Part 4

"It's over that way," rising and gesturing toward the southeast.

I tried to protest against this plan, but the Colorado cow-girl was already several yards away.

"That's all right; meet you later at the ranch," she cried, turning for a moment before she plunged into the thicket. "But first," she added, with almost maternal solicitude, "I think I'll just look around and see if I can't find that little speckled heifer."

In a Tiger Trap.

BY CHARLES EDWARD BARNS.

The royal Malay tiger is no gentleman. If he were, the following would never have been told.

Punda-Tsang was an innkeeper. He was sole proprietor of the Ballawari-Dâk, which is a very big name for a very small native hotel about sixty miles north of Penang, and on the high road to the hunting-steppes of the Bukit, or hill-country. The quaint little hospice clung to the mountain side like a swallow's nest, high over the jungle-bedded Sungei, whose foaming, crashing torrents came down from the upper mountains like an endless charge of white cavalry to the sea. Punda was a good sort of a Malay, which means a bad sort of anything else. That is, he would plunder only on the securest principles, and never quarrel with a bigger man nor a better armed one than he. In this he differed from other Malays, who would plunder and knife upon no principle or provocation whatever, if they thought there was a ten-anna piece in the job.

But a deeper reading of this prosperous boniface of the jungles revealed the fact that he was capable of love,—yes, even a tender, human affection; and that little Iali, his five-year-old daughter, was the object of a worship in his heart even more fervent than that which he bestowed upon the five home-made clay gods before which, in a dark corner of the Dâk, he burned a vast deal of ill-smelling punk. The second year of Tsang's married life had hardly begun when his beautiful wife was bitten by a yellow viper while gathering healing herbs down in the valley. When they found the poor creature she was dying—with a little new-born babe in her arms. This calamity the bereaved husband regarded as a direct visitation of the clay gods in the corner; only the day before he had robbed a Kling hunter of his rifle, leaving the poor fellow to make his way unarmed down to the sea, where he ran upon a pair of half-starved _kukangs_, a vicious species of Malay chimpanzee, in fleeing from which he fell over the cliff and was dashed to pieces. And Punda-Tsang always felt that that yellow viper was sent direct from the land of the judging gods to avenge the blood of the poor Kling hunter. But there was one thing that mitigated the harshness of this vengeance,—the presence of the little child, whom he tenderly cherished, and whom he had called Iali, which is to say "forgiven." But even were not the little creature a messenger of forgiveness to the penitent savage heart, she was more than worthy his worship and love,—this child of the tropic forest, restless and agile as a young panther, with lustrous black eyes and a wild, wayward nature, much spoiled by the wayfarers and fawned upon by the coolies that swarmed about the compound.

One day two British naval officers stopped at the Dâk on their way down from a hunt in the hill country. We were seated under the palms before the bungalow after tiffin, smoking cheroots, while I listened to their exploits with interest. Suddenly four native Malays approached, wheeling a live tiger in a clumsy wooden cage, and halted before the Dâk. They were going to dispose of him to a naturalist down on the coast, who had a method of killing and stuffing animals by which the marvelous luster of their skins was preserved. The forest king was certainly a magnificent specimen. If you have never seen a live tiger fresh from the jungles, take my word for it, the ordinary caged tiger at the Zoo is as much like the former as canned strawberries are like the fresh, lustrous fruit of June. The Englishmen evidently thought so, too, as they concluded to buy him, and swear that they had captured him, and then to present the beast to the London Zoo. They bought the animal for forty Mexican dollars, sent the natives back rejoicing, and started down towards the coast, while Punda-Tsang, not contented with exacting fifty per cent commission from the poor fellows for using his Dâk for a tiger mart, committed the meanest act of his life. He slyly sawed one of the cage bars nearly through in four places. Then he went to work planning to waylay the tiger on his way back to his haunts after he should break loose, which he knew would happen before the Englishmen could get many miles down the valley. He quietly pursued his planning until late that night, when he heard upon good authority that the tiger had broken jail and nearly killed one of his owners. Then he prepared to put his plans into action.

