Biggles gets his men, p.6
Biggles Gets His Men, page 6
part #43 of Biggles Series
“I should put my feet down with a lot more confidence if I knew the ground in front of me was solid,” declared Ginger.
“Actually, I don’t think there’s much risk of finding any hollow spots in this particular area,” opined Biggles. “If there were, that crew of Mongolian thugs would know about it, in which case, even if they were drunk—and I think most of them were—they wouldn’t charge about at a maniac gallop. All the same, we’ll play safe. Stand fast while I cut a couple of poles. It won’t take a minute.”
Two bamboos about eight feet long were soon procured, and the march home began.
CHAPTER VI
STRANGE ENCOUNTERS
IN different circumstances Ginger would have enjoyed the walk, for the country, and the wild life that occupied it, was unlike anything he had seen before. The thought struck him that in the past much of the earth’s surface must have been like this. At any rate, here was a place where the centuries had marked time while the rest of the world marched on.
Game was everywhere. Pheasants, snipe and wildfowl rose at every step. Deer were seen frequently, and occasionally, in the trees, animals of the sable family. Once, some wild boars with much snorting rushed away from where they had been grubbing for roots of some sort. But of dangerous game none was seen.
Some miles had been covered before the first sign of human handiwork appeared, and this served as a reminder to them to be on their guard. An appalling stench assailed their nostrils. Investigating, they came upon the very thing which they had most cause to fear—a pitfall. The covering had caved in. At the bottom, in a state of decomposition, was a large bear.
“There is this about it,” remarked Biggles as they walked on, examining the ground in front of them with renewed caution, “that trap proves that the local people have departed, otherwise the hunters who went to the trouble of digging it would have collected the poor beast that fell into it.”
By midday the air was quivering with heat, and soon afterwards a halt was made at a spring of water, where the remainder of the day’s rations were eaten. Wild cherries from a nearby tree supplemented a dull meal. A short distance away a pink flamingo, as grave as a judge, watched the intruders with suspicion.
They were, Biggles estimated, getting on for ten miles on their way when the country became more park-like in character, and the ruins of primitive huts began to make their appearance. An occasional ear of wheat suggested that in the not very distant past some of the ground had been cultivated. In a glade, Ginger’s pole, which he had been using automatically and rather carelessly, suddenly encountered no resistance, and he almost fell into one of the pits its purpose was to reveal. Soon afterwards Biggles discovered another, so it was evident that they were now in the region of them. The result of this was to retard progress considerably for, as Biggles pointed out, the fact that the traps had not been visited for a long time made them all the more dangerous; for over them leaves and grasses had been blown until by the eye alone it was impossible to detect them.
Rounding the end of some scrub, with their own lake now on their left hand, they came suddenly upon a deserted village of crude log huts chinked with clay. Nearly all of them were more or less in a state of dilapidation, so that disregarding a significant silence it was evident, even from a distance, that the place was abandoned. The huts were set in two rough lines some twenty yards apart, but grass and wild flowers now flourished in what might once have been called the village “street”. Biggles and Ginger walked on slowly, for even in this wild spot there was something pathetic about the forsaken homes.
It was tragic, thought Ginger moodily, that even here the ambitions of a mere handful of men could make life intolerable.
From these sombre thoughts he was jerked abruptly by Biggles’ hand falling on his arm and gripping it. Looking up, startled, he saw that Biggles’ eyes were on the ground, at a spot where there was a soft patch of mud. Looking at this he saw what it was that had attracted Biggles’ attention. Clearly defined in the mud was the imprint of a great paw.
“Tiger,” murmured Biggles. “He came this way not long ago. He must be just in front of us. Keep your eyes skinned.”
