalled the facts to his mind. As most of the parties concerned are still living, I have thought it advisable to alter the names.

* * * * *

Dick Small was his name, but we called him “Small Dick,” or “Slippery Dick,” on account of his small and mean ways. Well, one night Sam Smart and I and several other boys were in Steve Brown’s bar, “talking horse,” when old Dick came meandering in, and, of course, chipped in with some of his usual boasting.

“I’ve got the best little mare in the settlement,” he told us, “and don’t you forget it. I’m game to back that little bit of horseflesh for fifty dollars for a mile, twice round the half-mile track, against anything you can produce in these parts. Who’s got anything to say? I’ll run her now, to-morrow, or any time.”

“You ain’t produced the collateral,” put in Sam, quietly.

With that old Dick thrust his hand into his back pocket and drew out quite a wad. Counting out five ten-dollar bills, he put them on the counter.

“Now, Steve, you’re stakeholder,” he said. “Who’s going to cover ’em? It’s put up or shut up.”

Sam got up, and, putting a fifty-dollar bill on top of Dick’s, replied, “I’ll jest take that bet. Hold the stakes, Steve.”

“All right,” said Steve, and pushed the money into his safe.

The boys all looked at Sam, puzzled like, and old Slippery was wondering what it all meant.

“Didn’t know you had a horse, Sam,” he remarked.

“You don’t know everything, Dick,” returned Sam, “but I ain’t surprised, for I only brought him home to-day. Well, let’s settle the time for the match. To-morrow morning at eight o’clock will suit me. I don’t want a crowd to know too much of my horse’s points, so we’ll do it on the quiet.”

The old man agreed to this, and Sam went on: “And now, as I’ve got to see some business, I’ll say good-bye, boys. Say, Steve, a word with you before I go.”

Steve and Sam went into the back room, and in about five minutes Sam came out and walked off.

The boys and Slippery hung around, and you could see the old miser was uneasy about his fifty dollars. So he began a-trying to pump Steve. “Say, Steve,” said he, “what kind of a horse has Sam got?”

“Don’t know; ain’t seen him,” replied Steve.

“You don’t know anything about him, I suppose?” inquired Dick.

“Only what Sam told me, and I don’t suppose he wanted me to repeat it. But as the bet’s made I don’t see that it matters. He told me that he covered fifteen miles with the horse yesterday in less than three-quarters of an hour, and he landed it fresh as paint; hadn’t turned a hair.”

“Gee whizz!” ejaculated Slippery, in dismay. “I’m a goner! I don’t know what I’d better do. I’ve a note to meet at the bank to-morrow, and if Sam wins my money I sha’n’t be able to come up to time on the note, and it’ll go to protest. Everybody’ll know it and my credit will be gone. What a fool I was!”

“Well, Dick,” said Steve, “I’m sorry for you, but it’s your own fault; nobody asked you to bet. Say, Sam’s not a bad sort when he’s treated right; couldn’t you tell him you forgot an important engagement for to-morrow, and ask him to agree to draw the bet? Maybe he would if you put it to him right.”

“Think he would, Steve?” asked Dick, doubtfully. “Wonder where I could find him?”

“I think I know where he could be located, and if you like I’ll send my boy Jim to bring him along.”

“Thanky, Steve. I wish you would,” said old Dick.

Soon after the boy returned, and close behind him came Sam. Looking round, and seeing old Slippery and nearly all the boys still there, he asked, “What’s up? Want to double the bet, Dick? If so, you can be accommodated.”

Steve, pretending to side with old Dick, explained that the old man had forgotten a particular engagement and had to go away for some days. As accidents might happen, he thought it would be better to cancel the bets and arrange a fresh match later on.

But Sam took it badly, angrily demanding what sort of idiot they took him for. “Draw bets? Not much!” he cried. “I’ll double it, if you like.”

Then he turned upon Dick Small, who was looking mighty miserable. “You old rascal,” he went on, “I know what it is--you’re afraid you’ll lose your money. Serve you right! You wanted to back your old mare, didn’t you? No one asked you to. Draw bets, you say? No, siree, not by a jugful!”