Here we reach the illustration of the first-mentioned fact, of which Tsang was ready to take advantage: that the Malay tiger is no gentleman. He knew that the beast will never walk up leisurely and take his bite like a smooth and oily clubman at a free lunch, but that the very instant that he smells blood he will drop flat, and, even if the feast is a mile away, will begin a slow, creeping journey towards it, wasting hours, perhaps, and working up a terrific hunger in the meantime. When he has approached within twenty feet of the prize, quivering with desire and terrible with greed, he will leap into the air like a cannon ball and plunge down upon his victim. Punda-Tsang knew all this; so he dug a pit down the valley, constructed a network of branches over it, and laid the quarter of a bullock upon it. Then he waited for the tiger to scent the blood and make his slow, crawling journey, knowing that when he made the grand twenty-foot leap he would go crashing through the network into the pit below. Then Tsang planned he would starve the beast, let down a cage baited with more fresh meat, and, sliding the bars from above, haul the captured tiger out and sell him over again. All of this might have happened, but it didn't. Events somewhat stranger and more terrible for Punda-Tsang interfered, doubtless as another direct visitation of the vengeance of the little clay gods in the bungalow corner, half concealed in clouds of punk-smoke.

As little Iali was the innkeeper's constant solace and companion, she went with him to the pit-digging, her father explaining to her the manner of capturing the "four-footed jungle-god," which facts, instead of frightening the child, only helped to increase the stock of her play gods and demons which she molded deftly from the red clay of the ravine. With the appearance of the new moon, that mascot of the Orientals, the pit was baited. For two days nothing was heard of the tiger, and Punda-Tsang began to fear that he had gone back to the hills by another route.

On the afternoon of the third day I sat on the cliff's edge, watching the mists rise from the roaring river bottom, a phenomenon which always accompanies the closing day. Suddenly there was a great shuffling of sandals about the compound, and I knew something extraordinary was taking place. I turned quickly; the big form of Punda-Tsang, the innkeeper, burst upon me suddenly, his flat face as pallid as a demon's, ferocious, but with the ferocity of nameless fear.

"Iali!" cried he hoarsely. "Have you seen Iali?"

"No!" I replied, almost in a whisper. He did not wait, but sped towards the so-called bullock-sheds, which were really caves cut in the solid rock beyond the Dâk. I had become attached to the child, whose marvelous beauty had charmed, and whose weird ways mystified me. But I had never been alone with her, knowing that any accident happening to Iali while in my keeping would result seriously for me—perhaps cost me my life. The coolies were flying hither and thither, making the air ring with their loud wails. Such agitation on the part of these vagabonds roused me to a realization of the child's danger. Suddenly I turned my eyes and thoughts in the direction of the ravine where the tiger trap lay. I recalled vividly the child's interest in the "jungle-god" who was to be captured in the deep pit; and, knowing the little creature's absolute fearlessness, thought that, acting upon some childish impulse, she might have strayed down the narrow path to the pit. Meanwhile the wailing about me increased.

I dropped over the ledge, soon reaching the pathway by a short route. As I penetrated the jungle, now suffused with mist in the ruby glow of the expiring day, I realized with what risks to myself I was entering this dangerous spot, all unarmed. I was still debating whether or not to return for a weapon of defense, when, as I leaped over a soft spot in the red clay, I saw two footprints that shot terror into my heart; one was that of a mammoth tiger, the other belonged to a little child. I dropped down beside them. No. There was no mistaking them, so clear and fresh were both. I rose to my feet, my head whirling, my ears half-deafened by the noise of the jungle insects and the increasing roar of that river beyond. Then I crept forward, scarcely daring to breathe, my heart beating faster and faster with apprehension.

