The Heart of Little Shikara
If it hadn't been for a purple moon that came peering up above the
dark jungle just at nightfall, it would have been impossible to tell
that Little Shikara was at his watch. He was really just the colour of
the shadows—a rather pleasant brown—he was very little indeed, and
besides, he was standing very, very still. If he was trembling at all,
from anticipation and excitement, it was no more than Nahar the tiger
trembles as he crouches in ambush. But the moon did show him—peering
down through the leaf-clusters of the heavy vines—and shone very
softly in his wide-open dark eyes.
And it was a purple moon—no other colour that man could name. It
looked almost unreal, like a paper moon painted very badly by a clumsy
stage-hand. The jungle-moon quite often has that peculiar purplish
tint, most travellers know, but few of them indeed ever try to tell
what causes it. This particular moon probed down here and there between
the tall bamboos, transformed the jungle—just now waking—into a
mystery and a fairyland, glinted on a hard-packed elephant trail that
wound away into the thickets, and always came back to shine on the
coal-black Oriental eyes of the little boy beside the village gate. It
showed him standing very straight and just as tall as his small stature
would permit, and looked oddly silvery and strange on his long, dark
hair. Little Shikara, son of Khoda Dunnoo, was waiting for the return
of a certain idol and demigod who was even now riding home in his
howdah from the tiger hunt.
Other of the villagers would be down to meet Warwick Sahib as soon
as they heard the shouts of his beaters—but Little Shikara had been
waiting almost an hour. Likely, if they had known about it, they would
have commented on his badness, because he was notoriously bad, if
indeed—as the villagers told each other—he was not actually cursed
with evil spirits.
In the first place, he was almost valueless as a herder of buffalo.
Three times, when he had been sent with the other boys to watch the
herds in their wallows, he had left his post and crept away into the
fringe of jungle on what was unquestionably some mission of witchcraft.
For small naked brown boys, as a rule, do not go alone and unarmed into
the thick bamboos. Too many things can happen to prevent them ever
coming out again; too many brown silent ribbons crawl in the grass, or
too many yellow, striped creatures, no less lithe, lurk in the
thickets. But the strangest thing of all—and the surest sign of
witchcraft—was that he had always come safely out again, yet with
never any satisfactory explanations as to why he had gone. He had
always looked some way very joyful and tremulous—and perhaps even pale
if from the nature of things a brown boy ever can look pale. But it was
the kind of paleness that one has after a particularly exquisite
experience. It was not the dumb, teeth-chattering paleness of fear.
“I saw the sergeant of the jungle,” Little Shikara said after one of
these excursions. And this made no sense at all.
“There are none of the King's soldiers here,” the brown village folk
replied to him. “Either thou liest to us, or thine eyes lied to thee.
And didst thou also see the chevron that told his rank?”
“That was the way I knew him. It was the black bear, and he wore the
pale chevron low on his throat.”
This was Little Shikara all over. Of course he referred to the black
Himalayan bear which all men know wears a yellowish patch, of chevron
shape, just in front of his fore legs; but why he should call him a
jungle-sergeant was quite beyond the wit of the village folk to say.
Their imagination did not run in that direction. It never even occurred
to them that Little Shikara might be a born jungle creature,
expatriated by the accident of birth—one of that free, strange breed
that can never find peace in the villages of men.
“But remember the name we gave him,” his mother would say. “Perhaps
he is only living up to his name.”
For there are certain native hunters in India that are known, far
and wide, as the Shikaris; and possibly she meant in her tolerance that
her little son was merely a born huntsman. But in reality Little
Shikara was not named for these men at all. Rather it was for a certain
fleet-winged little hawk, a hunter of sparrows, that is one of the most
free spirits in all the jungle.
And it was almost like taking part in some great hunt himself—to be
waiting at the gate for the return of Warwick Sahib. Even now, the
elephant came striding out of the shadows; and Little Shikara could see
the trophy. The hunt had indeed been successful, and the boy's glowing
eyes beheld—even in the shadows—the largest, most beautiful
tiger-skin he had ever seen. It was the great Nahar, the royal tiger,
who had killed one hundred cattle from near-by fields.
Warwick Sahib rode in his howdah, and he did not seem to see
the village people that came out to meet him. In truth, he seemed half
asleep, his muscles limp, his gray eyes full of thoughts. He made no
answer to the triumphant shouts of the village folk. Little Shikara
glanced once at the lean, bronzed face, the limp, white, thin hands,
and something like a shiver of ecstasy went clear to his ten toes. For
like many other small boys, all over the broad world, he was a
hero-worshipper to the last hair of his head; and this quiet man on the
elephant was to him beyond all measure the most wonderful living
creature on the earth.
He didn't cry out, as the others did. He simply stood in mute
worship, his little body tingling with glory. Warwick Sahib had looked
up now, and his slow eyes were sweeping the line of brown faces. But
still he did not seem to see them. And then—wonder of wonders—his
eyes rested full on the eyes of his little worshipper beside the gate.
But it was quite the way of Warwick Sahib to sweep his gray,
tired-out eyes over a scene and seemingly perceive nothing; yet in
reality absorbing every detail with the accuracy of a photographic
plate. And his seeming indifference was not a pose with him, either. He
was just a great sportsman who was also an English gentleman, and he
had learned certain lessons of impassiveness from the wild. Only one of
the brown faces he beheld was worth a lingering glance. And when he met
that one his eyes halted in their sweeping survey—and Warwick Sahib
That face was the brown, eager visage of Little Shikara. And the
blood of the boy flowed to the skin, and he glowed red all over through
It was only the faintest of quiet, tolerant smiles; but it meant
more to him than almost any kind of an honour could have meant to the
prematurely gray man in the howdah. The latter passed on to his
estate, and some of the villagers went back to their women and their
thatch huts. But still Little Shikara stood motionless—and it wasn't
until the thought suddenly came to him that possibly the beaters had
already gathered and were telling the story of the kill that with
startling suddenness he raced back through the gates to the village.
Yes, the beaters had assembled in a circle under a tree, and most of
the villagers had gathered to hear the story. He slipped in among them,
and listened with both outstanding little ears. Warwick Sahib had
dismounted from his elephant as usual, the beaters said, and with but
one attendant had advanced up the bed of a dry creek. This was quite
like Warwick Sahib, and Little Shikara felt himself tingling again.