“Look here, Sam,” said Steve, “don’t be too hard. You think you’ve got a sure thing, but accidents might happen even on your side. Why don’t you two compromise? Supposing Dick allows you something for your trouble and sets up drinks for the crowd?”

“What do you mean by a compromise?” demanded Sam. “If Dick forfeits half his bet, that would be about fair, I should say.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, really,” cried old Slippery, in great distress.

“Very well,” said Sam, “then the bet stands. Good-bye; I’m busy.”

“Hold on a bit,” put in Steve, and, drawing the old man aside, he whispered to him for a minute or two. You should have seen the different emotions which chased over old Dick’s face! At last, however, he seemed to agree with Steve; and then Steve, addressing the crowd, told us that he quite understood the matter. The proposition he had to make was that Dick should pay Sam ten dollars and stand a double treat round for the crowd. If the boys now present considered that fair, he added, he thought Sam, as a sportsman, should accept.

“Do as you like,” said Sam. “I’m tired of the whole thing.”

So Steve took the votes of the company. A few thought the bet ought to stand; but the majority, being pretty thirsty, were in favour of the proposition, and it was finally carried, Sam getting back his fifty dollars and ten dollars of old Slippery’s. Steve charged three dollars for the two rounds, and gave the old man back the remaining thirty-seven dollars.

“Say, Sam,” said old Dick, just as he was going, “I should like to see your horse, if you have no objection.”

“Why, certainly,” replied Sam. “Any time you like; if I’m not at home, ask the missus.”

When Dick had gone the boys all started asking questions about Sam’s horse, but all he would say was, “You’ll know all about it by and by.”

Next day, as Sam expected, old Dick went up to Sam’s place. There was only the missus at home; Sam took care to be out of the way.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Smart,” said Slippery, politely.

“Good morning, Mr. Small,” answered Mrs. Smart. “What brings you round these parts?”

“Why, Sam said I might see the new horse if I came up.”

“I don’t see why you should be interested in such a thing,” said Mrs. Smart, looking puzzled, “but you can see it if you want to. It’s in the kitchen.”

Old Slippery was taken aback; he thought he must surely have misunderstood her.

“In the kitchen?” he echoed.

“Yes, in the kitchen, standing by the stove,” replied the woman. “You can go right in and look at it if you want to, but what there is to see in it I can’t make out.”

The old man, not comprehending things at all, went through into the kitchen and looked around. But the only horse he saw there, if he expected to see any other in such a place, was a new four-legged clothes-horse with a few articles hanging on it to dry!

In an instant he realized the trick that had been played upon him, and very nearly went crazy. He stamped and swore, while poor Mrs. Smart wondered what it all meant, or if the old man had suddenly gone mad. Presently, however, she commenced to smell a rat.

“What fool trick has that man of mine been up to now?” she asked.

“I don’t know about a fool trick,” screamed the old man, “but I do know that he has swindled me out of ten good dollars, besides making me pay three dollars for a double round of drinks for all the thirsty loafers down at Steve Brown’s saloon. But I’ll get even with him, the swindler, and with Steve Brown, too, and all his gang! It was a put-up job; I can see it all now. What a double-dyed fool I’ve been! But I’ll sue him--I’ll show him up!”

And away he went, leaving Mrs. Smart quite in the dark as to the cause of his wrath.

Still raving, the foolish old man came down town, where he saw Sam and Steve and some more of the boys. He promptly called them all a lot of thieves and crooks and swindlers, said it was all a put-up job, and that he would report Steve to the Licence Commissioners, get his licence cancelled, and make Sam return the ten dollars and Steve the three dollars he had for the drinks.

Steve heard him out quietly, and then told him to get out of his house. Dick would hear from him later, he said.

When Dick had gone, Sam and Steve went over to the town and told the whole story to Lawyer Harris. Sam said he had never thought of making any bet, but could not stand the old man’s everlasting boasting, so the idea struck him that he would work off a “bluff” on Small. He certainly had stated that he and his “horse” covered fifteen miles under forty-two minutes. It was quite correct, for he brought it in on the train. Moreover, he had stated that it landed “as fresh as paint”; that was true again--it had been freshly painted. He had said, further, that it didn’t turn a hair, and it didn’t--for the best of reasons.

