The Most Dangerous Game
by Ralph Lagana
"OFF
THERE to the right --somewhere-- is a large island," said Whitney.
"It's rather a mystery--"
"What island is it?"
Rainsford asked, craning his neck whereabouts Whitney pointed.
"The old charts call it
`Ship-Trap Island,"' Whitney replied." A suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors
have a curious dread of the place. I don't know why. Some superstition--"
"Can't see it,"
remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was
palpable as it pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the yacht.
"Indeed! You've good
eyes," said Whitney, with a laugh," and I've seen you pick off a
moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, but even you can't
see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night."
"Nor four yards,"
admitted a slightly frustrated Rainsford. “It’s like moist black velvet."
"It will be light enough in
Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it in a few days. I hope the
jaguar guns have come from Purdey's. We should have some first-rate hunting up
the Amazon. Great sport, hunting."
"The best sport in the
world," agreed Rainsford.
"For the hunter,"
amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar."
"Don't talk rot,
Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter, not a
philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?"
"Perhaps the jaguar does,"
observed Whitney.
"Bah! They've no
understanding.”
"Even so, I rather think
they understand one thing --fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death.”
“Nonsense," laughed
Rainsford. "This hot weather is making you soft, Whitney. Be a realist.
How many a beast have you witnessed stuck with arrows or torn open by bullets
that continued to rage for exceedingly prolongs periods of time simply because
the animal couldn’t understand it was supposed to fall. A man falls almost
immediately when shot because he knows he’s expected to die.” Not once
did I see otherwise in the war.”
Whitney briefly considered
Rainsford’s words as he leaned along the slick rail.
Rainsford, placing a free hand to
his companion’s shoulder, took Whitney’s lack of reply as unspoken agreement.
“The world is made up of two classes, Whitney --the hunters and the huntees.
Luckily, you and I are hunters. "
Whitney looked at Rainsford who
stared contentedly into the black sea.
“Do you think we've passed that
island yet?" asked Rainsford.
"I can't tell in the dark. I
hope so."
"Oh? Why?“ asked Rainsford.
"The place has a reputation
--a bad one."
"Cannibals?" suggested
Rainsford playfully.
"Hardly. Even cannibals
wouldn't live in such a God-forsaken place. But it’s gotten into sailor lore,
somehow. Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?
"They were a bit strange,
now you mention it. Even Captain Nielsen--"
"Yes, even that tough-minded
old Swede, who'd go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light. Those
fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before, I’ll tell you. All I
could get out of him was `This place has an evil name among seafaring men,
sir.' Then he said to me, very gravely, `Don't you feel anything?' --as if the
air about us was actually poisonous. Now, you mustn't laugh when I tell you
this --I did feel something like a sudden chill. Even while there was no breeze
and the sea was as flat as a plate-glass window. We were drawing near the
island then.” Looking sincerely into Rainsford’s face, he finished, “What I
felt was a --a mental chill; a sort of sudden dread."
"Pure imagination,"
said Rainsford, looking to Whitney confidently. “Pure fancy, and most
dangerous. One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with his
fear. You’d be wise to realize this."
"Maybe. But sometimes I
think sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they are in danger.
Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing --with wavelengths, just as sound
and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil.
Anyhow, I'm glad we're
getting
out of this zone. Well, I think I'll turn in now, Rainsford," said
Whitney, pushing away from the ship’s edge.
"I'm not sleepy," said
Rainsford. "I'm going to smoke another pipe up on the afterdeck."
"Good night, then,
Rainsford. See you at breakfast."
"Right. Good night,
Whitney."
* * *
There was no sound in the night
as Rainsford sat there except for the muffled throb of the engine that drove
the yacht swiftly through the darkness, and the swish and ripple of the wash of
the propeller.
Rainsford, reclining in a steamer
chair, indolently puffed on his favorite brier. He had carved and shaped the
pipe himself from a root he’d discovered in an Italian mountainside.
The sensuous drowsiness of the
night played on him and he thought, It's so dark that I could sleep without
closing my eyes; the night would be my eyelids—
An abrupt sound startled him. Off
to the right he heard it, and his ears, expert in such matters, could not be
mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and again. Somewhere, off in the blackness,
someone had fired a gun three times.
Rainsford sprang up and moved
quickly to the rail, mystified. He strained his eyes in the direction from
which the reports had come, but it was like trying to see through a blanket. He
leaped upon the rail and balanced himself there, to get greater elevation; his
pipe, striking a
rope, was
knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it; a short, hoarse cry came from his
lips as he realized he had reached too far and had lost his balance. The cry
was pinched off short as the blood-warm waters of the Caribbean Sea dosed over
his head.
He struggled up to the surface
and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding yacht slapped him in the
face and the salt water in his open mouth made him gag and strangle.
