Part 3

The next morning we tumbled from under our mosquito-nets and, after a hasty breakfast, made a start. Corker had already sent on our arms, which, in addition to our shooting impedimenta and flaying-knives, consisted of a case of soda-water, a block of swathed ice, and two bottles of what Corker called "milk," to neutralize the effects of the swamp for which we were bound.

Mounting our native ponies, we rode down through the plantation by a short cut. Through tobacco fields and fields of guinea grass as high as our saddles, and down hill-sides as steep as the roof of a house, dodging palms and banana trees _en route_, our ponies took us, never faltering or making a false step, until, after a three-mile ride, we arrived at Constant Spring. At this place we sent back our mounts and did the remaining six miles into Kingston on an up-to-date electric tram-car.

Through the hot, dusty suburbs, past crowds of native women on their way to market, their heads laden with produce, their bare feet padding the scorched road, past dismantled residences with walls torn asunder by the earthquake of a year ago, into the stricken city of Kingston itself our car carried us, until at length we reached the harbour-side and inhaled deep breaths of the grand breeze which comes across the Caribbean Sea.

By eleven o'clock we had ourselves and our gear, together with two black boys, stowed away in a large, open boat. Hoisting our sail, we were soon bowling over the blue waters of Kingston Bay on the way to alligatordom, the cooling breeze tempering the fierce sun-glare.

As usual, Corker was busy describing his phenomenal capacity for conquering the beasts of the field, and would permit no silent revelry in the beauty and joy of the scene. Sitting in the bows of the boat, playing cup and ball with a tumbler and its contents, he gave us innumerable hints as to the best way of stalking alligators, illustrating the success of his methods with several modest stories of what he had achieved at the very spot to which we were bound. I had shot "crocs" myself on the Indian Sunderbunds, but I offered no supplementary yarns, for I knew that Corker could easily cap anything I might say.

However, by the time we had imbibed about as much advice as we could comfortably hold without confusion, we rounded the western point of the bay and found ourselves at the estuary of the Rio Cobre. Up this river, far away from the coast, there are some of the fairest spots on God's earth; but at its mouth it is an inferno well worthy of its description as "Jamaica's death-hole."

A wide stretch of steaming swamp, intersected with inky streams of stinking water, a breeding-place for the fever-propagating mosquito and a home for all the loathsome creeping things of the island, it is almost as bad as some of the pestilential swamps of the West African coast, and seen in its beautiful setting of blue seas and golden beach dotted with graceful green palms, it looks even worse.

But since it held our quarry we were prepared to disregard its hygienic and scenic shortcomings, so we ran our craft on to a bank inshore, and, clambering out, waded through the warm sea to the rotting vegetation and repulsive mud and slime of the delta.

Fixing our rendezvous on a fairly dry spot close to our landing-place, we arranged our plan of action. At this juncture Corker very generously offered to stay behind to see that the boat and the "milk" came to no harm, but, of course, none of us would hear of such a sacrifice. Finally we decided to divide forces. Hunter and Madox, the two West India Regiment men, were to go together, accompanied by one of the black "boys," an accomplished 'gator tracker; whilst Corker and I joined guns, the other "boy" coming with us to flay anything we might get. Separating, in accordance with this plan, Corker and I squelched off through the fœtid slime toward the upper end of the delta.

As we slushed along we carefully scanned the banks of dried mud, intersecting the numerous lagoons, for "sign," listening keenly the while for snapping jaws and splashing bodies. We had to be very much on the _qui vive_, for at any moment, in stepping round the low bushes or wading waist-deep through the intersecting streams, we might have trodden on a sleeping saurian, with unpleasant results, for, despite an unwieldy-looking body, the 'gator is capable of very swift movement, and, what is more, both ends of him are dangerous--with his jaws he may lop off a leg; with his tail he may break one's back.

After trudging about for some time, filling our lungs with vapour from the steaming swamp, while our skins were irritated by the bites of myriads of insects, we reached a dark, evil-smelling lagoon crusted with cracking mud. At the side of it were several indentations, varying in size, which indicated that a 'gator family had but recently been taking the sun.

With such tangible evidence before me of the near presence of the brutes, I suggested waiting quietly for the family's reappearance. Corker, however, having his own idea about the wisdom of my suggestion, told me I should only be wasting time. He therefore elected to leave me with the boy, whilst he crossed to the middle stream "to make sure of a decent hide," asking me to join him when I was tired of my vigil.