Other hunters, particularly many of the rich sahibs from across the
sea, shot their tigers from the security of the howdah; but this
wasn't Warwick's way of doing. The male tiger had risen snarling from
his lair, and had been felled at the first shot.
Most of the villagers had supposed that the story would end at this
point. Warwick Sahib's tiger hunts were usually just such simple and
expeditious affairs. The gun would lift to his shoulder, the quiet eyes
would glance along the barrel—and the tiger, whether charging or
standing still—would speedily die. But to-day there had been a curious
epilogue. Just as the beaters had started toward the fallen animal, and
the white Heaven-born's cigarette-case was open in his hand, Nahara,
Nahar's great, tawny mate, had suddenly sprung forth from the bamboo
She drove straight to the nearest of the beaters. There was no time
whatever for Warwick to take aim. His rifle leaped, like a live thing,
in his arms, but not one of the horrified beaters had seen his eyes
lower to the sights. Yet the bullet went home—they could tell by the
way the tiger flashed to her breast in the grass.
Yet she was only wounded. One of the beaters, starting, had
permitted a bough of a tree to whip Warwick in the face, and the blow
had disturbed what little aim he had. It was almost a miracle that he
had hit the great cat at all. At once the thickets had closed around
her, and the beaters had been unable to drive her forth again.
The circle was silent thereafter. They seemed to be waiting for
Khusru, one of the head men of the village, to give his opinion. He
knew more about the wild animals than any mature native in the
assembly, and his comments on the hunting stories were usually worth
“We will not be in the honoured service of the Protector of the Poor
at this time a year from now,” he said.
They all waited tensely. Shikara shivered. “Speak, Khusru,” they
“Warwick Sahib will go again to the jungles—and Nahara will be
waiting. She owes two debts. One is the killing of her mate—and ye
know that these two tigers have been long and faithful mates. Do ye
think she will let that debt go unpaid? She will also avenge her own
“Perhaps she will die of bleeding,” one of the others suggested.
“Nay, or ye would have found her this afternoon. Ye know that it is
the wounded tiger that is most to be feared. One day, and he will go
forth in pursuit of her again; and then ye will not see him riding back
so grandly on his elephant. Perhaps she will come here, to carry away
Again Shikara tingled—hoping that Nahara would at least come close
enough to cause excitement. And that night, too happy to keep silent,
he told his mother of Warwick Sahib's smile. “And some time I—I, thine
own son,” he said as sleepiness came upon him, “will be a killer of
tigers, even as Warwick Sahib.”
“Little sparrow-hawk,” his mother laughed at him. “Little one of
mighty words, only the great sahibs that come from afar, and Warwick
Sahib himself, may hunt the tiger, so how canst thou, little
“I will soon be grown,” he persisted, “and I—I, too—will some time
return with such a tiger-skin as the great Heaven-born brought this
afternoon.” Little Shikara was very sleepy, and he was telling his
dreams much more frankly than was his wont. “And the village folk will
come out to meet me with shoutings, and I will tell them of the
shot—in the circle under the tree.”
“And where, little hawk, wilt thou procure thine elephants, and such
rupees as are needed?”
“Warwick Sahib shoots from the ground—and so will I. And sometimes
he goes forth with only one attendant—and I will not need even one.
And who can say—perhaps he will find me even a bolder man than Gunga
Singhai; and he will take me in his place on the hunts in the jungles.”
For Gunga Singhai was Warwick Sahib's own personal attendant and
gun-carrier—the native that the Protector of the Poor could trust in
the tightest places. So it was only to be expected that Little
Shikara's mother should laugh at him. The idea of her son being an
attendant of Warwick Sahib, not to mention a hunter of tigers, was only
a tale to tell her husband when the boy's bright eyes were closed in
“Nay, little man,” she told him. “Would I want thee torn to pieces
in Nahara's claws? Would I want thee smelling of the jungle again, as
thou didst after chasing the water-buck through the bamboos? Nay—thou
wilt be a herdsman, like thy father—and perhaps gather many rupees.”
But Little Shikara did not want to think of rupees. Even now, as
sleep came to him, his childish spirit had left the circle of thatch
roofs, and had gone on tremulous expeditions into the jungle. Far away,
the trumpet-call of a wild tusker trembled through the moist, hot
night; and great bell-shaped flowers made the air pungent and heavy
with perfume. A tigress skulked somewhere in a thicket licking an
injured leg with her rough tongue, pausing to listen to every sound the
night gave forth. Little Shikara whispered in his sleep.
A half mile distant, in his richly furnished bungalow, Warwick Sahib
dozed over his after-dinner cigar. He was in evening clothes, and
crystal and silver glittered on his board. But his gray eyes were half
closed; and the gleam from his plate could not pass the long, dark
lashes. For his spirit was far distant, too—on the jungle trails with
that of Little Shikara.
One sunlit morning, perhaps a month after the skin of Nahar was
brought in from the jungle, Warwick Sahib's mail was late. It was an
unheard-of thing. Always before, just as the clock struck eight, he
would hear the cheerful tinkle of the postman's bells. At first he
considered complaining; but as morning drew to early afternoon he began
to believe that investigation would be the wiser course.
The postman's route carried him along an old elephant trail through
a patch of thick jungle beside one of the tributaries of the Manipur.
When natives went out to look, he was neither on the path nor drowned
in the creek, nor yet in his thatched hut at the other end of his
route. The truth was that this particular postman's bells would never
be heard by human ears again. And there was enough evidence in the wet
mould of the trail to know what had occurred.
That night the circle under the tree was silent and shivering. “Who
is next?” they asked of one another. The jungle night came down,
breathless and mysterious, and now and then a twig was cracked by a
heavy foot at the edge of the thickets. In Warwick's house, the great
Protector of the Poor took his rifles from their cases and fitted them
“To-morrow,” he told Gunga Singhai, “we will settle for that
postman's death.” Singhai breathed deeply, but said nothing. Perhaps
his dark eyes brightened. The tiger-hunts were nearly as great a
delight to him as they were to Warwick himself.
But while Nahara, lame from Warwick's bullet, could no longer
overtake cattle, she did with great skilfulness avoid the onrush of the
beaters. Again Little Shikara waited at the village gate for his hero
to return; but the beaters walked silently to-night. Nor were there any
tales to be told under the tree.