Desperately he struck out with strong strokes after the receding lights of the
yacht, but he stopped before he had swum fifty feet. A certain cool-headedness
had come to him; it was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There
was a chance that his cries could be heard by someone aboard the yacht, but
that chance was slender and grew more slender as the yacht raced on. He
wrestled himself out of his clothes and shouted with all his power. The lights
of the yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted
out entirely by the night.
Rainsford remembered the shots.
They had come from the right, and doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming
with slow, deliberate strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless
time he fought the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a
hundred more and then-- Rainsford heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a
high screaming sound, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and
terror.
He did not recognize the animal
that made the sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the
sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp,
staccato.
"Pistol shot," muttered
Rainsford, swimming on.
Ten minutes of determined effort
brought another sound to his ears --the most welcome he had ever heard --the
muttering and growling of the sea breaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on
the rocks before he saw them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered
against them. With his remaining strength he dragged himself from the swirling
waters. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himself
upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the
top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs.
What perils that tangle of trees
and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Rainsford just then. All he
knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was
on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the
deepest sleep of his life.
* * *
When he opened his eyes he knew
from the position of the sun that it was
late in
the afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at
him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully.
"Where there are pistol
shots, there are men. Where there are men, there
is
food," he thought. But what kind of men, he wondered, in so forbidding a
place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringed the shore.
He saw no sign of a trail through
the closely knit web of weeds and trees; it was easier to go along the shore,
and Rainsford floundered along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he
stopped.
Some wounded thing --by the
evidence, a large animal-- had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle
weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was
stained crimson. A small, glittering object not far away caught Rainsford's eye
and he picked it up. It was an empty cartridge.
"A twenty-two," he
remarked. "That's odd. It must have been a fairly large animal too. The
hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It's clear that
the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first three shots I heard were when the
hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it. The last shot was when he trailed it
here and finished it."
He examined the ground closely
and found what he had hoped to find --the print of hunting boots. They pointed
along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along,
now slipping on a rotten log or a loose stone, but making headway; night was
beginning to settle down on the island.
Bleak darkness was blacking out
the sea and jungle when Rainsford sighted the lights. He came upon them as he
turned a crook in the coast line; and his first thought was that he had come
upon a village, for there were many lights. But as he forged along he saw to
his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building --a
lofty structure with pointed towers plunging upward into the gloom. His eyes
made out the shadowy outlines of a palatial chateau; it was set on a high
bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived down to where the sea licked
greedy lips in the shadows.
Mirage, thought Rainsford. But it
was no mirage, he found, when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone
steps were real enough; the massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker
was real enough; yet above it all hung an air of unreality.
He lifted the knocker, and it
creaked up stiffly, as if it had never before been used. He let it fall, and it
startled him with its booming loudness. He thought he heard steps within; the
door remained closed.
Again Rainsford lifted the heavy
knocker, and let it fall. The door opened then --opened as suddenly as if it
were on a spring --and Rainsford stood blinking in the river of glaring gold
light that poured out. The first thing Rainsford's eyes discerned was the
largest man he had ever seen --a gigantic creature, solidly made and black
bearded to the waist. In his hand the man held a long-barreled revolver, and he
was pointing it straight at Rainsford's heart.
Out of the snarl of beard two
small eyes regarded Rainsford.
"Don't be alarmed,"
said Rainsford, with a smile which he hoped was disarming. "I'm no robber.
I fell off a yacht. My name is Sanger Rainsford of New York City."
The menacing look in the eyes did
not change. The revolver pointing as rigidly as if the giant were a statue. He
gave no sign that he understood Rainsford's words, or that he had even heard
them. He was dressed in uniform --a black uniform trimmed with gray astrakhan.
"I'm Sanger Rainsford of New
York," Rainsford began again. "I fell off a yacht. I am hungry."
The man's only answer was to
raise with his thumb the hammer of his revolver. Then Rainsford saw the man's
free hand go to his forehead in a military salute, and he saw him click his
heels together and stand at attention.
Another man was coming down the
broad marble steps, an erect, slender man in evening clothes. He advanced to
Rainsford and held out his hand. In a cultivated voice marked by a slight
accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said, "It is a
very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Sanger Rainsford, the celebrated
hunter, to my home."
Automatically Rainsford shook the
man's hand.
"I've read your book about
hunting snow leopards in Tibet, you see," explained the man. "I am
General Zaroff."
Rainsford's first impression was
that the man was singularly handsome; his second was that there was an
original, almost bizarre quality about the general's face. He was a tall man
past middle age, for his hair was a vivid white; but his thick eyebrows and
pointed military mustache were as black as the night from which Rainsford had
come. His eyes, too, were
black and
very bright. He had high cheekbones, a sharp-cut nose, a spare, dark face --the
face of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat. Turning to the
giant in uniform, the general made a sign.
The giant put away his pistol,
saluted, withdrew.
"Ivan is an incredibly
strong fellow," remarked the general, "but he has the misfortune to
be deaf and dumb. A simple fellow, but, I'm afraid, like all his race, a bit of
a savage."