As he tramped off through the inky slime I squatted down on a mud-bank, with my rifle across my knees. Between me and the indentations was a low clump of vegetation, which shielded me from observation without interfering with my vision. The boy I had stationed out of sight in a slight hollow on the far side of my mud perch. With these precautions I set myself to wait. The sun, well overhead, beat down pitilessly on my shadeless position, blistering the pattern of my thin shirt on to my skin; whilst all the most vicious mosquitoes of the swamp came to signify their appreciation of my succulent presence by dining on me, and other creeping things began the tour of investigation which my scanty attire of shirt, breeches, boots, and topée invited. Verily, ye men who grumble at the hardship of waiting for driven birds on a Scotch moor should try a day in a tropical swamp!

After enduring these manifold pleasures for an hour or more, the surface of the lagoon began to heave, and a black snout showed itself in the sunlight.

Looking round, and finding no cause for alarm, the wily 'gator slushed his way to his basking place, some twenty yards distant from where I sat. I raised my rifle slowly and covered him as he hoisted himself out of the slime. Just then the distant crack of Corker's rifle startled my 'gator. Raising his head he opened his capacious jaws, and as he did so I fired clean into his maw. He shut his teeth together with a resounding snap, coughed like a stricken cow, and slid back into the slime. I thought I had lost him, but after a final titanic convulsion, which spattered the blood-streaked mud almost to my position, he swung round on to the ooze again and lay still. Advancing to within five yards, I gave him another bullet through the eye, to prevent accidents; then, aided by my yelling boy, we levered him up on to the dry bank. From the end of his snout to the tip of his powerful tail he measured about eleven feet!

Well satisfied with the result of my uncomfortable wait, and instructing the black boy to go back to the boat with the skin when he had taken it off, I followed the direction which Corker had taken, wondering what luck the shots I had heard portended.

After hunting about for some time without finding him, and not hearing further shots, I concluded he had gone back to the lagoon to get the boy's assistance in flaying his "bag," and that therefore I had missed him.

As I picked my way round some low driftwood by one of the soapy streams, I stumbled over a half-buried log. In recovering my balance I noticed that one end of the log, which was some fourteen feet long, had been freshly splintered, and, strange to say, by rifle shots.

Suddenly the explanation dawned upon me. The doughty Corker, hero of wonderful stories and holder of many "spoils," had fallen into that facile error of the novice and shot a fallen log!

Picking up a stout splinter, which showed two neatly-drilled holes, I made my way, grinning hugely, back to the rendezvous.

That night, when all had retired to rest at Corker's bungalow, his three guests, clad in pyjamas and shaking with subdued mirth, crept on to the veranda and fastened up in a central position among their host's trophies a perforated redwood log splinter!

V.--A BRUSH WITH A BEAR.

+By R. W. Martin, Junior.+

The fall of 1905 found me camping on the Lehigh River, in Luzerne County, Pennsylvania, in company with two friends named George and Oscar Murray. This part of the country is wild and mountainous, the nearest railroad being at Bear Creek, twelve miles distant.

Our camp stood on rising ground about thirty feet higher than the level of the river, and was surrounded by towering pines fifty to sixty feet in height, one of which almost touched our shack.

On the evening of which I write my two companions had decided to visit a friend who lived in a small settlement known as Stoddartsville, some four miles down the river, where they intended to spend the night. After their departure I busied myself about the camp, cutting and stacking wood and cleaning up our cooking utensils. When darkness had put an end to work outside, I retired into the cabin and, settling myself comfortably, began to read an old magazine I had picked up. I must have been reading for about an hour when my attention was attracted by the snapping of a small branch or stick outside, seemingly at the front of the cabin.

Although we kept our meat in a basket hung on the limb of a small tree in front of the dwelling, we did not fear molestation from the bears or wild-cats that were known to exist in the swamps and mountain ranges around us. Occasionally a sheep would be taken by an old she-bear which was known to have ranged the hills for the past twenty-five years, and which was said to be a huge, gaunt creature, weighing at least five hundred pounds; but, generally speaking, they did not cause much damage.

Neither bears nor wild-cats, however, entered my mind as I sat there wondering what had caused the disturbance outside. My first thought was that perchance one of the neighbours' cows or sheep, which were allowed to roam at will, had lost its way and, being attracted by the light, had wandered up to the cabin to investigate. With this idea in my mind, and being very comfortable, I did not bother to look into the matter. But just as I was about to resume my reading once more, the sharp crack of a breaking limb, accompanied by the thud of a heavy body striking the ground, caused me to jump to my feet in a hurry. Hastily snatching my breech-loading shot-gun from the corner, I quickly inserted two shells and quietly opened the door. There, in the dim moonlight, I made out the form of a huge bear, busily engaged in pillaging our meat basket! Without hesitation I brought the gun to my shoulder and fired both barrels at the dark mass. With a fierce growl of pain the wounded beast charged straight for the open door, and before I could close it rushed right into the cabin!