Nahara, a fairly respectable cattle-killer before, had become in a
single night one of the worst terrors of India. Of course she was still
a coward, but she had learned, by virtue of a chance meeting with a
postman on a trail after a week of heart-devouring starvation, two or
three extremely portentous lessons. One of them was that not even the
little deer, drinking beside the Manipur, died half so easily as these
tall, forked forms of which she had previously been so afraid. She
found out also that they could neither run swiftly nor walk silently,
and they could be approached easily even by a tiger that cracked a twig
with every step. It simplified the problem of living immensely; and
just as any other feline would have done, she took the line of least
resistance. If there had been plenty of carrion in the jungle, Nahara
might never have hunted men. But the kites and the jackals looked after
the carrion; and they were much swifter and keener-eyed than a lame
She knew enough not to confine herself to one village; and it is
rather hard to explain how any lower creature, that obviously cannot
reason, could have possessed this knowledge. Perhaps it was because she
had learned that a determined hunt, with many beaters and men on
elephants, invariably followed her killings. It was always well to
travel just as far as possible from the scene. She found out also that,
just as a doe is easier felled than a horned buck, certain of this new
kind of game were more easily taken than the others. Sometimes children
played at the door of their huts, and sometimes old men were afflicted
with such maladies that they could not flee at all. All these things
Nahara learned; and in learning them she caused a certain civil office
of the British Empire to put an exceedingly large price on her head.
Gradually the fact dawned on her that unlike the deer and the
buffalo, this new game was more easily hunted in the
daylight—particularly in that tired-out, careless twilight hour when
the herders and the plantation hands came in from their work. At night
the village folk kept in their huts, and such wood-cutters and gipsies
as slept without wakened every hour to tend their fires. Nahara was
deathly afraid of fire. Night after night she would creep round and
round a gipsy camp, her eyes like two pale blue moons in the darkness,
and would never dare attack.
And because she was taking her living in a manner forbidden by the
laws of the jungle, the glory and beauty of her youth quickly departed
from her. There are no prisons for those that break the jungle laws, no
courts and no appointed officers, but because these are laws that go
down to the roots of life, punishment is always swift and inevitable.
“Thou shall not kill men,” is the first law of the wild creatures; and
everyone knows that any animal or breed of animals that breaks this law
has sooner or later been hunted down and slain—just like any other
murderer. The mange came upon her, and she lost flesh, and certain of
her teeth began to come out. She was no longer the beautiful female of
her species, to be sung to by the weaver-birds as she passed beneath.
She was a hag and a vampire, hatred of whom lay deep in every human
heart in her hunting range.
Often the hunting was poor, and sometimes she went many days in a
stretch without making a single kill. And in all beasts, high and low,
this is the last step to the worst degeneracy of all. It instils a
curious, terrible kind of blood-lust—to kill, not once, but as many
times as possible in the same hunt; to be content not with one death,
but to slay and slay until the whole herd is destroyed. It is the
instinct that makes a little weasel kill all the chickens in a coop,
when one was all it could possibly carry away, and that will cause a
wolf to leap from sheep to sheep in a fold until every one is dead.
Nahara didn't get a chance to kill every day; so when the opportunity
did come, like a certain pitiable kind of human hunter who comes from
afar to hunt small game, she killed as many times as she could in quick
succession. And the British Empire raised the price on her head.
One afternoon found her within a half mile of Warwick's bungalow,
and for five days she had gone without food. One would not have thought
of her as a royal tigress, the queen of the felines and one of the most
beautiful of all living things. And since she was still tawny and
graceful, it would be hard to understand why she no longer gave the
impression of beauty. It was simply gone, as a flame goes, and her
queenliness was wholly departed, too. In some vague way she had become
a poisonous, a ghastly thing, to be named with such outcasts as the
jackals or hyenas.
Excessive hunger, in most of the flesh-eating animals, is really a
first cousin to madness. It brings bad dreams and visions, and, worst
of all, it induces an insubordination to all the forest laws of man and
beast. A well-fed wolf-pack will run in stark panic from a human being;
but even the wisest of mountaineers do not care to meet the same gray
band in the starving times of winter. Starvation brings recklessness, a
desperate frenzied courage that is likely to upset all of one's
preconceived notions as to the behaviour of animals. It also brings, so
that all men may be aware of its presence, a peculiar lurid glow to the
balls of the eyes.
In fact, the two pale circles of fire were the most noticeable
characteristics of the long, tawny cat that crept through the bamboos.
Except for them, she would hardly have been discernible at all. The
yellow grass made a perfect background, her black stripes looked like
the streaks of shadow between the stalks of bamboo, and for one that is
lame she crept with an astounding silence. One couldn't have believed
that such a great creature could lie so close to the earth and be so
utterly invisible in the low thickets.
A little peninsula of dwarf bamboos and tall jungle grass extended
out into the pasture before the village and Nahara crept out clear to
its point. She didn't seem to be moving. One couldn't catch the stir
and draw of muscles. And yet she slowly glided to the end; then began
her wait. Her head sunk low, her body grew tense, her tail whipped
softly back and forth, with as easy a motion as the swaying of a
serpent. The light flamed and died and flamed and died again in her
Soon a villager who had been working in Warwick's fields came
trotting in Oriental fashion across the meadow. His eyes were only
human, and he did not see the tawny shape in the tall grass. If any one
had told him that a full-grown tigress could have crept to such a place
and still remained invisible, he would have laughed. He was going to
his thatched hut, to brown wife and babies, and it was no wonder that
he trotted swiftly. The muscles of the great cat bunched, and now the
whipping tail began to have a little vertical motion that is the final
warning of a spring.
The man was already in leaping range; but the tiger had learned, in
many experiences, always to make sure. Still she crouched—a single
instant in which the trotting native came two paces nearer. Then the
man drew up with a gasp of fright.
For just as the clear outlines of an object that has long been
concealed in a maze of light and shadow will often leap, with sudden
vividness, to the eyes, the native suddenly perceived the tiger.
He caught the whole dread picture—the crouching form, the terrible
blue lights of the eyes, the whipping tail. The gasp he uttered from
his closing throat seemed to act like the fall of a firing-pin against
a shell on the bunched muscles of the animal; and she left her covert
in a streak of tawny light.
