Spanish Doubloons Page 7

  VII

  A RABBIT'S FOOT

  It was fortunate that Cookie knew nothing of the solitary gravesomewhere on the island, with its stone marked with B. H. and across-bones, nor that the inhabitant thereof was supposed to walk.If he had, I think the strange spectacle of a lone negro in a smallboat rowing lustily for the American continent might soon have beenwitnessed on the Pacific by any eyes that were there to see. Andwe could ill have spared either boat or cook.

  Yet even though unvexed by this gruesome knowledge, after two orthree days I noticed that Cookie was ill at ease. As the leisuremember of the party, I enjoyed more of Cookie's society than therest. On this occasion while the morning was still in its earlyfreshness he was permitting me to make fudge. But his usualjoviality was gone. I saw that he glanced over his shoulder atintervals, muttering darkly to himself. Also that a rabbit's footwas slung conspicuously about his neck.

  Having made my fudge and set the pan on a stone in the stream tocool, I was about to retire with a view to conducting a limitedexploring expedition of my own. The immunity of the umbrellas andthe assurances of Mr. Shaw--not personally directed to me, ofcourse; the armed truce under which we lived did not permit ofthat--had convinced me that I had not to dread anything moreferocious than the pigs, and the wildest of them would retirebefore a stick or stone. Besides, I boasted a little automatic,which I carried strapped about my waist in a businesslike manner.Mr. Vane had almost got me to the point where I could shoot it offwithout shutting my eyes.

  Thus equipped, I was about to set off into the woods. Secretly Ihad been rehearsing a dramatic scene, with myself in the leadingrole:

  _Treasure-seekers assembled, including a cold and cynical Scot.Enter Virginia Harding. She wears an expression elaboratelycasual, but there is a light of concealed triumph in her eye_.

  _Aunt Jane_: You thoughtless child, where have you been? Really,my state of mind about you--etc., etc.

  _V. H._: Only for a stroll, dear aunt. And by the way, in caseit's of interest to any one, I might mention that during my walk Ifell over a boulder which happened to be marked with the letters B.H. and a cross-bones.

  _Immense commotion and excitement. Every gaze turned to V. H.(including that of cynical Scot) while on every cheek is the blushof shame at remembering that this is the same Young Person whomMiss Higglesby-Browne was permitted to cut off by treaty from theranks of the authorised treasure-seekers_.

  Lured by this pleasing vision I had turned my back on Cookie andthe camp, when I was arrested by an exclamation:

  "Miss Jinny!"

  I turned to, find Cookie gazing after me with an expression which,in the familiar phrase of fiction, I could not interpret, thoughamong its ingredients were doubt and anguish. Cookie, too, lookedpale. I don't in the least know how he managed it, but that wasthe impression he conveyed, dusky as he was.

  "Miss Jinny, it mos' look lak yo' 'bout to go perambulatin' in deseyere woods?"

  "I am, Cookie," I admitted.

  The whites of Cookie's eyes became alarmingly conspicuous. Drawingnear in a stealthy manner he whispered:

  "Yo' bettah not, Miss Jinny!"

  "Better not?" I repeated, staring.

  He answered with a portentous head-shake.

  "Oh, nonsense, Cookie!" I said impatiently, "There's not a thing onthe island but the pigs!"

  "Miss Jinny," he solemnly replied, "dey's pigs and pigs."

  "Yes, but pigs _is_ pigs, you know," I answered, laughing. I wasabout to walk on, but once more Cookie intervened.

  "Dey's pigs and pigs, chile--live ones and--dead ones.

  "Dead ones? Of course--haven't we been eating them?"

  "Yo' won't neveh eat dis yere kind o' dead pig, Miss Jinny.It's--it's a ha'nt!"

  The murder was out. Cookie leaned against a cocoa-palm and wipedhis ebon brow.

  Persistently questioned, he told at last how, today and yesterday,arising in the dim dawn to build his fire before the camp wasstirring, he had seen lurking at the edge of the clearing a whitefour-footed shape. It was a pig, yet not a pig; its ghostly hue,its noiseless movements, divided it from all proper mundane porkersby the dreadful gulf which divides the living from the dead. Thefirst morning Cookie, doubtful of his senses, had flung a stone andthe spectral Thing had vanished like a shadow. On its secondappearance, having had a day and a night for meditation, he hadknown better than to commit such an outrage upon the possessor ofghostly powers, and had resorted to prayer instead. This hadanswered quite as well, for the phantom pig had dissolved like themorning mists. While the sun blazed, what with his devotions andhis rabbit's foot and a cross of twigs nailed to a tree. Cookiefelt a fair degree of security. But his teeth chattered in hishead at the thought of approaching night. Meanwhile he could notin conscience permit me to venture forth into the path of thishorror, which might, for all we knew, be lurking in the jungleshadows even through the daylight hours. Also, though he did notavow this motive, I believe he found my company very reassuring.It is immensely easier to face a ghost in the sustaining presenceof other flesh and blood.