The lawyer roared with laughter; it was the best joke he had heard for a long time, he said, and served the old skinflint right. “I’ll write and claim two hundred and fifty dollars each for Steve and Sam for malicious slander,” he added, “and threaten him with a writ if he doesn’t pay up.”

The lawyer sent his clerk over to deliver the letter to old Dick, who read it over two or three times before he understood it. Then he nearly had a fit, but the clerk advised him to keep quiet and come over and see Mr. Harris, and perhaps they could settle things.

When Small arrived the lawyer let him have it hot and strong. He told him he was always thrusting himself in where he wasn’t wanted, and now, because for once he had overreached himself, he couldn’t take his medicine quietly, but must go calling people thieves and swindlers, in spite of the fact that he would have been glad enough to pocket Sam’s fifty dollars. If he defended the suit, the lawyer said, he would certainly have to pay damages and costs, besides making himself the laughing-stock of the country for miles around.

Dick saw the point and began to climb down, and finally Mr. Harris let him off on paying ten dollars each to Sam and Steve, another ten dollars for lawyer’s fees, and signing a letter of apology. And that’s the whole story, but I don’t think old Dick has ever made a bet since.

THE YELLOW FIEND.

BY JULIAN JOHNSON, OF LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA.

_From a Photograph._]

Much of the history of railroading in Western America reads like a chapter from some “penny dreadful,” but none of the thrilling pioneer episodes surpasses in dramatic interest an incident which occurred a few years ago on one of the regular passenger trains of the Denver and Rio Grande.

The principal surviving actor in this singular tragedy is John Conlisk, who has now retired from active railroad service, and is at present living quietly at 2,717, Vermont Avenue, Los Angeles, California.

At the time of our story--March, 1892--Mr. Conlisk was a passenger conductor on the Denver and Rio Grande, running between Ogden, Utah, and Grand Junction, Colorado, making his home in the Utah city. This brief introduction is sufficient, however, and the rest may be narrated just as he told it to the writer recently.

* * * * *

The morning was crisp and clear and promised a bright March day. Shortly after two o’clock I was on the platform at Grand Junction waiting for No. 7, which I was to take back to Ogden. She came in on time, the few preliminaries attending the exchange of crews were finished as usual, and at three I was ready to go, when the conductor for the other division ran across the platform to me.

“Jack,” he said, “there’s a Chinaman in the ladies’ wash-room in the chair-car. He’s been in there two or three hours, and we can’t get him out. He’s in an ugly temper, and you may have trouble with him. If I were you I’d call the station officer.”

So I started on a hunt for that person, but he was not to be found anywhere, and after delaying the train two or three minutes I concluded to settle the matter with my own crew and passed the signal to the engineer. As we swung on board I spoke to my head brakeman, a young fellow named James Genong.

“There’s a Chinaman in the ladies’ wash-room in the chair-car,” I told him. “He’s locked himself in, for some heathen reason or other, and I wish you’d see if you can get him out without making any disturbance.”

I had a heavy load of passengers, probably two hundred in all, and after making my rounds, of course not disturbing the people in the sleepers, I went into the coach just ahead of the chair-car, and, with my train-box before me, sat down to count my tickets.

I had hardly finished my work when the door flew open, as though hurled by a violent gust of wind. Jim was behind it, with a pale, excited face. “Got a gun about you?” he asked, in a hoarse, frightened whisper.

“Why?” I asked, in astonishment.

“That Chinaman’s stabbed me!” he replied, looking furtively over his shoulder.

“Jim,” I said, getting up at once, “this thing may be serious, but it can’t be settled by indiscriminate shooting in a train-load of passengers. We’ve got to find another way.”

