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Title: The Most Dangerous Game
Author: Connell, Richard [Richard Edward, Jr.] (1893-1949)
Date of first publication: January 1924
Edition used as base for this ebook:
Garden City, New York: Doubleday, Page & Company, 1925
["O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1924"]
Date first posted: 9 November 2017
Date last updated: 9 November 2017
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1480

This ebook was produced by Al Haines


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME

BY 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 to-day?"

"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 sea-faring 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 after deck."

"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
favourite 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 closed 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 cool-headedness 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 vigour; 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 had 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 he 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 chteau; 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 about 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-barrelled
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 pointed 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
honour 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
moustache were as black as the night from which Rainsford had come.
His eyes, too, were black and very bright.  He had high cheek bones, a
sharp-cut 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 medival magnificence about it; it suggested a
baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling,
its vast refectory table where two score men could sit down to eat.
About the hall were the 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 appointments
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, Mr.
Rainsford?"

"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 Tsar to stay there.  Many noble Russians lost
everything.  I, luckily, had invested heavily in American securities,
so I shall never have to open a tea room in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi
in Paris.  Naturally, I continued to hunt--grizzlies 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 business men
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 trails 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?  Good God, 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 harbours 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 nave, 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--lascars, 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 _Sanlcar_ that had the bad luck to go on the rocks cut
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 calibre 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 honour of serving as official
knouter to the Great White Tsar, 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 any one 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 Bergre.

"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 at all 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.  To-morrow 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 to-night," 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 fibre 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 chteau 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 Crpes 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 to-day," 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.

"To-night," 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 defeated 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 clear-headed when the chteau 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 rowels 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
tail 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 focussed 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.  The thing that 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 incense-like smoke floated up to Rainsford's nostrils.

Rainsford held his breath.  The general's eyes had left the ground and
were travelling 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 man-catcher.  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 foot 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, I'll 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 chteau.  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 he sat down, took a drink of
brandy from a silver flask, lit a perfumed cigarette, and hummed a bit
from "Madama Butterfly."


General Zaroff had an exceedingly good dinner in his great panelled
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.






[End of The Most Dangerous Game, by Richard Connell]