But Nahara's leaps had never been quite accurate since she had been
wounded by Warwick's bullet, months before. They were usually straight
enough for the general purposes of hunting, but they missed by a long
way the “theoretical centre of impact” of which artillery officers
speak. Her lame paw always seemed to disturb her balance. By
remembering it, she could usually partly overcome the disadvantage; but
to-day, in the madness of her hunger, she had been unable to remember
anything except the terrible rapture of killing. This circumstance
alone, however, would not have saved the native's life. Even though her
fangs missed his throat, the power of the blow and her rending talons
would have certainly snatched away his life as a storm snatches a leaf.
But there was one other determining factor. The Burman had seen the
tiger just before she leaped; and although there had been no time for
conscious thought, his guardian reflexes had flung him to one side in a
single frenzied effort to miss the full force of the spring.
The result of both these things was that he received only an
awkward, sprawling blow from the animal's shoulder. Of course he was
hurled to the ground; for no human body in the world is built to
withstand the ton or so of shocking power of a three-hundred-pound cat
leaping through the air. The tigress sprawled down also, and because
she lighted on her wounded paw, she squealed with pain. It was possibly
three seconds before she had forgotten the stabbing pain in her paw and
had gathered herself to spring on the unconscious form of the native.
And that three seconds gave Warwick Sahib, sitting at the window of his
study, an opportunity to seize his rifle and fire.
Warwick knew tigers, and he had kept the rifle always ready for just
such a need as this. The distance was nearly five hundred yards, and
the bullet went wide of its mark. Nevertheless, it saved the native's
life. The great cat remembered this same far-off explosion from another
day, in a dry creek-bed of months before, and the sing of the bullet
was a remembered thing, too. Although it would speedily return to her,
her courage fled and she turned and faced into the bamboos.
In an instant, Warwick was on his great veranda, calling his
beaters. Gunga Singhai, his faithful gun-carrier, slipped shells into
the magazine of his master's high-calibered close-range tiger-rifle.
“The elephant, Sahib?” he asked swiftly.
“Nay, this will be on foot. Make the beaters circle about the fringe
of bamboos. Thou and I will cross the eastern fields and shoot at her
as she breaks through.”
But there was really no time to plan a complete campaign. Even now,
the first gray of twilight was blurring the sharp outlines of the
jungle, and the soft jungle night was hovering, ready to descend.
Warwick's plan was to cut through to a certain little creek that flowed
into the river and with Singhai to continue on to the edge of the
bamboos that overlooked a wide field. The beaters would prevent the
tigress from turning back beyond the village, and it was at least
possible that he would get a shot at her as she burst from the jungle
and crossed the field to the heavier thickets beyond.
“Warwick Sahib walks into the teeth of his enemy,” Khusru, the
hunter, told a little group that watched from the village gate. “Nahara
will collect her debts.”
A little brown boy shivered at his words and wondered if the beaters
would turn and kick him, as they had always done before, if he should
attempt to follow them. It was the tiger-hunt, in view of his own
village, and he sat down, tremulous with rapture, in the grass to
watch. It was almost as if his dream—that he himself should be a
hunter of tigers—was coming true. He wondered why the beaters seemed
to move so slowly and with so little heart.
He would have known if he could have looked into their eyes. Each
black pupil was framed with white. Human hearts grow shaken and
bloodless from such sights as this they had just seen, and only the
heart of a jungle creature—the heart of the eagle that the jungle
gods, by some unheard-of fortune, had put in the breast of Little
Shikara—could prevail against them. Besides, the superstitious Burmans
thought that Warwick was walking straight to death—that the time had
come for Nahara to collect her debts.
Warwick Sahib and Singhai disappeared at once into the fringe of
jungle, and silence immediately fell upon them. The cries of the
beaters at once seemed curiously dim. It was as if no sound could live
in the great silences under the arching trees. Soon it was as if they
They walked side by side, Warwick with his rifle held ready. He had
no false ideas in regard to this tiger-hunt. He knew that his prey was
desperate with hunger, that she had many old debts to pay, and that she
would charge on sight.
The self-rage that is felt on missing some particularly fortunate
chance is not confined to human beings alone. There is an old saying in
the forest that a feline that has missed his stroke is like a jackal in
dog-days—and that means that it is not safe to be anywhere in the
region with him. He simply goes rabid and is quite likely to leap at
the first living thing that stirs. Warwick knew that Nahara had just
been cheated out of her kill and someone in the jungle would pay for
The gaudy birds that looked down from the tree-branches could
scarcely recognize this prematurely gray man as a hunter. He walked
rather quietly, yet with no conscious effort toward stealth. The rifle
rested easily in his arms, his gray eyes were quiet and thoughtful as
always. Singularly, his splendid features were quite in repose. The
Burman, however, had more of the outer signs of alertness; and yet
there was none of the blind terror upon him that marked the beaters.
“Where are the men?” Warwick asked quietly. “It is strange that we
do not hear them shouting.”
“They are afraid, Sahib,” Singhai replied. “The forest pigs have
left us to do our own hunting.”
Warwick corrected him with a smile. “Forest pigs are brave enough,”
he answered. “They are sheep—just sheep—sheep of the plains.”
The broad trail divided, like a three-tined candlestick, into narrow
trails. Warwick halted beside the centre of the three that led to the
creek they were obliged to cross. Just for an instant he stood
watching, gazing into the deep-blue dusk of the deeper jungle. Twilight
was falling softly. The trails soon vanished into shadow—patches of
deep gloom, relieved here and there by a bright leaf that reflected the
last twilight rays. A living creature coughed and rustled away in the
thickets beside him.
“There is little use of going on,” he said. “It is growing too dark.
But there will be killings before the dawn if we don't get her first.”
The servant stood still, waiting. It was not his place to advise his
“If we leave her, she'll come again before the dawn. Many of the
herders haven't returned—she'll get one of them sure. At least we may
cross the creek and get a view of the great fields. She is certain to
cross them if she has heard the beaters.”
In utter silence they went on. One hundred yards farther they came
to the creek, and both strode in together to ford.