I must here interrupt my story for a moment to tell you what had actually happened. Jim, thinking the Celestial an easy conquest, started after him before the train was fairly under way. In those days chair-cars carried the time-honoured stove and wood-box, and the brakeman, putting one foot on the edge of the latter and the other on an opposite ledge, peered down over the transom and ordered the Chinaman to come out in language that admitted of no misinterpretation. And the Chinaman _did_ come out, ducking fairly under Jim in his elevated position. As he ducked he slashed upward with a great curved hunting-knife. The slash caught the white man on the inside of the thigh, producing a wound that bled profusely and probably gave a deal of inconvenience, but which was not really dangerous.

Seeing Jim streaming with blood, and believing that the yellow man was actually running amok, I started for the door, first telling the passengers in that car to lie down on the floor if they heard any shooting going on beyond.

The train was making good speed, but as I stood on the platform I could hear the culprit jabbering about, “Fiftleen hundled dolla! Me got plenty monee!” He commanded his end of the car, from which practically all the passengers had retired panic-stricken. The only exceptions to the general decampment were a fine-looking young chap from Bunker Hill, Illinois, who sat in a forward chair reading a book, and an army officer’s wife with a little baby, bound for Salt Lake City--in the seat opposite. These were directly under the Chinaman’s eye, and whenever they attempted to move he waved them back with a ferocious gesture of his great glittering knife.

Going to the door, which was locked, I rapped sharply on it with my ticket-punch. I had no revolver with me, but I hoped to distract his attention. And I did! Turning, he saw me, and with his face distorted with an expression of the most hideous savagery he drew back his arm, and sent it and the knife through the glass, clear to the shoulder, the blade just missing me!

Without more ado I pulled the bell-cord and ran into the forward car, where I borrowed a big Colt’s revolver from a cowboy I knew. Then, returning to the platform, I waited until the train had almost stopped, and dropped to the ground, catching the rear platform of the chair-car as the wheels ground down to their final revolution.

The frightened people were packed so densely against the door that I had to fight my way in, and then through them. The Chinaman, with his two quiet prisoners, had the whole front end of the car to himself. I called to him, exhibiting the pistol.

At the sight of that gun the most awful frenzy blazed in his eyes. He was a big fellow, and now, with the greatest deliberation, he rolled up his wide sleeves, disclosing a tremendous pair of arms, covered with heavy black hair. He looked like a typical Boxer on the war-path.

Then he started in my direction, but in a moment changed his mind about leaving a foe in his rear, and with the most calculating, revolting cruelty that I have ever seen swirled his great blade down over the seated boy’s head, and plunged it to the hilt in his body. Women shrieked and fainted, and I felt myself all but falling.

Raising my revolver I fired, and the ball broke his legs under him. He fell, and the army officer’s wife, with a terrible shriek, raised her baby to her shoulder and started down the car.

But in an instant the Chinaman was on his feet, wounded as he was, and struck the woman an appalling blow over the shoulder. She dropped like a stone--apparently stabbed to the heart.

I waited no more on the possibility of a high bullet glancing into the car ahead, but fired straight at his heart. Even with the crash of my pistol another sounded just behind me, and the yellow fiend fell headlong between two chairs.

Someone went over and kicked him, but the body gave no sign of life, and we devoted our attention to the unfortunate young man, who now lay huddled in a pathetic and bloody heap in his seat.

Others crowded around us, and at length I saw my cowboy friend approaching. Just as he reached me I was stooping over the Celestial’s first victim, in an attempt to raise him, when I heard the puncher yell, in an agonized voice, “For Heaven’s sake, Jack, look out!”

I glanced backward, and there was that colourless, diabolical countenance again blazing into mine. He was standing erect, and the knife was poised for a blow which would have given me my quietus. As I looked, certain that death was coming, I felt a wrench at my hip-pocket. It was the cowboy tearing his revolver out of my clothes. Even as the knife descended, my saviour jammed his weapon squarely into the Chinaman’s ear--and fired.

The big bullet, at that distance, almost tore his head to pieces. Blood was spattered over all of us, in the most sickening way that could be imagined. Hating to touch the body, we pushed it under a seat and turned our whole attention to the wounded.

The officer’s wife, strangely enough, had not a scratch on her. She was in a dead faint, but both she and the child were practically uninjured. The explanation of her escape seems to have been that the Chinaman’s wrist fell with full force on the baby, thus preventing the knife from doing any damage to either.