"Is he Russian?"
"He is a Cossack," said
the general, and his smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. "So am
I."
"Come," he said,
"we shouldn't be chatting here. We can talk later. Now you want clothes,
food, rest. You shall have them. This is a most-restful spot."
Ivan had reappeared, and the
general spoke to him with lips that moved but gave forth no sound.
"Follow Ivan, if you please,
Mr. Rainsford," said the general. "I was about to have my dinner when
you came. I'll wait for you. You'll find that my clothes will fit you, I
think."
* * *
It was to a huge, beam-ceilinged
bedroom with a canopied bed big enough for six men that Rainsford followed the
silent giant. Ivan laid out an evening suit, and Rainsford, as he put it on,
noticed that it came from a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none
below the rank of duke.
The dining room to which Ivan
conducted him was in many ways remarkable. There was a medieval magnificence
about it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels,
its high ceiling, its vast refectory tables where two-score men could sit down
to eat. About the hall were mounted heads of many animals --lions, tigers,
elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Rainsford had never
seen.
At the great table the general
was sitting, alone.
"You'll have a cocktail, Mr.
Rainsford," he suggested. The cocktail was surpassingly good; and,
Rainsford noted, the table appointments were of the finest --the linen, the
crystal, the silver, the china.
They were eating borsch, the
rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates. Half
apologetically General Zaroff said, "We do our best to preserve the
amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses. We are well off the
beaten track, you know. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long
ocean trip?"
"Not in the least,"
declared Rainsford. He was finding the general a most thoughtful and affable
host, a true cosmopolite. But there was one small trait of the general's that
made Rainsford uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the
general studying him, appraising him narrowly.
"Perhaps," said General
Zaroff, "you were surprised that I recognized your name. You see, I read
all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one
passion in my life, Mr. Rainsford, and it is the hunt."
"You have some wonderful
heads here," said Rainsford as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet
mignon --the perfect blend of seared outside and pink center. He worked his
tongue around the fleshy meat and its juices to say, "That Cape buffalo is
the largest I ever saw."
"Oh, that fellow. Yes, he
was a monster."
"Did he charge you?"
"Hurled me against a
tree," said the general. "Fractured my skull. But I got the
brute."
"I've always thought,"
said Rainsford, "that the Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big
game."
For a moment the general did not
reply; he was smiling his curious red-lipped smile. Then he said slowly,
"No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big
game." He sipped his wine. "Here in my preserve on this island,"
he said in the same slow tone, "I hunt more dangerous game."
Rainsford expressed his surprise.
"Is there big game on this island?"
The general nodded. "The
biggest."
"Really?"
"Oh, it isn't here
naturally, of course. I have to stock the island."
"What have you imported,
general?" Rainsford asked. "Tigers?"
The general smiled. "In the
past, yes" he said. "But hunting tigers ceased to interest me some
years ago. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers,
no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. Rainsford."
The general took from his pocket
a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a
silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense.
"We will have some capital
hunting, you and I," said the general. "I shall be most glad to have
your society."
"But what game--" began
Rainsford.
"I'll tell you," said
the general. "You will be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all
modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I
pour you another glass of port?"
"Thank you, general."
The general filled both glasses,
and said, "God makes some men poets. Some He makes kings, some beggars. Me
He made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a
very rich man with a quarter of a million acres in the Crimea, and he was an
ardent sportsman. When I was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially
made in Moscow for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize
turkeys with it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I
killed my first bear in the Caucasus when I was ten. My whole life has been one
prolonged hunt. I went into the army--it was expected of noblemen's sons--and
for a time commanded a division of Cossack cavalry, but my real interest was
always the hunt. I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be
impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have killed."
The general puffed at his
cigarette.
"After
the debacle in Russia I left the country, for it was imprudent for an officer
of the Czar to stay there. Many noble Russians lost everything. I, luckily, had
invested heavily in American securities, so I shall never have to open a
tearoom in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in Paris. Naturally, I continued to hunt
--grizzliest in your Rockies, crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East
Africa. It was in Africa that the Cape buffalo hit me and laid me up for six
months. As soon as I recovered I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I
had heard they were unusually cunning. They weren't." The Cossack sighed.
"They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him, and a
high-powered rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a
splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my
mind. Hunting was beginning to bore me!” The general’s long arms crossed over
his heart, “And hunting, remember, had been my life. I have heard that in
America businessmen often go to pieces when they give up the business that has
been their life."
"Yes, that's so," said
Rainsford.
The general smiled. "I had
no wish to go to pieces," he said. "I must do something. Now, mine is
an analytical mind, Mr. Rainsford. Doubtless that is why I enjoy the problems
of the chase."
"No doubt, General
Zaroff."