  "Cookie," said I sternly, "you've been drinking too muchcocoanut-milk and it has gone to your head. What you saw was justa plain ordinary pig."

  Cookie disputed this, citing the pale hue of the apparition asagainst the fact that all our island pigs were black.

  "Then there happens to be a blond pig among them that we haven'tseen," I assured him.

  But the pig of flesh, Cookie reminded me, was a heavy lumberingcreature. This Shape was silent as a moonbeam. There was alsoabout it a dreadful appearance of stealth and secrecy--Cookie'seyes bulged at the recollection. Nothing living but a witch's catcould have disappeared from Cookie's vision as did the ghostly pig.

  For a moment I wavered in my determination. What if the island hadits wild creatures after all? But neither lynx nor panther nor anyother beast of prey is white, except a polar bear, and it would beunusual to meet one on a tropical island.

  I decided that Cookie's pig was after all a pig, though still inthe flesh. I thought I remembered having seen quite fair pigs,which would pass for white with a frightened negro in the dim lightof dawn. So far only black pigs had been visible, but perhaps thelight ones were shyer and kept to the remote parts of the island.I consoled Cookie as best I could by promising to cross my fingersif I heard or saw anything suspicious, and struck out into thewoods,

  For all my brave words to Cookie, I had no intention of going veryfar afield. From the shore of the cove I had observed that theground behind the clearing rose to the summit of a low ridge,perhaps four hundred feet in height, which jutted from the base ofthe peak. From this ridge I thought I might see something more ofthe island than the limited environment of Lantern Bay.

  As the woods shut out the last glimpse of the white tents in theclearing, as even the familiar sound of the surf died down to afaint, half-imagined whisper mingling with the rustling of thepalms overhead, I experienced a certain discomfort, which personsgiven to harsh and unqualified terms might have called fear. Itseemed to me as if a very strong cord at the rear of my belt werejerking me back toward the inglorious safety of camp. Fortunatelythere came to me a vision of the three umbrellas and of Mr. Tubbsheroically exposing his devoted bosom to non-existent perils, and Iresolved that the superior smiles with which I had greeted AuntJane's recital should not rise up to shame me now. I fingered myautomatic and marched on up the hill, trying not to gasp when aleaf rustled or a cocoanut dropped in the woods.

  There was little undergrowth between the crowding trunks of thecocoa-palms. Far overhead their fronds mingled in a green thatch,through which a soft light filtered down. Here and there the closeranks of the palms were broken by an outcropping of rock, glaringup hot and sunbeaten at a distant patch of the sky. The air of theforest was still and languid, its heat tempered like that of a roomwith drawn blinds.

  I gained the summit of the ridge, and stood upon a bare rockplatform, scantily sheltered by a few trees,
large shrubs rather,with a smooth waxy leaf of vivid green. On the left rose the greatmass of the peak. From far above among its crags a beautiful foamywaterfall came hurtling down. Before me the ground fell away tothe level of the low plateau, or mesa, as we say in California,which made up the greater part of the island. Cutting into thegreen of this was the gleaming curve of a little bay, which in Mr.Shaw's chart of the island showed slightly larger than our cove.Part of it was hidden by the shoulder of the peak, but enough wasvisible to give a beautiful variety to the picture, which was setin a silver frame of sea.

  I had not dreamed of getting a view so glorious from the littleeminence of the ridge. Here was an item of news to take back tocamp. Having with great originality christened the place Lookout,I turned to go. And as I turned I saw a shape vanish into thewoods.

  It was an animal, not a human shape. And it was light-footed andswift and noiseless--and it was white. It had, indeed, everydistinguishing trait of Cookie's phantom pig. Only it was not apig. My brief shadowy glimpse of it had told me that. I knew whatit was not, but what it was I could not, as I stood there rooted,even guess,

  Would it attack me, or should I only die of fright? I wondered ifmy heart were weak, and hoped it was, so that I should not live tofeel the teeth of the unknown Thing sink in my flesh. I thought ofmy revolver and after an infinity of time managed to draw it fromthe case. My fingers seemed at once nervelessly limp and woodenlyrigid. This was not at all the dauntless front with which I haddreamed of meeting danger. I had fancied myself with my automaticmaking a rather pretty picture as a young Amazon--but I had now adreadful fear that my revolver might spasmodically go off and woundthe Thing, and then even if it had meditated letting me go it wouldcertainly attack me. Nevertheless I clung to my revolver as to mylast hope.

  I began to edge away crab-wise into the wood. Like a metronome Isaid to myself over and over monotonously, _don't run, don't run_!Dim legends about the power of the human eye floated through mybrain. But how quell the creature with my eye when I could not seeit? As for the hopeless expedient of screaming, I hadn't couragefor it. I was silent, as I would fain have been invisible. Onlymy dry lips kept muttering soundlessly, _don't run, don't run_!

