The Most Dangerous Game
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.