"So," continued the
general, "I asked myself why the hunt no longer fascinated me. You are
much younger than I am, Mr. Rainsford, and have not hunted as much, but you
perhaps can guess the answer."
Rainsford shook his head
politely, "I would rather not guess and make a fool of myself. Share if
you will. What was that stole from you the adventure of the hunt?"
The general carefully positioned
his palms to either side of his plate and spoke to Rainsford like a master
whose apprentice has much to learn. "Simply this: hunting had ceased to be
what you call ‘a sporting proposition.' It had become too easy. I always got my
quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection."
The general lit a fresh
cigarette.
"No animal had a chance with
me anymore. That is no boast; it is a mathematical certainty. The animal had
nothing but his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I
thought of this it was a tragic moment for me, I can tell you."
Rainsford leaned across the
table, absorbed in what his host was saying.
"It came to me as an
inspiration what I must do," the general went on.
"And that was?"
The general smiled the quiet
smile of one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success. "I
had to invent a new animal to hunt," he said.
"A new animal? You're
joking."
"Not at all," said the
general. "I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one.
So I bought this island built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island
is perfect for my purposes--there are jungles with a maze of traits in them,
hills, swamps--"
"But the animal, General
Zaroff?"
"Oh," said the general,
"it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in the world. No other
hunting compares with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow
bored now, for I have a quarry with which I can match my wits."
Rainsford's bewilderment showed
in his face.
"I wanted the ideal animal
to hunt," explained the general. "So I said, ‘What are the attributes
of an ideal quarry?' And the answer was, of course, `It must have courage,
cunning, and, above all, it must be able to reason."'
"But no animal can reason,"
objected Rainsford.
"My dear fellow," said
the general, again mentor to a slow-developing pupil, "there is one that
can."
"But you can't mean--"
gasped Rainsford.
"And why not?"
"I can't believe you are
serious, General Zaroff. This is a grisly joke."
"Why should I not be
serious? I am speaking of hunting."
"Hunting? Great Guns,
General Zaroff, what you speak of is murder."
The general laughed with entirely
good nature. He regarded Rainsford quizzically. "I refuse to believe that
so modern and civilized a young man as you seems to harbor romantic ideas about
the value of human life. Surely your experiences in the war--"
"Did not make me condone
cold-blooded murder," finished Rainsford stiffly.
Laughter shook the general.
"How extraordinarily droll you are!" he said. "One does not
expect nowadays to find a young man of the educated class, even in America,
with such a naive, and, if I may say so, mid-Victorian point of view. It's like
finding a snuffbox in a
limousine.
Ah, well, doubtless you had Puritan ancestors. So many Americans appear to have
had. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when you go hunting with me. You've
a genuine new thrill in store for you, Mr. Rainsford."
"Thank you, I'm a hunter,
not a murderer."
"Dear me," said the
general, quite unruffled, "again that unpleasant word. But I think I can
show you that your scruples are quite ill-founded."
"Yes?"
"Life is for the strong, to
be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong. The weak of the
world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not
use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth:
sailors from trampships, lassars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels --a
thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them."
"But they are men,"
said Rainsford hotly.
"Precisely," said the
general. "That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason,
after a fashion. So they are dangerous."
Surprising himself, Rainsford
blurted, "But where do you get them?"
The general's left eyelid
fluttered down in a wink. "This island is called Ship Trap," he
answered. "Sometimes an angry god of the high seas sends them to me.
Sometimes, when Providence is not so kind, I help Providence a bit. Come to the
window with me."
He considered staying put but
some combination of the general’s spirit and his own curiosity pulled him in
tow. Rainsford went to the window with its recessed alcove and looked out
toward the sea.
"Watch! Out there!"
exclaimed the general, pointing into the night. Rainsford's eyes saw only
blackness, and then, as the general signaled to Ivan, far out to sea Rainsford
saw the flash of lights.
The general chuckled. "They
indicate a channel," he said, "where there's none; giant rocks with
razor edges crouch like a sea monster with wide-open jaws. They can crush a
ship as easily as I crush this nut." He dropped a walnut on the hardwood
floor and brought his heel grinding down on it. "Oh, yes," he said,
casually, as if in answer to a question, "I have electricity. We try to be
civilized here."
"Civilized? And you shoot
down men?"
A trace of anger was in the
general's black eyes, but it was there for but a second; and he said, in his
most pleasant manner, "Dear me, what a righteous young man you are! I
assure you I do not do the thing you suggest. That would be barbarous. I treat
these visitors with every
consideration.
They get plenty of good food and exercise. They get into splendid physical
condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow."
Growing more disgusted with
himself by turns, Rainsford’s inquisitiveness again had him indulging the
general. "What do you mean?"
"We'll visit my training
school," smiled the general. "It's in the cellar. I have about a
dozen pupils down there now. They're from the Spanish bark San Lucar that had
the bad luck to go on the rocks out there. A very inferior lot, I regret to
say. Poor specimens and more accustomed to the deck than to the jungle."