The next five minutes were probably the most exciting I have ever spent. The bear, blinded in one eye by shot and dazzled by the light, gave me the opportunity--which I speedily seized--of rushing past it out into the open. I ran round the cabin for my life, with the brute at my heels, and quickly ascended the ladder at the back of the cabin to the roof, thinking to throw my pursuer off the track. While busily engaged in trying to push the ladder down, I was horrified to find the bear already upon it, coming my way. Thoroughly bewildered by this time, I commenced to climb the tall pine tree alongside the house, hoping to hide myself on one of the upper branches. It seemed that I made no progress at all, for the dead branches upon which I placed my feet broke continually, and my fingers and legs, in my frantic hurry, acted as though they were not part of my body. Almost exhausted, I finally stopped to rest upon a stout limb about twelve feet above the roof of the cabin. Glancing down, I saw the maddened bear preparing to pursue me. In a panic I began to climb again, but as I reached up for the limb above my hand came in contact with the rope we had strung across the river to a lofty old pine about forty yards distant on the opposite shore. Fastened to this large rope was a smaller dangling rope with a loop, which we used, on account of the swift current, to keep us in our course when ferrying across in the boat.

Finding that the rope would bear my weight, I started to go hand over hand over it out across the river. At this juncture the bear, which was but a few feet below me, struck at me with its claws, ripping off my heavy legging and scratching me severely. This unlooked for attack almost caused me to lose my hold, which would have resulted in a nasty fall to the ground below. How I managed to escape being struck again I do not know, but somehow or other I managed to keep out of reach of those deadly claws until I had swung well out from the tree. It was slow work making any progress, but, thinking only of the danger behind and below me, I continued the journey until I was compelled to stop to rest my weary arms. This I tried to do by throwing one leg and arm over the line, the rope resting under my knee and armpit. Beneath me I could hear the swiftly-running river, while the swaying limbs on the pine I had just left told me that my late pursuer was moving about.

When I had somewhat rested my aching muscles, I started once more on that heart-breaking journey to the opposite shore. Several times the rope swung so violently I thought I must let go and fall into the swift river beneath me, but each time I gritted my teeth and kept on. At last, after what seemed ages, I reached the friendly pine to which the rope was attached and lay for some time on a large branch, like a man in a dream. After resting for a few minutes I ventured to gaze across to the bank I had lately left, but could see nothing. Once or twice I heard Bruin moving about along the bank; then all was quiet.

Fixing myself as comfortably as possible I stayed all night in the tree, scarcely daring to move for fear of attracting attention. Shortly after daybreak my friends put in their appearance, having decided to make an early start after grouse in the neighbouring swales. Upon their arrival I descended from my uncomfortable position and related my experience of the night. Great was their wonder and surprise at my nerve-racking experience, and a hunt for Bruin was immediately suggested, George Murray starting off at once for men and dogs from the settlement. Upon his return with the hunting party the dogs took up the trail and followed it for nine miles down the ridge. At Long Pond, twelve miles below us, the bear was finally brought to bay and shot by another party. Upon examination, it was found that my two shots had put out one eye and almost torn her ear off--hence her blind fury and revengefulness. She tipped the scales at four hundred and sixty-eight pounds.

VI--MAN _v._ PYTHON.

+By Victor Pitt-Kethley.+

On April 27th of last year, Mr. W. J. Cocklin, of Sequani _viâ_ Mochudi, South Africa, accompanied a party of friends on a shooting expedition in the neighbourhood of Sequani.

Arrived at the point selected, some five miles distant from the township, the party separated. For some little time Mr. Cocklin pursued his way without incident; then he suddenly espied a guinea-fowl, which he brought down with a well-aimed shot.

Hurrying over the veldt to secure his prize, he was just descending a little fall in the ground when, to his horror, he suddenly discovered that he was almost on top of a large python, which lay coiled up in front of him. Catching sight of the startled sportsman, the great snake moved. Its tail caught Mr. Cocklin between the legs, tripping him up, and before he could save himself he was flung headlong into the deadly, irresistible coils, which immediately closed around his body in a vice-like grip. Desperately the hunter tried to extricate himself, but all in vain; the python had him fast in such a way that his left arm, holding his gun, was pinned to his side.

With the cold perspiration breaking out upon his flesh, Cocklin threw himself this way and that in a frenzy of desperation, for he realized only too well the horrible nature of the death-trap into which he had walked.