The distance to that tiger pit seemed to be doubled, and the time that elapsed before reaching it everlasting. The crackling of the leaves and twigs on the moss beneath my feet added to my trepidations. Almost before I realized it I had reached the big trap, and then halted short, thrilled by the sound of something human. I looked up. Through the deepening mists and intervening boughs I saw the little child-figure of Iali creeping out upon the withered branches over the pit. For the instant I had no power to move, nor dared I speak, lest, overcome with sudden fright, the frail little one might lose her foothold. Suddenly a new horror disclosed itself. What were those two glaring, cold, yet fiery points just beyond the pit, burning their way through the shadows? My God! It was the tiger. He was lying flat on the ground, couchant, paws extended, quivering, ready for the fatal spring.

In moments like these one's reasoning powers become super-human. I saw that in all probability either Iali or I was to be sacrificed, which one depended merely upon the caprice of the wild beast. I had heard that the calm, steady, fearless stare of a human is more terrifying to wild animals than guns that kill. On the instant I resolved to practise it; it was my only expedient. So I stared at those two coldly bright and glowing points of light like a madman, without a quiver, without a doubt.

Suddenly I saw the little figure waver on the dead branches over the mouth of the pit, and then—oh, horrors! with a weak cry poor little Iali had lost her foothold and slipped slowly through the yielding boughs into the cave beneath. For a moment all was silent. Then I heard her childish prattle. The soft sand had broken Iali's fall and saved her life, while I was brought face to face with the most awful problem of my life. For what seemed hours, I stood like a pillar of stone, the sweat pouring down my neck, my tongue hot and parched. One show of fear would, I knew, be fatal. The "jungle-gods" are keen, like demons, measuring strength with man. How long could I keep up this maddening strain?—how long force upon the king-beast this illusion of my superior will?

Suddenly, as I stood like one in a trance, facing this growing problem, I was conscious of a stir in the reeds and underbrush at my right hand. Though the sound caused me to tremble, I dared not take my eyes from the crouching monster beyond. The next instant, a strange, huge shape crept stealthily out of the underwood, and advanced into the clearing toward the pit,—a ponderous black monster with the body of a beast, but lifting through the grass the head and shoulders of a human colossus. It was a mammoth orang-outang!

The tiger crouched lower. He seemed to be as nonplussed, as stunned by the intrusion of this huge interloper as I was. In motionless silence, he transferred his burning gaze to the mammoth monster.

Advancing to the very edge of the pit, the huge ape slipped, but he recovered. Sly beast! He saw that the branches were only a blind. Then he walked around the edge of the trap, and knelt down like a human being, slowly, deliberately reaching out his long hairy arm till his giant hand clutched that bullock bone. Oh, what joy that calm, providential deed brought to my heart! Then, to my intense relief, the orang slowly dragged the great mass of flesh off the network of branches upon the solid ground.

For a moment longer the gleam of those two terrible eyes, now like peepholes into hell, followed the unsuspecting pilferer. Then came a rustle, a strange shriek like sudden thunder, a bound, and a roar, and the "jungle-god" had sprung into the air, and came down like a flashing avalanche full upon the broad body of the kneeling orang. A single paw struck the mammoth ape in the small of the back, and never shall I forget the sound of that blow which broke the bones of the orang's spine like a cannon ball. With an almost human groan, the rescuer of my life and hers I came to save gave up the booty, together with his own life. Then the tiger, with a final flash of eyes full into my own, snatched up the carcass of the bullock in his flaming jaws, and slid off into the thick of the jungle.

I have often wondered since how things would have turned out if that tiger _had_ been a gentleman.

The Red-Hot Dollar.

BY H. D. UMBSTAETTER.

It lacked three minutes of five by the big clock in the tower when the east-bound Chicago express rumbled into the station at Buffalo. The train had not yet come to a standstill when a hatless man jumped from the platform of the rear sleeping-car and ran across the tracks into the depot restaurant. A few minutes later he reappeared, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.