The poor boy, though conscious, was plainly mortally wounded. He made no complaint, and smiled faintly as we carried him back to a vacant berth in one of the Pullmans.

About daylight, at one of the longer stops, several of the passengers dragged the murderer’s horribly-battered body forward to the baggage-car. They did not carry him, but dragged him, and, as it was in the spring, the road-bed was very muddy. When the body reached the baggage-car the features were absolutely hidden in a combined coating of dried blood and slime.

Then, as we got under way again, a physician on the train, with myself and others, searched the remains. The dead man had on two pairs of trousers, and, sewn inside his shirt, fifteen hundred dollars in greenbacks. In his purse he had a first-class ticket from Pittsburg to San Francisco and, what was still more singular, a paid-up life insurance policy for five thousand dollars in favour of one Ah Say, of Evanston, Wyoming.

We rolled the body into a corner and looked over his few effects. Presently one of the men, who was sitting on a trunk facing us, gave a peculiar gasp and turned as white as blotting-paper. His eyes were fixed staringly on something behind our backs. We turned with one accord.

The supposedly dead Chinaman--a Chinaman with a body as full of holes as a sieve--was sitting up! I cannot convey in words the indescribably hideous effect of that face, caked as it was with gore and filth. Only a ghastly red crack of mouth was visible, grinning in demoniac vacancy, and two burning black slants which indicated his eyes.

The doctor was the only man who had his nerve in that excruciating moment.

“Well, John, how d’you feel now?” he said, speaking in a tone that was even jocular.

The Chinaman did not deign to answer, but first felt carefully all over himself. Then he put his hand to what should have been his trousers pocket, and at length ran his fingers violently around the place in his shirt from which we had taken his greenbacks. That frightful malevolence came back into his eyes, and, never taking those snaky optics from our faces, he began to hitch painfully across the floor towards a stand in which were kept guns for emergency use, in case of train robbery. To me, his actions seemed like those of some dreadful automaton. Every man of us watched him--held motionless, as a rattlesnake holds its victim, by the spell of terror.

Slowly, painfully, he progressed. He gained inch by inch, and at last was almost within reaching distance. He stretched out his arms to the guns, and partially rose; then he fell over stone-dead--dead this time for good and all.

The doctor examined him, and reported his survival to be due to opiates, which he had taken in enormous quantities.

At Salt Lake City I received an order from Mr. W. H. Bancroft, then receiver of the road, to stop there with the crew, which included James Donohue, engineer, and Charles Francis, fireman.

We arrived there about three o’clock, and the young man was still alive, though fast weakening. In an ordinary conversational manner he told us that his home was in Bunker Hill, Illinois, that his father was a banker, and that, after leaving school, he had been sent on a Western trip before assuming the business himself. Informed of his grave condition, he expressed his best wishes for all of us, and went under the anæsthetic with a happy smile. He died without ever returning to consciousness.

At the coroner’s inquest it was decided that the Chinaman had suddenly gone insane from an overdose of opium, for, as the evidence showed, he had been pleasant enough during the day, and had talked to several ladies in the car, telling them that he had been recently converted to Christianity and that he proposed to preach in San Francisco. After his burial expenses had been paid, the balance of his money was forwarded to the Chinese Consul in the city toward which he was bound.

There was an amusing sequel to the tragedy, though an exasperating one in some ways. Some months afterwards the keeper of one of the eating-stations, calling me to one side, inquired rather pointedly, “Have you noticed that the Chinese seem to be afraid of you?”

I replied that I hadn’t given the matter any thought, either way.

“Well,” he added, “Agent ----, of the U.P. (an opposition road), has told all the Chinks in the State that you killed their countryman for his money!”

My Experiences in Algeria.

BY THE BARONESS DE BOERIO.

The Baroness’s husband, an officer in the French army, was ordered
to Algeria, and took his wife and children with him. There, located
at a tiny post far from civilization, in the midst of fierce and
unruly tribes, the authoress met with some very strange adventures,
which she here sets forth in a chatty and amusing fashion.