He raised his hand, and Ivan, who now served as waiter, brought thick Turkish
coffee to the table.
Rainsford, with an effort, held
his tongue in check and they returned to their seats.
"It's a game, you see,"
pursued the general blandly. "I suggest to one of them that we go hunting.
I give him a supply of food and an excellent hunting knife. I give him three
hours start. I am to follow, armed only with a pistol of the smallest caliber
and range. If my quarry eludes me for three whole days, he wins the game. If I
find him” --the general
Smiled
wickedly-- “he loses."
Rainsford pounced on the notion
of it all being a game, "Suppose he refuses to be hunted?"
"Oh," said the general,
"I give him an option, of course. He need not play that game if he doesn't
wish to. If he does not wish to hunt, I turn him over to Ivan. Ivan once had
the honor of serving as official knouter to the Great White Czar, and he has
his own ideas of sport.
Invariably,
Mr. Rainsford, invariably they choose the hunt."
The general smiled as if sharing
a poor joke with an old friend, leisurely stirring his coffee; enjoying the
clarity of the moment.
Rainsford knew that he must have
held the look of a cornered animal. Still, he managed to hold his voice from
cracking and asked, "And if they win?"
The smile on the general's face
widened. "To date I have not lost," he said. Then he added, hastily:
"I don't wish you to think me a braggart, Mr. Rainsford. Many of them
afford only the most elementary sort of problem. Occasionally I strike a
tartar. One almost did win. I eventually had to use the dogs.”
“The dogs?"
"This way, please. I'll show
you."
The general steered Rainsford to a
window. The lights from the windows sent a flickering illumination that made
grotesque patterns on the courtyard below, and Rainsford could see moving about
there a dozen or so huge black shapes; as they turned toward him, their eyes
glittered greenly.
"A rather good lot, I
think," observed the general. "They are let out at seven every night.
If anyone should try to get into my house, he turned to Rainsford, --or out of
it-- something extremely regrettable would occur to him." He hummed a
snatch of song from the Folies Bergere.
"And now," said the general,
"I want to show you my new collection of heads. Will you come with me to
the library?"
"I hope," said Rainsford,
"that you will excuse me tonight, General Zaroff. I'm really not feeling
well."
"Ah, indeed?" the general
inquired solicitously. "Well, I suppose that's only natural, after your
long swim. You need a good, restful night's sleep. Tomorrow you'll feel like a
new man, I'll wager. Then we'll hunt, eh? I've one rather promising
prospect--" Rainsford was hurrying from the room.
"Sorry you can't go with me
tonight," called the general. "I expect rather fair sport--a big,
strong, black. He looks resourceful-- Well, good night, Mr. Rainsford; I hope
you have a good night's rest."
* * *
The bed was good, and the pajamas of the softest silk, and he was
tired in every fiber of his being, but nevertheless Rainsford could not quiet
his brain with the opiate of sleep. He lay, eyes wide open. Once he thought he
heard stealthy steps in the corridor outside his room. He sought to throw open
the door; it would not open. He went to the window and looked out. His room was
high up in one of the towers. The lights of the chateau were out now, and it
was dark and silent; but there was a fragment of sallow moon, and by its wan
light he could see, dimly, the courtyard. There, weaving in and out in the
pattern of shadow, were black, noiseless forms; the hounds heard him at the
window and looked up, expectantly, with their green eyes. Rainsford went back
to the bed and lay down. By many methods he tried to put himself to sleep. He
had achieved a doze when, just as morning began to come, he heard, far off in
the jungle, the faint report of a pistol.
General
Zaroff did not appear until luncheon. When he did arrive, he was dressed
faultlessly in the tweeds of a country squire. A manservant previously unseen
by Rainsford, quickly placed a linen in his lap as Zaroff held his arms high
enough up to accommodate. When his servant withdrew, he looked down the table
and promptly became solicitous about the state of Rainsford's health. “Why, Mr.
Rainsford, from here you look peaked. Were my accommodations not comfortable to
you?”
Rainsford,
however, was in no mood for feigned concern and let the dark circles of his
eyes be answer for him.
Nonplussed,
the general sighed, "I too do not feel so well. I am worried, Mr.
Rainsford. Last night I detected traces of my old complaint."
At this, Rainsford directed a questioning glance.
The general said, "Ennui. Boredom." Then, taking a
second helping of crêpes Suzette, he explained: "The hunting
was not good last night. The fellow lost his head. He made a straight trail
that offered no problems at all. That's the trouble with these sailors; they
have dull brains to begin with, and they do not know how to get about in the
woods. They do excessively stupid and obvious things. It's most annoying. Will
you have another glass of Chablis, Mr. Rainsford?"
The
time for games was finished.
"General," said Rainsford firmly, "I wish to leave
this island. At once."