  I did not run. Instead, I stepped on a smooth surface of rock andslid downhill like a human toboggan until I fetched up against adead log. I discovered it to be a dead log after a confusedinterval during which I vaguely believed myself to have beenswallowed by an alligator. While the alligator illusion endured Imust have lain comatose and immovable. Indeed, when my sensesbegan to come back I was still quite inert. I experienced thatcurious tranquillity which is said to visit those who are actuallywithin the jaws of death. There I lay prone, absolutely at themercy of the mysterious white prowler of the forest--and I did notcare. The whole petty business of living seemed a long way behindme now.

  Languidly at last I opened my eyes. Within three yards of me, inthe open rock-paved glade where I had fallen, stood the Thing.

  As softly as I had opened my eyes I shut them. I had an annoyedconviction that they were deceiving me--a very unworthy thing foreyes to do that were soon to be closed in death. Again I lifted mylids. Yes, there it was--only now it had put an ear back and wassniffing at me with a mingling of interest and apprehension..

  The strange beast of the jungle was a white bull-terrier.

  Abruptly I sat up. The terrier gave a startled sidewise bound, butpaused again and stood regarding me.

  "Here, pup! Here, pup! Nice, nice doggums!" I said in soothingaccents.

  The dog gave a low whine and stood shivering, eager but afraid. Icontinued my blandishments. Little by little the forlorn creaturedrew nearer, until I put out a cautious hand and stroked his ears.He dodged affrightedly, but presently crept back again. Soon hishead was against my knee, and he was devouring my hand with avidcaresses. Some time, before his abandonment on the island, he hadbeen a well-brought-up and petted animal. Months or years of wildlife had estranged him from humanity, yet at the human touch theold devotion woke again.

  The thing now was to lure him back to camp and restore him to thehappy service of his gods. I rose and picked up my pistol, whichhad regained my confidence by not going off when I dropped it.With another alluring, "Here, doggums!" I started on my way. Heshrank, trembled, hesitated, then was after me with a bound. So wewent on through the forest. As we neared the camp the four-footedcastaway's diffidence increased. I had to pet and coax. But atlast I brought him triumphantly across the Rubicon of the littlestream, and marched him into camp under the astounded eyes ofCookie.

  At sight of the negro the dog growled softly and crouched againstmy skirt. Cookie stood like an effigy of amazement done in blackand white.

  "Fo' de Lawd's sake, Miss Jinny," he burst out at last, "am dat deghos'-pig?"

  "It was, Cookie, but I changed him into a live dog by crossing myfingers. Mind your rabbit's foot. He might eat it, and then verylikely we'd have a ghost on our hands again. But I think he'llstay a dog for the present."

  "Yo' go 'long, Miss Jinny," said Cookie valiantly. "Yo' think Iscared of any ghos' what lower hissel to be a live white mong'oldog? Yere, yo' ki-yi, yo' bettah mek friends with ol' Cookie,'cause he got charge o' de grub. Yere's a li'le fat ma'ow bonewhat mebbe come off'n yo' own grandchile, but yo' ain' goin' tomind dat now yo' is trans formulated dis yere way." And evidentlythe reincarnated ghost-pig did not.

  With the midday reunion my hour of distinction arrived. The taleof the ghost-pig was told from the beginning by Cookie, with hightributes to my courage in sallying forth in pursuit of the phantom.Even those holding other views of the genesis of the white dog wereamazed at his presence on the island. In spite of Cookie'saspersions, the creature was no mongrel, but a thoroughbred ofpoints. Not by any means a dog which some little South Americancoaster might have abandoned here when it put in for water. Themost reasonable hypothesis seemed to be that he had belonged to thecopra gatherer, and was for some reason left behind on his master'sdeparture. But who that had loved a dog enough to make it thecompanion of his solitude would go away and leave it? The thingseemed to me incredible. Yet here, otherwise unaccounted for, wasthe corporeal presence of the dog.

  I had named the terrier in the first ten minutes of ouracquaintance. Crusoe was the designation by which he was presentedto his new associates. It was good to see how swiftly the habitsof civilization returned to him. Soon he was getting under footand courting caresses as eagerly as though all his life he hadlived on human bounty, instead of bringing down his own game inroyal freedom. Yet with all his well-bred geniality there was nowandering of his allegiance. I was his undisputed queen and ladyparamount.

  Crusoe, then, became a member of the party in good and regularstanding--much more so than his mistress. Mr. Tubbs compared himnot unfavorably with a remarkable animal of his own, for which theNew York Kennel Club had bidden him name his own price, only to berefused with scorn. Violet tolerated him. Aunt Jane called him adear weenty pettums love. Captain Magnus kicked him when hethought I was not looking, Cuthbert Vane chummed with him infrankest comradeship, and Mr. Shaw softened toward him to an extentwhich made me mainly murmur _Love me, love my dog_--only reversed.Not that I _in the least_ wanted to be loved, only you feel it animpertinence in a person who so palpably does not love you toendeavor to engage the affections of your bull-terrier.

  As to Cookie, he magnanimously consented to overlook Crusoe'sdubious past as a ghost-pig, and fed him so liberally that theterrier's lean and graceful form threatened to assume the contoursof a beer-keg.