The Most Dangerous Game
by Richard Connell
"OFF THERE to the right--somewhere--is a large island," said Whitney." It's rather a mystery--"
"What island is it?" Rainsford asked.
"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.
"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 Rainsford. "Ugh! 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 good 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. The world is made up of two
classes--the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are
hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet?"
"I can't tell in the dark. I hope so."
"Why? " asked Rainsford.
"The place has a reputation--a bad one."
"Cannibals?" suggested Rainsford.
"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. 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.
"There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window.
We were drawing near the island then. What I felt was a--a mental
chill; a sort of sudden dread."
"Pure imagination," said Rainsford.
"One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with
his fear."
"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 wave lengths, 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."
"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 but 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. The sensuous drowsiness of the night was on him."
It's so dark," he thought, "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 coolheadedness
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 was 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 be 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 Rainsford 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 sharpcut 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 twoscore 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 apointments
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. " 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. "No," he said. "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! 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."
"What was it?"
"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 any more. 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, "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 entire good nature. He regarded Rainsford
quizzically. "I refuse to believe that so modern and civilized a
young man as you seem to be harbors 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 tramp ships--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."
"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."
Rainsford went to the window 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
pressed a button, 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."
"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 served as waiter, brought thick
Turkish coffee. Rainsford, with an effort, held his tongue in
check.
"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--" he loses."
"Suppose he refuses to be hunted?"
"Oh," said the general, "I give him his 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."
"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--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. He was dressed
faultlessly in the tweeds of a country squire. He was solicitous
about the state of Rainsford's health.
"As for me," sighed the general, "I do not feel so well. I am
worried, Mr. Rainsford. Last night I detected traces of my old
complaint."
To Rainsford's questioning glance the general said, "Ennui.
Boredom."
Then, taking a second helping of crêpes Suzette, the
general 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?"
"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.
He filled Rainsford's glass with venerable Chablis from a
dusty bottle.
"Tonight," said the general, "we will hunt--you and I."
Rainsford 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 defeat 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. 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.
From another door came Ivan. Under one arm he carried khaki hunting
clothes, a haversack of food, 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.
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. 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
near by, 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.
It was General Zaroff. He 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.
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 incenselike smoke floated up to Rainsford's
nostrils.
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."
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. 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 mancatcher. 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, Ill 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. Then 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. The baying of the hounds stopped
abruptly, and Rainsford's heart stopped too. They must have reached
the knife.
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. But Ivan was not. The 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.
"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. 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 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.