Evening Star Newspaper, September 22, 1935, Page 87

Magazine Section )35 moving glance in the remaining glim- mer of twilight showed that she had recently been nursing her young. “Ada, tuan — yes,”” Ali agreed “Young kuchings somewhcre. I know all time there no degons in jungle.” I laughed. But I was relieved my- self. Fireball's restlessness and fury, ‘ coupled with the swift-falling dark- } ness, had gotten a little under my skin. I was glad of the explanation, and I was delighted with the idea of cubs. If I could find them it would mean a neat profit. Clouded leopards . ¢ are rare and valuable, but a pair of ! clouded leopard cubs would bring a tremendous sum. I slept very little that night. One reason was that Fireball continued to keep the jungle alive with her screams and snarls. She never relaxed for a moment after that one glance of hatred she gave me. Hour after hour she kept up her fierce, terrifying serenade of hate. I would have stayed awake with- out Fireball's symphony of rage. For o[ 1 was planning ways and means of finding her cubs. It was a rare oppor- tunity, and I didn’t want to muff it. I knew now why Fireball had taken to a tree instead of staying on the ground during my pursuit. She had a lair somewhere — with her cubs in it — and she didn’t want to lead me to it, In the morning I called my boys around me. Fireball was still a sleek mass of fighting animal fury and muscle. “This kuching has cubs,” I said. “And we're going to find them. They're in a den somewhere in the jungle nearby and we've got to get them.” By this time the magnificence of Fireball was beginning to tell on me. She was so splendid in her fight to get back to her children that I admired her tremendously. I wanted to find those cubs — to keep them from dying and to give them back to their ' * mother — as much as I wanted them for myself. “Spread out,” I ordered my boys, “‘and follow every leopard track you see. Some of them have got to lead to a den.” Unless you've seen a jungle you can’t imagine how many animal tracks there can be when you're look- ing for them. Jungle turf is soft and wet, and animals pretty generally fol- low beaten tracks to water holes, making in places a tremendous con- fusion of spoors. However, it's pos- sible to trail a certain animal a long distance through the jungle, but when ‘there are many animals of the same species with the same spoor it's dif- ficult. The jungle is dark. There are four ] distinct layers to it — the tough grass that grows close to the earth, the higher bushes and undergrowth that spread like a clotted mat, the low- hanging trees that spring up every- where, and the giant durian trees that black men running for dear life. These two were notorious slave dealers. *‘Said Sayed Ali Burgash to Mar- brouk ben Hassan: ‘Bet you can’t hit the man in front before I do the man behind him,” or words to that effect. “Both slavers raised their rifles. “‘Sayed Ali Burgash shot very well, indeed, taking Holati through the elbow with a bullet that not only broke his arm but ploughed across the edge of his diaphragm; while Mar- brouk ben Hassan, in a way, fired better; for though he did not really wound Gojo, the bullet creased him, crossing the back of his neck, and grazing the spinal column without breaking it. “Both runners fell, and there was a hideous crash — of glass — as Gojo’s bottles struck the boulder against which they were hurled when he col- lapsed, unconscious. . ‘““Both Arab gentlemen roared with laughter, clapped each other on the shoulder, and began to wrangle as to the amount that Sayed Ali Burgash had betted Marbrouk ben Hassan that he wouldn’t shoot the leading man before Sayed Ali Burgash shot the second. “‘Gojo recovered first, came back to e tower two hundred feet into the misty air and the unseen sky. And from them all hangs a swaying network of vines and creepers that sometimes makes progress practically impossible. For a full day we tramped and fought our way through this sort of jungle. We hacked down vines with parangs — sharp Malay knives like a small sword — and we beat our way through brushwood and thorns that tore our clothes and scratched our flesh. We followed every leopard track, old and new, that we came across. Some merely led to waterholes, others vanished into impenetrable thickets. And of them all not one led to a lair or den that might be Fireball’s. I was dejected that night when we finally got back to camp. I was even more dejected when Ali, whom I had left behind, reported to me: “Kuching no eat, tuan. No eat thing. Only walk up and down cage and roar loud.” He didn’t need to tell me Fireball was roaring. I had heard her a quarter of a mile away, intent and fierce, with all the blatant savagery of her wild home in her snarls. I realized that I might lose a valuable leopard. Unless Fireball could be induced to eat she would certainly die. And her cubs, somewhere out in the denseness of the jungle, would also die. I am not a sentimental man. My business doesn’t allow me to be. My business is merely the capturing and bringing back alive of wild animals to the zoos of America. But I have never wilfully harmed or injured an animal in my entire career; I have too much love and respect for even the most savage of them. And I resolved that night that unless I found Fireball’s cubs nex. day I would turn her loose. I knew that once free she would go back to them, nurse and save them. 1 spent a second restless night. Fire- ball continued to belch forth fury and defiance. She was like a madman who has determined on revenge or suicide. Never have I seen a leopard like her. A hundred- and fifty pounds of sleek animal dynamite exploding itself end- lessly against an immovable object that was a man-made log cage! She was superb in her struggle, a snarling phantom endlessly moving in silver moonlight behind a shadowed wall of blackbars. Next morning I lay down the law to my boys. “We've got to find that kuching's den,” I said. “I want you to search as you never searched before. Pass over nothing. Look everywhere. Now get going!”’ We literally tore that jungle apart. A Dozen of Ale Continued from page four life, as does a man who has received an inadequate blow upon the head, took stock of the situation, and per- pended. “Should he, best man of the lot, arrive alone, bearing two bottles — and thus, not exactly cover himself with glory, but wear a small rag of it sufficient for decency? Or should he, less selfishly, give one bottle to Holati, so that at least one would arrive if the other should meet with an accident? “Of course it was not likely that accidents would happen. None had ever happened to Gojo — but one never knew. . .. So he kicked Holati up, tied the hand of the wounded arm about Holati’'s neck, plastered his shattered elbow well with clay, took Holati’s spear, put one of the bottles in his good hand, and bade him run. “On the tworan. . .. ‘‘And shortly thereafter Gojo got a fright; realized that an accident might happen after all. For a dog, lying asleep under a tree, raised its head and looked at them, arose, shook itself, and barked. Not a village dog but a jungle dog, a wild dog; and to Gojo, who knew his way about, this meant — death. A lion, a man can deal with; a THIS WEEK Fireball Continued from page five Parangs cut down vines and creepers as if they had been twine. We fol- lowed every cut-back of Fireball from the point where we had first found her in the tree. We traced every spoor and claw mark for miles through the dank ooze of the forest floor. If you've never beat your way through the breathless heat of a tropical jungle at high noon you won't understand. The temperature’s above a hundred degrees in the shade, and the shade is as damp and humid as a sea-bottom. Sweat pours down your body and your face, drips in your mouth, blinds your eyes with a smart- ing sting that burns like fire. Leeches bury themselves in your naked flesh and sink through your wet clothes. Brambles scratch your skin and un- seen thorns tear at your face and hands. It's rough, tough going, and unless you had an object you'd quit after a mile of it. Well, I had an object — to find Fireball’s cubs. And I found them! In the most unlikely of all places — in a hole hollowed out under a tree. Mud-caked leopard tracks led to it, and when | reached in my hand I was skeptical and unconvinced. Leopards usually make their den in rock forma- tions, and I had little faith in this hole among tree roots. But I soon changed my mind. What changed it was a sudden swipe that felt like a hot poker dragged across the back of my hand. Instinc- tive young claws had struck out against an alien. | “Ali?"’ I called. “We've got them!”’ Carefully I felt for each of those two clouded leopard cubs by the scuff of the neck and put them in a burlap sack. By the way they struggled and fought 1 could see that eventually they’d be as savage fighters as their mother. Back in camp I'd had a small cage prepared, and it was with a sigh of relief that I got my two babies into it. As clouded leopard babies, to me, at least, they were as full of monetary potentialities as the quintuplets. In the animal market they were just about as rare. They were so hungry and healthy they were perfectly willing to take canned milk through a bamboo tube — a process which usually requires infinite trial and patience with young animals. When with my own hands I had fed them both a nourishing meal I knew I could bring these leopard - twins back to America. But Fireball was still cutting up furiously. She was pacing her cage with undiminished savagery, baring her fangs, snarling wildly at every movement or shadow that crossed charging buffalo, a gopod man can deal with; but who can withstand the attack of a pack of jungle dogs? **“Wild dogs,” he shouted. ‘Run, Holati, run, thou beautiful gazelle. Run like the devil, thou wart-hog.’ “And on Gojo and the worthless Holati ran, while the dog-pack gathered and took up the trail . . . ran and ran until, with aching lungs and bursting heart and reeling brain, the two sighted the good White Frangi's camp, put on a last spurt, stood each his bottle of beer before the Frangi's tent, and lay down at the winning post to die.” Tommy felt for his pipe. “No, I didn’t drink the beer.” “What exactly did you do?” I en- quired. “Soaked the labels off the bottles and stuck them on the chests of Gojo and the others. Decorations — in a double sense. Victoria Crosses. And they died happy. ““Then I stuck the bottles up and shot ‘em. And contemplated shooting myself. “No — I wish I had never gone into Abyssinia,” he added, as he puffed at his pipe. the log bars. She hadn’t eaten since I had captured her, nor had she slept. Ceaselessly, tirelessly, she paced the confines of her prison, bellowing rage and defiance at everybody and every- thing that went near her. I had an idea, and I ordered it executed. “Ali,”” I called, “you and some of the boys carry that baby kuching cage over near Fireball.” It was then that I had one of the greatest pleasures in my experiences with wild animals. No sooner had the little cage been set down beside the big one than a strange change came over Fireball. She suddenly ceased her roars and her snarling. Her sharp, keen eyes focused on the cage beside her and singled out her two babies. Those eyes of hers seemed to bore into them, to take in every young muscle and every patch of gloss in their clouded coats. They seemed to weigh each cub separately, to estimate poundage and growth, to survey lithe lines and con- jecture ‘over each baby’s personal health. And then suddenly, as if entirely satisfied with life and the world, Fire- ’ 11 ball lay down in her cage. She put her beautiful head on her forepaws and looked out at her children with tran- quil, serene eyes. And, knowing her babies were safe and beside her, Fireball calmly went to sleep as peacefully as if she were a house cat in her own favorite chair! Fireball is now with an American circus, and her two children are favorites at the St. Louis Zoo. And to me, of all the leopards I ever captured in over twenty years experience, or all I ever shall capture, Fireball will be my favorite. 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