The water was only knee-deep, but Warwick's boots sank three inches
in the mud of the bottom. And at that instant the gods of the jungle,
always waiting with drawn scimitar for the unsuspecting, turned against
Singhai suddenly splashed down into the water, on his hands and
knees. He did not cry out. If he made any sound at all, it was just a
shivering gasp that the splash of water wholly obscured. But the thing
that brought home the truth to Warwick was the pain that flashed, vivid
as lightning, across his dark face; and the horror of death that left
its shadow. Something churned and writhed in the mud; and then Warwick
Both of them had forgotten Mugger, the crocodile, that so loves to
wait in the mud of a ford. He had seized Singhai's foot, and had
already snatched him down into the water when Warwick fired. No living
flesh can withstand the terrible, rending shock of a high-powered
sporting rifle at close range. Mugger had plates of armour, but even
these could not have availed against it if he had been exposed to the
fire. As it was, several inches of water stood between, a more
effective armour than a two-inch steel plate on a battleship. Of course
the shock carried through, a smashing blow that caused the reptile to
release his hold on Singhai's leg; but before the native could get to
his feet he had struck again. The next instant both men were fighting
for their lives.
They fought with their hands, and Warwick fought with his rifle, and
the native slashed again and again with the long knife that he carried
at his belt. To a casual glance, a crocodile is wholly incapable of
quick action. These two found him a slashing, darting, wolf-like thing,
lunging with astounding speed through the muddied water, knocking them
from their feet and striking at them as they fell.
The reptile was only half grown, but in the water they had none of
the usual advantages that man has over the beasts with which he does
battle. Warwick could not find a target for his rifle. But even human
bodies, usually so weak, find themselves possessed of an amazing
reserve strength and agility in the moment of need. These men realized
perfectly that their lives were the stakes for which they fought, and
they gave every ounce of strength and energy they had. Their aim was to
hold the mugger off until they could reach the shore.
At last, by a lucky stroke, Singhai's knife blinded one of the lurid
reptile eyes. He was prone in the water when he administered it, and it
went home just as the savage teeth were snapping at his throat. For an
instant the great reptile flopped in an impotent half-circle, partly
reared out of the water. It gave Warwick a chance to shoot, a single
instant in which the rifle seemed to whirl about in his arms, drive to
his shoulder, and blaze in the deepening twilight. And the shot went
true. It pierced the mugger from beneath, tearing upward through the
brain. And then the agitated waters of the ford slowly grew quiet.
The last echo of the report was dying when Singhai stretched his
bleeding arms about Warwick's body, caught up the rifle and dragged
them forty feet up on the shore. It was an effort that cost the last of
his strength. And as the stars popped out of the sky, one by one,
through the gray of dusk, the two men lay silent, side by side, on the
Warwick was the first to regain consciousness. At first he didn't
understand the lashing pain in his wrists, the strange numbness in one
of his legs, the darkness with the great white Indian stars shining
through. Then he remembered. And he tried to stretch his arm to the
prone form beside him.
The attempt was an absolute failure. The cool brain dispatched the
message, it flew along the telegraph-wires of the nerves, but the
muscles refused to react. He remembered that the teeth of the mugger
had met in one of the muscles of his upper arm, but before
unconsciousness had come upon him he had been able to lift the gun to
shoot. Possibly infection from the bite had in some manner temporarily
paralyzed the arm. He turned, wracked with pain, on his side and lifted
his left arm. In doing so his hand crossed before his eyes—and then he
smiled wanly in the darkness.
It was quite like Warwick, sportsman and English gentleman, to smile
at a time like this. Even in the gray darkness of the jungle night he
could see the hand quite plainly. It no longer looked slim and white.
And he remembered that the mugger had caught his fingers in one of its
He paused only for one glance at the mutilated member. He knew that
his first work was to see how Singhai had fared. In that glance he was
boundlessly relieved to see that the hand could unquestionably be
saved. The fingers were torn, yet their bones did not seem to be
severed. Temporarily at least, however, the hand was utterly useless.
The fingers felt strange and detached.
He reached out to the still form beside him, touching the dark skin
first with his fingers, and then, because they had ceased to function,
with the flesh of his wrist. He expected to find it cold. Singhai was
alive, however, and his warm blood beat close to the dark skin.
But he was deeply unconscious, and it was possible that one foot was
For a moment Warwick lay quite still, looking his situation squarely
in the face. He did not believe that either he or his attendant was
mortally or even very seriously hurt. True, one of his arms had
suffered paralysis, but there was no reason for thinking it had been
permanently injured. His hand would be badly scarred, but soon as good
as ever. The real question that faced them was that of getting back to
Walking was out of the question. His whole body was bruised and
lacerated, and he was already dangerously weak from loss of blood. It
would take all his energy, these first few hours, to keep his
consciousness. Besides, it was perfectly obvious that Singhai could not
walk. And English gentlemen do not desert their servants at a time like
this. The real mystery lay in the fact that the beaters had not already
found and rescued them.
He wore a watch with luminous dial on his left wrist, and he managed
to get it before his eyes. And then understanding came to him. A full
hour had passed since he and his servant had fought the mugger in the
ford. And the utter silence of early night had come down over the
There was only one thing to believe. The beaters had evidently heard
him shoot, sought in vain for him in the thickets, possibly passed
within a few hundred feet of him, and because he had been unconscious
he had not heard them or called to them, and now they had given him up
for lost. He remembered with bitterness how all of them had been sure
that an encounter with Nahara would cost him his life, and would thus
be all the more quick to believe he had died in her talons. Nahara had
her mate and her own lameness to avenge, they had said, attributing in
their superstition human emotions to the brute natures of animals. It
would have been quite useless for Warwick to attempt to tell them that
the male tiger, in the mind of her wicked mate, was no longer even a
memory, and that premeditated vengeance is an emotion almost unknown in
the animal world. Without leaders or encouragement, and terribly
frightened by the scene they had beheld before the village, they had
quickly given up any attempt to find his body. There had been none
among them coolheaded enough to reason out which trail he had likely
taken, and thus look for him by the ford. Likely they were already
huddled in their thatched huts, waiting till daylight.
Then he called in the darkness. A heavy body brushed through the
creepers, and stepping falsely, broke a twig. He thought at first that
it might be one of the villagers, coming to look for him. But at once
the step was silenced.
Warwick had a disturbing thought that the creature that had broken
the twig had not gone away, but was crouching down, in a curious
manner, in the deep shadows. Nahara had returned to her hunting.