They walked on, looking about them, and had reached a spot about half-way through the village, when, a short distance ahead. Ginger’s eyes fell on a spectacle as curious —not to say alarming—as could have been imagined. It was the tiger; but far from appearing in the furtive slinking posture in which this animal is usually depicted, it lay across the threshold of one of the huts, looking out with its head resting on its paws in the manner of a common cat. Even as Ginger watched, with his heart thumping uncomfortably, the animal moved its head slightly and he knew that it had seen them. For a minute the treat striped beast regarded the two humans quizzically, its mouth half open, which gave it almost an expression of surprise. Then, rising to its feet it walked slowly towards them.
There was, so far at any rate, nothing hostile about its general behaviour. Its impulse, if appearances were anything to go by, was mere curiosity. All the same, the idle curiosity of a tiger at close quarters can be disconcerting; at least, Ginger found it so, and the pistol that he took from his pocket, his only means of defence, felt utterly futile for the occasion.
“Don’t move,” said Biggles softly.
Hardly had the words left his lips when, in a moment of time, the situation was transformed in a manner as dramatic as it was unexpected. The sultry silence was shattered by the report of a heavy weapon somewhere close at hand. Simultaneously, with a terrifying roar, the tiger leapt straight into the air and went over backwards. It was on its feet again in an instant, snarling horribly and biting at its side. Then, with a ferocious growling noise deep in its throat, which Ginger thought was the most frightening sound he had ever heard, it charged. The extraordinary thing was, it did not charge the two men standing in plain view. It went straight across the street towards one of the other huts, at the doorway of which now appeared the man who obviously had fired the shot, for he carried a double-barrelled rifle. The man stepped out. He would, thought Ginger, have been better advised to stay inside and shut the door.
Ginger’s criticism of the man’s behaviour turned to admiration when he saw with what unconcern he stood up to the charge. Quite calmly and deliberately he raised the rifle to his shoulder, and at point-blank range gave the tiger the second barrel. The bullet went home, and again the tiger was knocked over, but even though hard hit the great cat was not yet finished. Half dragging itself it still strove to reach its enemy who, without retreating a yard, dropped the now useless weapon on the grass and with a shout of defiance whipped out a dagger. How he would have fared with a weapon so inadequate was never put to the test, for at this juncture Biggles ran forward and from a distance of inches put a bullet into the tiger’s ear, and so into its brain. The beast rolled over and lay still.
Ginger, who during the few seconds occupied by this crisis had remained motionless, a fascinated spectator, hurried forward to where Biggles was face to face with the most remarkable figure of a man he had ever seen. As a type he was something entirely new, something that might have appeared on the stage, or the screen, in the part of a complete vagabond. He was tall, stoutly-built, dark of complexion and full-bearded, and although he was clad only in the rags of what had once been a uniform, he bristled with vitality.
Indeed, there was a poise about him, a self-confidence that amounted almost to a swagger, that would have commanded respect anywhere. How long it was since his hair and beard had made the acquaintance of a pair of scissors was a matter for surmise. Dark eyes, alert and challenging, were deeply set between high cheek-bones, and although his skin was weather-tanned it carried a curious pallor. One cheek was badly scarred. A heavy, old-fashioned rifle, which he had picked up and reloaded with the slick dexterity of long practice, hung in the crook of his arm. A cartridge belt, from which the brass cases protruded, encircled his waist. He seemed not in the least perturbed by what to most people would have been a hair-raising experience.
An odd situation now developed. The man instead of looking kindly upon Biggles, who had probably saved his life, glared in frank hostility as he rapped out a remark in a language which, not surprisingly, was unknown to those to whom it was addressed.
Biggles smiled, and as it seemed in order to say something, and not knowing what else to say replied casually, in English: “Sorry, but I don’t understand.” He did not expect to be understood. Indeed, as he told Ginger afterwards, had he thought there was the slightest chance of the man being able to speak English, he would not so readily have revealed his own nationality.
But the impact of the words on the bearded stranger was almost comical. He started. He stared. He frowned. He looked Biggles up and down. Then, in a rich sonorous voice he almost shouted: “I said what the devil do you mean by interfering with my tiger?”