With these he hurriedly made his way back to the car through a straggling procession of drowsy tourists, who were taking advantage of the train's five minutes' stop to breathe the crisp morning air. The last of these had already resumed his seat when the man without a hat again appeared at the lunch counter, returned the borrowed dishes, and ordered coffee for himself. He had just picked up the cup and was raising it to his lips when the conductor's "All aboard" rang through the station.

Leaving the coffee untouched, he thrust a five-dollar bill at the attendant, grabbed his change, and started in pursuit of the moving train. He had almost reached it when an unlucky stumble sent the coins in his hand rolling in all directions along the floor. Quickly recovering himself and paying no heed to his loss, he redoubled his efforts, and, though losing ground at every step, kept up the hopeless chase to the end of the station. There he stopped, panting for breath. The slip had proved fatal. He had missed the train!

As he stood staring wildly through the clouds of dust that rose from the track, a young woman, evidently deeply agitated, suddenly appeared in the doorway of the vanishing car. Upon seeing him, she made frantic attempts to leap from the platform, when she was seized by a man and pulled back into the car. When the door had closed upon the two the bareheaded man in the station faced about and philosophically muttered:—

"It's fate!"

Then, after pausing a few moments, as if to collect his thoughts, he slowly retraced his steps to the scene of his mishap and began calmly searching for his lost change. Circling closely about, his eyes scanning the floor, he succeeded in recovering first one and then another of the missing coins, until finally, after repeated rounds, he lacked only one dollar of the whole amount. At this point he paused, clinked the recovered coins in his hand, looked at his watch, and then started on a final round. As this failed to reveal the missing piece, he gave up the search, transferred the contents of his hands to his trousers' pocket, and started in the direction of the telegraph office.

He had proceeded perhaps twenty paces when it occurred to him to turn about and cast one more look along the floor. As he did so his eye fell upon a shining object lodged in an opening between the rail and planked floor, a few feet from where he stood. He stooped to examine it, and, seeing that it was the missing coin, reached for it, but found the opening too narrow to admit his fingers. He tried to recover the piece with his pocket-knife, and, failing in this attempt, took his lead-pencil, with which, after repeated attempts, he succeeded in tossing it upon the floor.

With an air of subdued satisfaction, he walked away, and was about to convey the coin to his pocket when a sudden impulse led him to examine it. Holding it up before his eyes, he stopped, scrutinized every detail, and as he turned it over and over the puzzled look on his face changed to one of rigid astonishment. For fully a minute he stood as if transfixed; then, rousing himself and looking anxiously about as if to see if any one had observed him, he hurried to the cashier's desk in the restaurant, and, producing the bright silver dollar, asked the girl if she happened to remember from whom she received it.

She didn't remember, but would exchange it for another, she said, if he wished. Politely declining the offer and apologizing for having troubled her, he said that, as the coin he held in his hand was separating a loving wife from her husband, he wished very much to find some trace of its former owner. The girl looked up, thought for a moment, then, pulling out the cash drawer, and examining its contents, said she might have received it from the conductor of the Lake Shore express which had left for Cleveland at 3.15. She now recalled that when she came on duty at midnight there was no silver dollar among the change in the cash drawer, and that the only one she remembered receiving was from Sleeping-Car Conductor Parkins.

The man thanked her and hastened to the telegraph office, where he sent this message:—

"CONDUCTOR, EAST BOUND CHICAGO EXPRESS, UTICA, N. Y.

"Please ask lady in section seven of sleeping-car Catawba to await her husband at Delavan House, Albany.

"A. J. HOBART."

After requesting the operator to kindly rush the despatch, he proceeded to the ticket office, procured a seat in the 5.45 fast mail for Cleveland, and, with his hand clutching the coin in his pocket and his eyes fixed upon the floor, meditatively paced up and down the platform, waiting for the train to arrive.