“Some time I, too, will be a hunter of tigers,” Little Shikara told
his mother when the beaters began to circle through the bamboos. “To
carry a gun beside Warwick Sahib—and to be honoured in the circle
under the tree!”
But his mother hardly listened. She was quivering with fright. She
had seen the last part of the drama in front of the village; and she
was too frightened even to notice the curious imperturbability of her
little son. But there was no orderly retreat after Little Shikara had
heard the two reports of the rifle. At first there were only the shouts
of the beaters, singularly high-pitched, much running back and forth in
the shadows, and then a pell-mell scurry to the shelter of the
For a few minutes there was wild excitement at the village gates.
Warwick Sahib was dead, they said—they had heard the shots and run to
the place of firing, and beat up and down through the bamboos; and
Warwick Sahib had surely been killed and carried off by the tigress.
This dreadful story told, most of the villagers went to hide at once in
their huts; only a little circle of the bravest men hovered at the
gate. They watched with drawn faces the growing darkness.
But there was one among them who was not yet a man grown; a boy so
small that he could hover, unnoticed, in the very smallest of the
terrible shadow-patches. He was Little Shikara, and he was shocked to
the very depths of his worshipping heart. For Warwick had been his
hero, the greatest man of all time, and he felt himself burning with
indignation that the beaters should return so soon. And it was a
curious fact that he had not as yet been infected with the contagion of
terror that was being passed from man to man among the villagers.
Perhaps his indignation was too absorbing an emotion to leave room for
terror, and perhaps, far down in his childish spirit, he was made of
different stuff. He was a child of the jungle, and perhaps he had
shared of that great imperturbability and impassiveness that is the
eternal trait of the wildernesses.
He went up to one of the younger beaters who had told and retold a
story of catching a glimpse of Nahara in the thickets until no one was
left to tell it to. He was standing silent, and Little Shikara thought
it possible that he might reach his ears.
“Give ear, Puran,” he pleaded. “Didst thou look for his body beside
the ford over Tarai stream?”
“Nay, little one—though I passed within one hundred paces.”
“Dost thou not know that he and Singhai would of a certainty cross
at the ford to reach the fringe of jungle from which he might watch the
eastern field? Some of you looked on the trail beside the ford, but
none looked at the ford itself. And the sound of the rifle seemed to
come from thence.”
“But why did he not call out?”
“Dead men could not call, but at least ye might have frightened
Nahara from the body. But perhaps he is wounded, unable to speak, and
lies there still—”
But Puran had found another listener for his story, and speedily
forgot the boy. He hurried over to another of the villagers, Khusru the
“Did no one look by the ford?” he asked, almost sobbing. “For that
is the place he had gone.”
The native's eyes seemed to light. “Hai, little one, thou
hast thought of what thy elders had forgotten. There is level land
there, and clear. And I shall go at the first ray of dawn—”
“But not to-night, Khusru—?”
“Nay, little sinner! Wouldst thou have me torn to pieces?”
Lastly Little Shikara went to his own father, and they had a
moment's talk at the outskirts of the throng. But the answer was
nay—just the same. Even his brave father would not go to look for the
body until daylight came. The boy felt his skin prickling all over.
“But perhaps he is only wounded—and left to die. If I go and return
with word that he is there, wilt thou take others and go out and bring
“Thou goest!” His father broke forth in a great roar of
laughter. “Why, thou little hawk! One would think that thou wert a
hunter of tigers thyself!”
Little Shikara blushed beneath the laughter. For he was a very
boyish little boy in most ways. But it seemed to him that his sturdy
young heart was about to break open from bitterness. All of them agreed
that Warwick Sahib, perhaps wounded and dying, might be lying by the
ford, but none of them would venture forth to see. Unknowing, he was
beholding the expression of a certain age-old trait of human nature.
Men do not fight ably in the dark. They need their eyes, and they
particularly require a definite object to give them determination. If
these villagers knew for certain that the Protector of the Poor lay
wounded or even dead beside the ford, they would have rallied bravely,
encouraged one another with words and oaths, and gone forth to rescue
him; but they wholly lacked the courage to venture again into the
jungle on any such blind quest as Little Shikara suggested.
But the boy's father should not have laughed. He should have
remembered the few past occasions when his straight little son had gone
into the jungle alone; and that remembrance should have silenced him.
The difficulty lay in the fact that he supposed his boy and he were of
the same flesh, and that Little Shikara shared his own great dread of
the night-curtained jungle. In this he was very badly mistaken. Little
Shikara had an inborn understanding and love of the jungle; and except
for such material dangers as that of Nahara, he was not afraid of it at
all. He had no superstitions in regard to it. Perhaps he was too young.
But the main thing that the laugh did was to set off, as a match sets
off powder, a whole heartful of unexploded indignation in Shikara's
breast. These villagers not only had deserted their patron and
protector, but also they had laughed at the thought of rescue! His own
father had laughed at him.
Little Shikara silently left the circle of villagers and turned into
At once the jungle silence closed round him. He hadn't dreamed that
the noise of the villagers would die so quickly. Although he could
still see the flame of the fire at the village gate behind him, it was
almost as if he had at once dropped off into another world. Great
flowers poured perfume down upon him, and at seemingly a great distance
he heard the faint murmur of the wind.
At first, deep down in his heart, he had really not intended to go
all the way. He had expected to steal clear to the outer edge of the
firelight; and then stand listening to the darkness for such
impressions as the jungle would choose to give him. But there had been
no threshold, no interlude of preparation. The jungle in all its
mystery had folded about him at once.
He trotted softly down the elephant trail, a dim, fleet shadow that
even the keen eyes of Nahara could scarcely have seen. At first he was
too happy to be afraid. He was always happy when the jungle closed
round him. Besides, if Nahara had killed, she would be full-fed by now
and not to be feared. Little Shikara hastened on, trembling all over
with a joyous sort of excitement.