If the stranger had been astonished by Biggles’ choice of language, Biggles was no less amazed at this reply in the same tongue. The same with Ginger who, moreover, in the light of what had happened thought this a strange way to express gratitude for being rescued from a nasty predicament.
“I’m sorry,” said Biggles contritely. “I thought you were in some danger of being mauled, or—”
“Danger! Pouf! Nothing of the sort, sir,” shouted the man. “I can handle my own tigers.”
Biggles shrugged. “Should the occasion be repeated I will bear it in mind,” he said coldly.
The man treated Biggles to a further scrutiny. “Why do you speak English?” he demanded. “How is this? What are you? Speak up before I shoot you.”
Perceiving that no good purpose could be served by dissembling, Biggles took the bull by the horns as the quickest way of bringing matters to a head. “The answer to your question is this,” he said. “We are British.”
“Hm.” The man pondered the statement, his eyes dark with suspicion. “Then what are you doing here and why do you wear those filthy rags?” he demanded.
“That,” answered Biggles, “is my own affair. I might ask you the same question.”
“Me?” The man struck his chest with a hand that ended in an upward flourish. “I am a Russian, and I don’t care who knows it,” said he, in a voice so loud that he obviously meant what he said for it could have been heard from one end of the village to the other.
“When I say Russian I mean a true Russian, from St. Petersburg — which the rascals who now live there call Petrograd. Colonel Alexis Petroffsky, late of the Imperial Cavalry, now the Flail of God against the Bolsheviks, and the greatest killer of tigers in Eastern Asia.”
Biggles smiled at this strange boast and the way in which it was made. “This beast nearly killed you,” he reminded, touching the dead tiger with his foot.
“Pah!” scoffed Petroffsky airily. “You acted bravely, sir, I must admit, but in another instant my dagger would have been in the brute’s throat, although, by the beard of St. Peter, he was no ordinary beast. In his time not fewer than five hundred men, women and children has he taken to fill his stomach. Long have I stalked him, and long has he sought to add me to his collection, the only man left in Kossuri. He had the audacity to seek me here, on my own doorstep. Now he has paid for his folly. Still, he served you a good turn, for had he not appeared when he did, you would have been shot, not the tiger.”
“Shot? By whom?” asked Biggles in surprise.
“By me—who else?”
“But why shoot me?”
“Here a man shoots anyone he does not know,” declared the colonel. “It is the only way to live in peace,” he added simply. “But who are you, and why do you wear these preposterous garments?”
“My name and my business here are matters which at the moment I prefer not to discuss,” answered Biggles cautiously.
“Quite right,” agreed Petroffsky. “A man should mind his own business. Pardon me for asking a question. How is London?”
“London was looking very well when I was last there,” returned Biggles. “Do you know London?”
“Do I know London?” The colonel appeared to be almost affronted by the question. “Why, sir,” he cried, “in the days when men were men, and gentlemen would fight to the death for a woman’s glove, London was my home. “Everyone knew Petroffsky of the Russian Embassy.” He sighed. “Ah, what days they were.”
By this time, of course, Biggles had the situation under control. So this was Alexis Petroffsky, the man who had acted as guide to Mayne on the occasion of his first visit. No wonder Mayne called him an amazing fellow. He decided to test the ground a little further before letting the Russian know that Mayne was in the country.
“You once, I think, acted as guide to a British officer I named Mayne, who came here on a hunting trip?” he prompted.
Petroff sky flung out an enthusiastic arm. “Mayne! Of course! An admirable companion, although as a hunter not up to my standard. A trifle—shall we say—squeamish? A rascally gun-bearer insulted us. I was for putting him to death, but Mayne objected. Absurd. It is the only way to deal with such people. They’re no use to anyone. Are you a hunter?”
“For what other purpose would a man come to this country?” parried Biggles.