The
general raised his thickets of eyebrows; he seemed hurt. "But, my dear
fellow," the general protested, "you've only just come. You've had no
hunting--"
"I wish to go today," said Rainsford. He saw the dead
black eyes of the general on him, studying him. General Zaroff's face suddenly
brightened and he slipped away from his stately seat.
He stopped, full height, before Rainsford and stared down on him
for a moment. His mustache twitched and he gave him that knowing wink he’d seen
before. Reaching to his right he snatched a dusty bottle and filled Rainsford's
glass with an august Chablis. He then flicked a finger across the
Rainsford’s glass, and sauntered back to his seat, while it chimed.
Leaving no trace of argument, he said, "Tonight, we will hunt
--you and I."
Rainsford put on hand on the brim of his, still ringing, cup and
slowly shook his head. "No, general," he said. "I will not
hunt."
The general shrugged his shoulders and delicately ate a hothouse
grape. "As you wish, my friend," he said. "The choice rests
entirely with you. But may I not venture to suggest that you will find my idea
of sport more diverting than Ivan's?"
He nodded toward the corner to where the giant stood, scowling,
his thick arms crossed on his hogshead of chest.
"You don't mean--" cried Rainsford.
"My dear fellow," said the general, "have I not
told you I always mean what I say about hunting? This is really an inspiration.
I drink to a foeman worthy of my steel --at last." The general raised his
glass, but Rainsford sat staring at him.
"You'll find this game worth playing," the general said
enthusiastically." Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine.
Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not
without value, eh?"
"And if I win--" began Rainsford huskily.
"I'll cheerfully acknowledge myself defeated if I do not find
you by midnight of the third day," said General Zaroff. "My sloop
will place you on the mainland near a town." The general read what
Rainsford was thinking.
"Oh, you can trust me," said the Cossack. "I will
give you my word as a gentleman and a sportsman. Of course you, in turn, must
agree to say nothing of your visit here."
"I'll agree to nothing of the kind," said Rainsford.
"Oh," said the general, "in that case-- But why
discuss that now? Three days hence we can discuss it over a bottle of Veuve
Cliquot, unless--"
The general sipped his wine.
Then a businesslike air animated him. "Ivan," he said to
Rainsford, "will supply you with hunting clothes, food, a knife. I suggest
you wear moccasins; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, that you avoid
the big swamp in the southeast corner of the island. We call it Death Swamp.
There's quicksand there. One foolish fellow tried it. The deplorable part of it
was that Lazarus followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Rainsford. I
loved Lazarus; he was the finest hound in my pack. The general looked truly
distraught for several seconds, before waving it away.
“Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always take a siesta
after lunch. You'll hardly have time for a nap, I fear. You'll want to start,
no doubt. I shall not follow till dusk. Hunting at night is so much more
exciting than by day, don't you think? Au revoir, Mr. Rainsford, au
revoir." General Zaroff, with a deep, courtly bow, strolled from the room.
Stunned by the reality of his situation, Rainsford mumbled weakly,
“Adieu,” and turned to see Ivan coming toward him from another door. Under one
arm he carried khaki hunting clothes, a haversack of food, and a leather sheath
containing a long-bladed hunting knife; his right hand rested on a cocked
revolver thrust in the crimson sash about his waist.
The surreal quality of Rainsford’s
situation suddenly pushed him outside of his body. From the door he’d used to
enter the room, he watched as a glum version of himself stood slowly to look
into the beard of a towering Ivan. He read well language of his face and body:
it blared his fight or flight dilemma in how he struggled to keep his feet
firm, peeked to Ivan’s revolver, and scanned the room for points of egress. As
remarkable, he observed Ivan’s bushy countenance as it pulled in on itself,
while his hairy hand encircled the revolver in his sash.
Rainsford saw the indecision of
He looked on that man, faced with a grim decision, and he pitied
him.
Rainsford had fought his way through the bush for two hours.
"I must keep my nerve. I must keep my nerve," he said through tight
teeth.
He had not been entirely clearheaded when the chateau gates
snapped shut behind him. His whole idea at first was to put distance between
himself and General Zaroff; and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on
by the sharp rowers of something very like panic.
Now he had got a grip on himself, had stopped, and was taking
stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile;
inevitably it would bring him face to face with the sea. He was in a picture
with a frame of water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within that
frame.
"I'll give him a trail to follow," muttered Rainsford,
and he struck off from the rude path he had been following into the trackless
wilderness. He executed a series of intricate loops; he doubled on his trail
again and again, recalling all the lore of the fox hunt, and all the dodges of
the fox. He felt confident no single man could undo the chaotic maze he’d
inscribe on the land.
Night found him leg-weary, with hands and face lashed by the
branches, on a thickly wooded ridge. He knew it would be insane to blunder on
through the dark, even if he had the strength. His need for rest was imperative
and he thought, "I have played the fox, now I must play the cat of the
fable." A big tree with a thick trunk and outspread branches was nearby,
and, taking care to leave not the slightest mark, he climbed up into the
crotch, and, stretching out on one of the broad limbs, after a fashion, rested.