He essayed to shout, hoping to make his friends hear and bring them to his rescue, but no answer came to his calls; no human being appeared in sight. And all the time man and snake lay there on the sunny veldt, the reptile's mighty coils growing always a little tighter as it endeavoured to lessen its victim's struggles.

Presently, finding the pressure upon his body becoming unendurable, Mr. Cocklin gripped the snake by the throat, striving wildly to free himself. Over and over, this way and that, the pair rolled, the python seeking all the time to free its hideous head or tighten its coils sufficiently to put an end to Cocklin's struggles.

For, perhaps, ten to fifteen minutes--minutes that seemed like hours of torture--this unequal, terrifying fight went on, and still neither had gained any decided advantage; the man still lived, though fast in the coils of the snake, which in turn, though it held its captive securely, was unable to crush him outright or to release his hold upon its throat, which prevented it throwing a coil round his neck and strangling him.

Now, a python is so constructed that it can exert its crushing powers to the full only when it is able to get a leverage upon some fixed object--say, by taking a turn with its tail round a tree. Presently--apparently realizing that something of this kind was required to enable it to finish off its prisoner--the great snake altered its tactics and commenced to drag Mr. Cocklin over the ground towards a large hard-wood tree which stood some distance away.

The man saw and understood--the battle was about to enter on its last and most dreadful phase! Desperately he fought against the snake, trying to get at his knife, which was in his right-hand coat-pocket, with the idea of cutting the creature's throat; but, to his horror, he found that the reptile's coils passed over the place where the weapon lay.

"Finding I could not get my knife," said Mr. Cocklin, in a letter which he wrote to the _Cape Times_ subsequently, "and thinking that my chances of surviving were not very bright, I determined I would not die alone. I saw that the barrel of my gun projected just about an inch through between my arm and body, where the arm was pinned to the side, and luckily I managed to reach the trigger with my left hand. Gripping the python firmly by the throat, and holding its head well away, I pulled the trigger, and the bullet, fortunately for me, caught the snake through the back. It then relaxed its grip, and I got rid of its coils as fast as I could.

"When I got upon my feet, I put my gun down and looked for a big stone to finish the brute with. Not finding one, I was about to put my foot on its head and cut its throat, when the snake made another attack upon me, getting hold of my coat sleeve, and again pulling me to the ground. Once more it attempted to get its coils round me, but I escaped them. It still retained its bite on my sleeve, however. I managed to get my foot on its throat, which made it open its mouth. Then I got my arm free, and called for my friends again. One of them heard me and came running up. He saw that there had been a struggle, and shot the python through the head, thus putting the finishing touch to what was for me the narrowest shave I have ever had. It seems to me remarkable that I have felt no ill effects from the encounter beyond being a little short-winded and nervous for a few days."

+------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | _Guardians of the Wilderness._ | | | | +By Henry Hale.+ | | | +------------------------------------------------------------------+

The United States Government maintains a little army of twelve hundred men whose duty it is to look after the vast national forests, whose area is about five times that of Great Britain. Here, monarchs of all they survey, these rangers of the wild lead solitary and strenuous lives, sometimes not meeting a fellow human being for months on end.

The United States Government maintains a curious little force of policemen who do not patrol posts in the cities or towns, but may well be called the guardians of the wilderness, for it is their business to look after vast forests where few human beings live. It may seem odd that it is necessary to have Nature's police to go here and there in the forests and amid the mountains, but it is very necessary in order to protect one of the great resources of America. Some of these rangers of the wild have "beats" so extensive that one man may be the sole protector of a miniature empire, comprising two hundred thousand acres of primeval forest.

Mere figures cannot give the stay-at-home reader any adequate idea of the vastness of some of the great "reserves" in which the patrolmen live month after month. If the whole of London is measured it will be found to contain over seventy-five thousand acres, yet no fewer than eighty cities the size of London could easily be placed in a single one of the American "national parks." Washington Park, situated in the State of that name, and the greatest of them all, contains no less than ten thousand square miles of territory.

For many years most European countries have had forest guardians and rangers. France, Germany, Holland, and even little Switzerland, have their armies of rangers, the French foresters being so numerous that there is one to every thousand acres of trees under the protection of the Government. This is quite different from the United States, where, as has been stated, one man may be the sole protector of an area of two hundred thousand acres; for this force of woodland policemen comprises only about twelve hundred men all told, scattered between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Coast, ranging the valleys and slopes of the Rocky Mountains, and even living far out in snow-covered Alaska.