“Why, indeed? But by the beard of St. Joseph, why do you wear these disgusting clothes?”
“We thought they would attract less attention,” explained Biggles truthfully.
Petroffsky shook his head. “It is a sad thing to see a man ashamed of his clothes. For my part, my uniform will be removed only from my dead body. Koreans are the scum of the earth. True, I allow a few to pass because they bring me cartridges and vodka, without which life would not be worth living. Two came today, so thanks be to St. Thomas, I am stocked up again. Will you take a drink with me?” The colonel produced an enormous battered silver flask.
“It would be a pleasure to drink with you,” answered Biggles, “but I think you’d better save it for yourself.”
Petroffsky frowned. “Why?”
“Because you may get no more.”
Petroff sky’s frown deepened. “Why?”
“Two Koreans, you say, came today?”
“True.”
“And they went that way?” Biggles pointed.
“Yes.”
“A few hours ago they were set upon by a party of horsemen who beat them nearly, if not quite, to death.”
The colonel’s face grew dark with anger. He cursed long and luridly. “Why did you allow this?” he demanded at last.
“I was sitting in a tree at the time,” explained Biggles.
“Was there any reason why you couldn’t get down?”
“I hadn’t a rifle.”
“You had a pistol.”
“What is the use of a pistol against a score of madmen?”
“You could at least have died like a man!”
“I did not, at the moment, feel like dying,” said Biggles coldly. “Besides,” he added, “the purpose of my visit did not include the protection of wandering vodka pedlars.”
“But how the devil am I to get my vodka?” shouted Petroffsky.
“That, my dear sir, is your affair,” replied Biggles. “The success or failure of your vodka supply is to me a matter of complete indifference and, may I add, if you go on bellowing like that there seems to be a good chance that we shall share the fate of your Korean liquor vendors.”
“Me? Flogged? Ha ha.” The colonel shouted with laughter. “That’s a good one. Those rascals won’t come here.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re afraid of me, that’s why. They know that Alexis Petroffsky fears no man. When I shoot I kill. Besides, they fear the pitfalls with which the land is beset.”
“Apparently you know these ruffians?” prompted Biggles gently, in the hope of getting more information.
“Know them? Of course I know them!” shouted Petroffsky. “Devil’s spawn, sir, that’s what they are.”
“I gather you live here, in this village?”
“Certainly. Which reminds me, why do we stand here? Come and join me in some refreshment.”
The Russian strode off up the village a short distance to a house that was rather larger and in better condition than the rest.
Biggles and Ginger dropped a little behind. Said Ginger, softly: “What an incredible fellow.”
“It’s an incredible country,” answered Biggles simply.
The interior of the house, when they reached it, was also incredible—or so Ginger thought. At first glance the room into which they were invited appeared to be a museum devoted to the collection of tiger skins. Skins hung on the walls and lay strewn on the floor. Tiger skins covered the ottoman that served in lieu of chairs. In fact, tiger skins were everywhere, giving the place a musty odour. They did, at least, thought Ginger, go far to confirm the Russian’s boasting of his prowess as a hunter. There were at least a dozen guns and rifles of one sort or another, mostly old patterns, standing about. Broken boxes of ammunition lay in a heap on the floor. Empty cartridge cases stood in rows on the mantelpiece.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” requested Petroffsky, producing glasses and a black bottle.
Biggles waved it aside. “Not for me, thank you,” he said.
The Russian shrugged his shoulders. “As you will.”
“You will not think us discourteous if we don’t stay long,” remarked Biggles. “We’re still some way from camp. By the way, you’ll be interested to know that your old friend Captain Mayne is with us.”
Petroffsky, who was tossing back a glass of vodka, nearly choked. “By the beard of St. Antony, that’s wonderful news!” he cried. “I must go to him as soon as I have skinned the tiger. I live to kill tigers—and Bolsheviks. There is, I think, no better occupation. The Bolsheviks threw me into prison.”