Rest brought him new confidence and almost a feeling of security. Even so
zealous a hunter as General Zaroff could not trace him there, he told himself;
only the devil himself could follow that complicated trail through the jungle
after dark. But perhaps the general was a devil—
An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake and
sleep did not visit Rainsford, although the silence of a dead world was on the
jungle. Toward morning when a dingy gray was varnishing the sky, the cry of
some startled bird focused Rainsford's attention in that direction. Something
was coming through the bush, coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same
winding way Rainsford had come. He flattened himself down on the limb and,
through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he watched…. That which
was approaching was a man.
Impossible, Rainsford pled within. But, he knew –unequivocally- it
was General Zaroff. The general made his way along with his eyes fixed in
utmost concentration on the ground before him. He paused, almost beneath the
tree, dropped to his knees and studied the ground. Rainsford's impulse was to
hurl himself down like a panther, but he saw that the general's right hand held
something metallic --a small automatic pistol. Even so, he weighed the idea of
throwing himself down into the abyss that was the general. Once more, he
vacated his shell from a vantage that let him see the pressure of the spot he
lay in. Spring down or hold steady which choice would have the man in the tree
survive?
The hunter shook his head several times, as if he were puzzled.
Then he straightened up and took from his case one of his black cigarettes; its
pungent incense-like smoke floated up to Rainsford's nostrils, thrusting him
back within himself. Hold your spot until positively provoked and you’ll live
to see him wander off, he thought. But he knew his thinking held the
desperation of a man who knew better.
Rainsford held his breath. The general's eyes had left the ground
and were traveling inch by inch up the tree. Rainsford froze there, every
muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped before
they reached the limb where Rainsford lay; a smile spread over his brown face.
Very deliberately he blew a smoke ring into the air; then he turned his back on
the tree and walked carelessly away, back along the trail he had come. The
swish of the underbrush against his hunting boots grew fainter and fainter.
The pent-up air burst hotly from Rainsford's lungs. His first
thought made him feel sick and numb. The general could follow a trail through
the woods at night; he could follow an extremely difficult trail; he must have
uncanny powers; only by the merest chance had the Cossack failed to see his
quarry.
Rainsford's second thought was even more terrible. It sent a
shudder of cold horror through his whole being. Why had the general smiled? Why
had he turned back?
Rainsford did not want to believe what his reason told him was
true, but the truth was as evident as the sun that had by now pushed through
the morning mists. The general was playing with him! The general was saving him
for another day's sport! The Cossack was the cat; he was the mouse. Then it was
that Rainsford knew the full meaning of terror.
"I will not lose my nerve. I will not." His words came
in spitted bursts for he still clutched his chest tightly against the tree’s
limb.
When Rainsford calmed, he slid
down from the tree, and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and
he forced the machinery of his mind to function –no small feat for the sun
scorched him whenever he escaped the protecting shades. Three hundred yards
from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on
a smaller, living one. Throwing off his sack of food, Rainsford took his knife
from its sheath and began to work with all his energy.
The job
was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen log a hundred
feet away. He did not have to wait long. The cat was
coming
again to play with the mouse.
Following
the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came General
Zaroff.
Nothing escaped those searching black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent
twig, no mark, no matter how faint, in the moss. So intent was the Cossack on
his stalking that he was upon the thing Rainsford had made before he saw it.
His foot touched the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched
it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back with the agility of an ape.
But he was not quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest
on the cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a glancing blow on
the shoulder as it fell; but for his alertness, he must have been smashed
beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor did he drop his revolver. He
stood there, rubbing his injured shoulder, and Rainsford, with fear again
gripping his heart, heard the general's mocking laugh ring through the jungle.
"Rainsford,"
called the general, "if you are within sound of my voice, as I suppose you
are, let me congratulate you. Not many men know how to make a Malay
man-catcher. Luckily for me I, too, have hunted in Malacca. You are proving
interesting, Mr. Rainsford. I am going now to have my wound dressed; it's only
a slight one. But I shall be back. I shall be back."
When the
general, nursing his bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainsford took up his flight
again. It was flight now, a desperate, hopeless flight that carried him on for
some hours. Dusk came, then darkness, and still he pressed on. The ground grew
softer under his moccasins; the vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit him
savagely.
Then, as
he stepped forward, his foot sank into the ooze. He tried to wrench it back,
but the muck sucked viciously at his foot as if it were a giant leech. With a
violent effort, he tore his feet loose. He knew where he was now. Death Swamp
and its quicksand.
His hands
were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that someone in the
darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softness of the earth had given
him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a dozen feet or so and, like
some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig.
Rainsford
had dug himself in in France when a second's delay meant
death.