If a single bird had flapped its wings in the branches, if one
little rodent had stirred in the underbrush, Little Shikara would
likely have turned back. But the jungle-gods, knowing their son,
stilled all the forest voices. He crept on, still looking now and again
over his shoulder to see the village fire. It still made a bright
yellow triangle in the dusk behind him. He didn't stop to think that he
was doing a thing most grown natives and many white men would not have
dared to do—to follow a jungle trail unarmed at night. If he had
stopped to think at all he simply would have been unable to go on. He
was only following his instincts, voices that such forces as maturity
and grown-up intelligence and self-consciousness obscure in older
men—and the terror of the jungle could not touch him. He went straight
to do what service he could for the white sahib that was one of his
Time after time he halted, but always he pushed on a few more feet.
Now he was over halfway to the ford, clear to the forks in the trail.
And then he turned about with a little gasp of fear.
The light from the village had gone out. The thick foliage of the
jungle had come between.
He was really frightened now. It wasn't that he was afraid he
couldn't get back. The trail was broad and hard and quite gray in the
moonlight. But those far-off beams of light had been a solace to his
spirit, a reminder that he had not yet broken all ties with the
village. He halted, intending to turn back.
Then a thrill began at his scalp and went clear to his bare toes.
Faint through the jungle silences he heard Warwick Sahib calling to his
faithless beaters. The voice had an unmistakable quality of distress.
Certain of the villagers—a very few of them—said afterward that
Little Shikara continued on because he was afraid to go back. They said
that he looked upon the Heaven-born sahib as a source of all power, in
whose protection no harm could befall him, and he sped toward him
because the distance was shorter than back to the haven of fire at the
village. But those who could look deeper into Little Shikara's soul
knew different. In some degree at least he hastened on down that jungle
trail of peril because he knew that his idol was in distress, and by
laws that went deep he knew he must go to his aid.
The first few minutes after Warwick had heard a living step in the
thickets he spent in trying to reload his rifle. He carried other
cartridges in the right-hand trousers pocket, but after a few minutes
of futile effort it became perfectly evident that he was not able to
reach them. His right arm was useless, and the fingers of his left,
lacerated by the mugger's bite, refused to take hold.
He had, however, three of the five shells the rifle held still in
his gun. The single question that remained was whether or not they
would be of use to him.
The rifle lay half under him, its stock protruding from beneath his
body. With the elbow of his left arm he was able to work it out.
Considering the difficulties under which he worked, he made amazingly
few false motions; and yet he worked with swiftness. Warwick was a man
who had been schooled and trained by many dangers; he had learned to
face them with open eyes and steady hands, to judge with unclouded
thought the exact percentage of his chances. He knew now that he must
work swiftly. The shape in the shadow was not going to wait all night.
But at that moment the hope of preserving his life that he had clung
to until now broke like a bubble in the sunlight. He could not lift the
gun to swing and aim it at a shape in the darkness. With his mutilated
hands he could not cock the strong-springed hammer. And if he could do
both these things with his fumbling, bleeding, lacerated fingers, his
right hand could not be made to pull the trigger. Warwick Sahib knew at
last just where he stood. Yet if human sight could have penetrated that
dusk, it would have beheld no change of expression in the lean face.
An English gentleman lay at the frontier of death. But that
occasioned neither fawning nor a loss of his rigid self-control.
Two things remained, however, that he might do. One was to call and
continue to call, as long as life lasted in his body. He knew perfectly
that more than once in the history of India a tiger had been kept at a
distance, at least for a short period of time, by shouts alone. In that
interlude, perhaps help might come from the village. The second thing
was almost as impossible as raising and firing the rifle; but by the
luck of the gods he might achieve it. He wanted to find Singhai's knife
and hold it compressed in his palm.
It wasn't that he had any vain hopes of repelling the tiger's attack
with a single knife-blade that would be practically impossible for his
mutilated hand to hold. Nahara had five or so knife-blades in every paw
and a whole set of them in her mouth. She could stand on four legs and
fight, and Warwick could not lift himself on one elbow and yet wield
the blade. But there were other things to be done with blades, even
held loosely in the palm, at a time like this.
He knew rather too much of the way of tigers. They do not always
kill swiftly. It is the tiger way to tease, long moments, with
half-bared talons; to let the prey crawl away a few feet for the
rapture of leaping at it again; to fondle with an exquisite cruelty for
moments that seem endless to its prey. A knife, on the other hand,
kills quickly. Warwick much preferred the latter death.
And even as he called, again and again, he began to feel about in
the grass with his lacerated hand for the hilt of the knife. Nahara was
steadily stealing toward him through the shadows.
The great tigress was at the height of her hunting madness. The
earlier adventure of the evening when she had missed her stroke, the
stir and tumult of the beaters in the wood, her many days of hunger,
had all combined to intensify her passion. And finally there had come
the knowledge, in subtle ways, that two of her own kind of game were
lying wounded and helpless beside the ford.
But even the royal tiger never forgets some small measure of its
caution. She did not charge at once. The game looked so easy that it
was in some way suggestive of a trap. She crept forward, a few feet at
a time. The wild blood began to leap through the great veins. The hair
went stiff on the neck muscles.
But Warwick shouted; and the sound for an instant appalled her. She
lurked in the shadows. And then, as she made a false step, Warwick
heard her for the first time.
Again she crept forward, to pause when Warwick raised his voice the
second time. The man knew enough to call at intervals rather than
continuously. A long, continued outcry would very likely stretch the
tiger's nerves to a breaking point and hurl her into a frenzy that
would probably result in a death-dealing charge. Every few seconds he
called again. In the intervals between the tiger crept forward. Her
excitement grew upon her. She crouched lower. Her sinewy tail had
whipped softly at first; now it was lashing almost to her sides. And
finally it began to have a slight vertical movement that Warwick,
fortunately for his spirit, could not see.
Then the little light that the moon poured down was suddenly
reflected in Nahara's eyes. All at once they burned out of the dusk;
two blue-green circles of fire fifty feet distant in the darkness. At
that Warwick gasped—for the first time. In another moment the great
cat would be in range—and he had not yet found the knife. Nothing
remained to believe but that it was lost in the mud of the ford, fifty
feet distant, and that the last dread avenue of escape was cut off.
But at that instant the gasp gave way to a whispered oath of wonder.
Some living creature was running lightly down the trail toward
him—soft, light feet that came with amazing swiftness. For once in his
life Warwick did not know where he stood. For once he was the chief
figure of a situation he did not entirely understand. He tried to probe
into the darkness with his tired eyes.
