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The voice, smooth and deferential, the step, steady and silent, made it hard to believe that only a few hours before Bukta was yelling and capering with naked fellow-devils of the scrub. "My people were very pleased to see the Sahib. They will never forget. When next the Sahib goes out recruiting, he will go to my people, and they will give him as many men as we need."
Then, sweeping the semicircle with one comprehensive forefinger, and in the voice of compliment, he said, clearly and distinctly: "Pigs! "Ai!" whispered Bukta. "Now he speaks. Woe to foolish people!" Ye know the Smallpox who pits and scars your children so that they look like wasp-combs.
Three or four times the reckless trackers returned, most truthfully saying that the beast was mangy, undersized a tigress worn with nursing, or a broken-toothed old male and Bukta would curb young Chinn's impatience.
"If he stands by us and before the anger of the Government we will most strictly obey Jan Chinn, except except we do not go down to that place to-night." They could hear young Chinn below them shouting for Bukta; but they cowered and sat still, expecting the Clouded Tiger. The tomb had been holy ground for nearly half a century. If Jan Chinn chose to sleep there, who had better right?
He prepared his plan of action much as his grandfather would have done; and when Bukta appeared in the morning with a most liberal supply of food, said nothing of the overnight desertion. Bukta would have been relieved by an outburst of human anger; but Chinn finished his victual leisurely, and a cheroot, ere he made any sign.
At one end was a rude clay image of a white man, in the old-fashioned top-hat, riding on a bloated tiger. Bukta salamed reverently as they approached. Chinn bared his head and began to pick out the blurred inscription. So far as he could read it ran thus word for word, and letter for letter: To the Memory of JOHN CHINN, Esq.
The call brought back memories of his cot under the mosquito-netting, his mother's kiss, and the sound of footsteps growing fainter as he dropped asleep among his men. So he hooked the dark collar of his new mess-jacket, and went to dinner like a prince who has newly inherited his father's crown. Old Bukta swaggered forth curling his whiskers.
He whistled for Bukta as he drew the tape over the stiffening bulk. "Ten six eight by Jove! It's nearly eleven call it eleven. Fore-arm, twenty-four -five seven and a half. A short tail, too: three feet one. But what a skin! Oh, Bukta! Bukta! The men with the knives swiftly." "Is he beyond question dead?" said an awe-stricken voice behind a rock.
Now in the autumn of his second year's service an uneasy rumour crept out of the earth and ran about among the Bhils. Chinn heard nothing of it till a brother-officer said across the mess-table: "Your revered ancestor's on the rampage in the Satpura country. You'd better look him up." "I don't want to be disrespectful, but I'm a little sick of my revered ancestor. Bukta talks of nothing else.
All the Bhils knew that Jan Chinn reincarnated had honoured Bukta's village with his presence after slaying his first-in this life-tiger; that he had eaten and drunk with the people, as he was used; and Bukta must have drugged Chinn's liquor very deeply-upon his back and right shoulder all men had seen the same angry red Flying Cloud that the high Gods had set on the flesh of Jan Chinn the First when first he came to the Bhil.
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