That had been a placid pastime compared to his digging now. The
pit grew
deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and from some hard
saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point. These stakes he planted
in the bottom of the pit with the points sticking up. With flying fingers he
wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it he covered the mouth of
the pit. Then, wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the
stump of a lightning-charred tree.
He knew his pursuer was coming;
he heard the padding sound of feet on the soft earth, and the night breeze
brought him the perfume of the general's cigarette. It seemed to Rainsford that
the general was coming with unusual swiftness; he was not feeling his way
along, foot by foot.
Rainsford, crouching there, could
not see the general, nor could he see the pit. He lived a year in a minute.
Then he felt an impulse to cry aloud with joy, for he heard the sharp crackle
of the breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp
scream of pain as the pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his
place of concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a man was
standing, with an electric torch in his hand.
"You've done well,
Rainsford," the voice of the general called. "Your Burmese tiger pit
has claimed one of my best dogs. Again you score. I think, Mr. Rainsford, I’ll
see what you can do against my whole pack. I'm going home for a rest now. Thank
you for a most amusing evening."
* * *
At daybreak Rainsford, lying near
the swamp, was awakened by a sound that made him know that he had new things to
learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it.
It was the baying of a pack of hounds.
Rainsford knew he could do one of
two things. He could stay where he was and wait. That was suicide. He could
flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment he stood there,
thinking. An idea that held a wild chance came to him, and, tightening his
belt, he headed away from the swamp. The baying of the hounds drew nearer,
then still nearer,
nearer,
ever nearer.
On a ridge Rainsford climbed a
tree. Down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush
moving. Straining his eyes, he saw the lean figure of General Zaroff; just
ahead of him Rainsford made out another figure whose wide shoulders surged
through the tall jungle weeds; it was the giant Ivan, and he seemed pulled
forward by some unseen force; Rainsford knew that Ivan must be holding the pack
in leash.
They would be on him any minute
now. His mind worked frantically. He thought of a native trick he had learned
in Uganda. He slid down the tree. He caught hold of a springy young sapling and
to it he fastened his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail;
with a bit of wild grapevine he tied back the sapling. The tension on the line
was as taut as that throughout his being. Would his rudimentary trap work, he
wondered as he ran for his life. The hounds raised their voices as they hit the
fresh scent. Rainsford knew now how an animal at bay feels.
He had to stop to get his breath;
between huffs, he noticed the baying of the hounds stopped abruptly, and
Rainsford's heart stopped too. They must have reached the knife. What other
explanation was there for why they slowed their chase?
He shinned excitedly up a tree
and looked back. His pursuers had stopped. But the hope that was in Rainsford's
brain when he climbed died, for he saw in the shallow valley that General
Zaroff was still on his feet.
Ivan, however, was not.
Rainsford’s knife, driven by the
recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed. Rainsford had hardly
tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again. Now the collective
barks of the dogs felt more menacing, for they’d smelled freshly spilt blood
and were driven to madness because of it.
"Nerve, nerve, nerve!"
he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead.
Ever nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford forced himself on toward that gap. He
reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy
gray stone of the chateau. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed.
Rainsford hesitated. A lone rock tumbled from the edge and he tracked it slowly
to the writhing, snapping waters below.
He heard the hounds.
Then he leaped far out into the
sea….
When the general and his pack
reached the place by the sea, the Cossack stopped. For some minutes he stood
regarding the blue-green expanse of water. He shrugged his shoulders. Then be
sat down, took a drink of brandy from a silver flask, lit a cigarette, and –with
the sea as his accompaniment- hummed a bit from Madame Butterfly.
* * *
General Zaroff had an exceedingly
good dinner in his great paneled dining hall that evening. With it he had a
bottle of Pol Roger and half a bottle of Chambertin. Two slight
annoyances kept him from perfect enjoyment. One was the thought that it would
be difficult to replace Ivan; the other was that his quarry had escaped him; of
course, the American hadn't played the game --so thought the general as he
tasted his after-dinner liqueur.
In his library he read, to soothe
himself, from the works of Marcus Aurelius. At ten he went up to his
bedroom. He was deliciously tired, he said to himself, as he locked himself in.
There was a little moonlight, so, before turning on his light, he went to the
window and looked down at the courtyard. He could see the great hounds, and he
called, "Better luck another time," to them. Then he switched on the
light.
A man, who had been hiding in the
curtains of the bed, was standing there.
"Rainsford!" screamed
the general. "How in God's name did you get here?"
"Swam," said Rainsford.
"I found it quicker than walking through the jungle."
The general sucked in his breath
and smiled. "I congratulate you," he said. "You have won the
game."
Rainsford did not smile. "I
am still a beast at bay," he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Get
ready, General Zaroff."
The general made one of his
deepest bows. "I see," he said. "Splendid! One of us is to
furnish a repast for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent
bed. On guard, Rainsford." . . .
He had never slept in a better
bed, Rainsford decided.