As he did so he was disconcerted to find himself the object of wide-spread curiosity; even the newsboys with the morning papers favored him with an inquiring stare as they passed. Wondering what was amiss, he suddenly put his hand to his head, which furnished an instant explanation. He was hatless.

Looking at the big clock, he saw that it lacked ten minutes of train time, and, hastily crossing over to the farther track, he disappeared through the west end of the station.

Among the passengers who boarded the 5.45 fast mail for Cleveland when it thundered into the station, ten minutes later, was the bareheaded gentleman of a few minutes ago, now wearing a stylish derby. Once in the train, he settled himself in his seat with a sigh of relief and satisfaction. Not until then did the really remarkable character of the situation dawn upon him. On the very day which he had hailed as one of the happiest of his life he was traveling at the rate of about sixty miles an hour away from the girl he loved devotedly and to whom he had been married just seventeen hours. A queer opening of his honeymoon! In his anxiety to get a cup of coffee for his wife, he had lost his hat, then lost his change, and, lastly, lost the train.

Why did he not follow his bride at once? What mysterious spell had come upon this seventeen-hour bridegroom that he should fly from her as swiftly as the fast express could carry him? His hand held the solution of the problem—simple, yet unexplainable—a silver dollar! It held the secret he must unravel before he could return to her; it was not then that he loved her less, but that this bit of precious metal had suddenly developed an occult power that had turned their paths, for the present, in opposite directions.

At the first stopping place he sent another message, which read as follows:—

"MRS. A. J. HOBART, Delavan House, Albany, N. Y.

"Cannot possibly reach Albany before to-morrow morning.

"ANSEL."

With his brain filled with excited thoughts, the young man entered the sleeping-car office at Cleveland four hours later and asked for Conductor Parkins. He was told that this official would not be on duty before night, though possibly he might be at his home on St. Clair Street.

To the address given him the indefatigable young man repaired at once, and found the genial gentleman for whom he sought breakfasting with his family. He kindly gave audience at once to his visitor.

"This coin, which you gave the cashier of the restaurant in Buffalo," said the latter, revealing it in the palm of his hand; "can you tell me from whom you received it?"

Parkins remembered receiving cash from but two passengers the night before, one a traveling man who got off in Cleveland, and the other a woman whose destination was Erie. The stranger might ascertain their names by consulting the car diagram at the ticket office. "You seem interested in the coin," he added, smiling.

"I am, for a good reason," laughed the young man in reply. "It is separating a man from his wife." And with these engimatical words he made his adieu, with thanks, hastened to the ticket office, and an hour later was scouring the city for one Richard Spears.

The register of the Stillman House contained the freshly written name of "Richard Spears, Providence, R. I.," but that gentleman, when found in his room showing samples of hardware to a prospective buyer, regretted that he could not throw any light on the particular dollar his visitor held up to his gaze, and remembered distinctly that he had given the conductor a two-dollar bill in payment for his berth. He came from a section, he said, where people took no stock in silver dollars.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when a man got off the train at Erie and inquired of the cabmen and depot master regarding a lady who had arrived on the early train from Buffalo. An hour later he was driving along a country road some miles south of the town inquiring for the Wickliffe farm.

As he finally drove up to the house which was his destination he was conscious of a strange excitement. This, he realized, was probably his only remaining chance to trace the coin by whose mysterious power he had been drawn into this wild chase with the hope of identifying its former owner. He took a hasty note of the general features of the place. It had a comfortable, well-to-do look; a two-story house, white, with green blinds. Most of these were closed, as is customary with country houses, but the windows at the right of the big front door, opening on a small porch, were shaded only by white curtains. There was a sound of voices within as he stepped up to the door and rapped.

Mrs. Wickliffe, a pleasant-faced little woman, sat surrounded by three children and a neighbor's wife, to whom she was displaying some purchases. As one of the children opened the door, admitting the stranger into this animated scene, she was standing before a mirror trying on a new bonnet, which was eliciting extravagant praises from the neighbor.