“Here I am!” he called. The tiger, starting to creep forward once
more, halted at the voice. A small straight figure sped like an arrow
out of the thickets and halted at his side.
It was such an astounding appearance as for an instant completely
paralyzes the mental faculties. Warwick's first emotion was simply a
great and hopeless astonishment. Long inured to the mystery of the
jungle, he thought he had passed the point where any earthly happening
could actually bewilder him. But in spite of it, in spite of the
fire-eyed peril in the darkness, he was quite himself when he spoke.
The voice that came out of the silence was wholly steady—a kindly,
almost amused voice of one who knows life as it is and who has mastered
his own destiny.
“Who in the world?” he asked in the vernacular.
“It is I—Little Shikara,” a tremulous voice answered. Except for
the tremor he could not keep from his tone, he spoke as one man to
Warwick knew at once that Little Shikara was not yet aware of the
presence of the tiger fifty feet distant in the shadows. But he knew
nothing else. The whole situation was beyond his ken.
But his instincts were manly and true. “Then run speedily, little
one,” he whispered, “back to the village. There is danger here in the
Little Shikara tried to speak, and he swallowed painfully. A lump
had come in his throat that at first would not let him talk. “Nay,
Protector of the Poor!” he answered. “I—I came alone. And I—I am thy
Warwick's heart bounded. Not since his youth had left him to a gray
world had his strong heart leaped in just this way before. “Merciful
God!” he whispered in English. “Has a child come to save me?” Then he
whipped again into the vernacular and spoke swiftly; for no further
seconds were to be wasted. “Little Shikara, have you ever fired a gun?”
“Then lift it up and rest it across my body. Thou knowest how it is
Little Shikara didn't know exactly, but he rested the gun on
Warwick's body; and he had seen enough target practice to crook his
finger about the trigger. And together, the strangest pair of huntsmen
that the Indian stars ever looked down upon, they waited.
“It is Nahara,” Warwick explained softly. For he had decided to be
frank with Little Shikara, trusting all to the courage of a child. “It
all depends on thee. Pull back the hammer with thy thumb.”
Little Shikara obeyed. He drew it back until it clicked and did not,
as Warwick had feared, let it slip through his fingers back against the
breach. “Yes, Sahib,” he whispered breathlessly. His little brave heart
seemed about to explode in his breast. But it was the test, and he knew
he must not waver in the sahib's eyes.
“It is Nahara, and thou art a man,” Warwick said again. “And now
thou must wait until thou seest her eyes.”
So they strained into the darkness; and in an instant more they saw
again the two circles of greenish, smouldering fire. They were quite
near now—Nahara was almost in leaping range.
“Thou wilt look through the little hole at the rear and then along
the barrel,” Warwick ordered swiftly, “and thou must see the two eyes
along the little notch in front.”
“I see, Sahib—and between the eyes,” came the same breathless
whisper. The little brown body held quite still. Warwick could not even
feel it trembling against his own. For the moment, by virtue of some
strange prank of Shiv, the jungle-gods were giving their own strength
to this little brown son of theirs beside the ford.
“Thou wilt not jerk or move?”
“Nay, Sahib.” And he spoke true. The world might break to pieces or
blink out, but he would not throw off his aim by any terror motions.
They could see the tiger's outline now—the lithe, low-hung body, the
tail that twitched up and down.
“Then pull the trigger,” Warwick whispered.
The whole jungle world rocked and trembled from the violence of the
When the villagers, aroused by the roar of the rifle and led by
Khusru and Puran and Little Shikara's father, rushed down with their
firebrands to the ford, their first thought was that they had come only
to the presence of the dead. Three human beings lay very still beside
the stream, and fifty feet in the shadows something else, that
obviously was not a human being, lay very still, too. But they
were not to have any such horror story to tell their wives. Only one of
the three by the ford, Singhai, the gun-bearer, was even really
unconscious; Little Shikara, the rifle still held lovingly in his arms,
had gone into a half-faint from fear and nervous exhaustion, and
Warwick Sahib had merely closed his eyes to the darting light of the
firebrands. The only death that had occurred was that of Nahara the
tigress—and she had a neat hole bored completely through her neck. To
all evidence, she had never stirred after Little Shikara's bullet had
After much confusion and shouting and falling over one another, and
gazing at Little Shikara as if he were some new kind of a ghost, the
villagers got a stretcher each for Singhai and the Protector of the
Poor. And when they got them well loaded into them, and Little Shikara
had quite come to himself and was standing with some bewilderment in a
circle of staring townspeople, a clear, commanding voice ordered that
they all be silent. Warwick Sahib was going to make what was the
nearest approach to a speech that he had made since various of his
friends had decoyed him to a dinner in London some years before.
The words that he said, the short vernacular words that have a way
of coming straight to the point, established Little Shikara as a legend
through all that corner of British India. It was Little Shikara who had
come alone through the jungle, said he; it was Little Shikara's shining
eyes that had gazed along the barrel, and it was his own brown finger
that had pulled the trigger. Thus, said Warwick, he would get the
bounty that the British Government offered—British rupees that to a
child's eyes would be past counting. Thus in time, with Warwick's
influence, his would be a great voice through all of India. For small
as he was, and not yet grown, he was of the true breed.
After the shouting was done, Warwick turned to Little Shikara to see
how he thought upon all these things. “Thou shalt have training for the
army, little one, where thy good nerve will be of use, and thou shalt
be a native officer, along with the sons of princes. I, myself, will
see to it, for I do not hold my life so cheap that I will forget the
thing that thou hast done to-night.”
And he meant what he said. The villagers stood still when they saw
his earnest face. “And what, little hawk, wilt thou have more?” he
Little Shikara trembled and raised his eyes. “Only sometimes to ride
with thee, in thy howdah, as thy servant, when thou again
seekest the tiger.”
The whole circle laughed at this. They were just human, after all.
Their firebrands were held high, and gleamed on Little Shikara's dusky
face, and made a lustre in his dark eyes. The circle, roaring with
laughter, did not hear the sahib's reply, but they did see him nod his
“I would not dare go without thee now,” Warwick told him.
And thus Little Shikara's dreams came true—to be known through many
villages as a hunter of tigers, and a brave follower and comrade of the
forest trails. And thus he came into his own—in those far-off glades
of Burma, in the jungles of the Manipur.