O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1921 eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 467 pages of information about O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1921.

But there was one among them who was not yet a man grown; a boy so small that he could hover, unnoticed, in the very smallest of the terrible shadow-patches.  He was Little Shikara, and he was shocked to the very depths of his worshipping heart.  For Warwick had been his hero, the greatest man of all time, and he felt himself burning with indignation that the beaters should return so soon.  And it was a curious fact that he had not as yet been infected with the contagion of terror that was being passed from man to man among the villagers.  Perhaps his indignation was too absorbing an emotion to leave room for terror, and perhaps, far down in his childish spirit, he was made of different stuff.  He was a child of the jungle, and perhaps he had shared of that great imperturbability and impassiveness that is the eternal trait of the wildernesses.

He went up to one of the younger beaters who had told and retold a story of catching a glimpse of Nahara in the thickets until no one was left to tell it to.  He was standing silent, and Little Shikara thought it possible that he might reach his ears.

“Give ear, Puran,” he pleaded.  “Didst thou look for his body beside the ford over Tarai stream?”

“Nay, little one—­though I passed within one hundred paces.”

“Dost thou not know that he and Singhai would of a certainty cross at the ford to reach the fringe of jungle from which he might watch the eastern field?  Some of you looked on the trail beside the ford, but none looked at the ford itself.  And the sound of the rifle seemed to come from thence.”

“But why did he not call out?”

“Dead men could not call, but at least ye might have frightened Nahara from the body.  But perhaps he is wounded, unable to speak, and lies there still—­”

But Puran had found another listener for his story, and speedily forgot the boy.  He hurried over to another of the villagers, Khusru the hunter.

“Did no one look by the ford?” he asked, almost sobbing.  “For that is the place he had gone.”

The native’s eyes seemed to light. “Hai, little one, thou hast thought of what thy elders had forgotten.  There is level land there, and clear.  And I shall go at the first ray of dawn—­”

“But not to-night, Khusru—?”

“Nay, little sinner!  Wouldst thou have me torn to pieces?”

Lastly Little Shikara went to his own father, and they had a moment’s talk at the outskirts of the throng.  But the answer was nay—­just the same.  Even his brave father would not go to look for the body until daylight came.  The boy felt his skin prickling all over.

“But perhaps he is only wounded—­and left to die.  If I go and return with word that he is there, wilt thou take others and go out and bring him in?”

Thou goest!” His father broke forth in a great roar of laughter.  “Why, thou little hawk!  One would think that thou wert a hunter of tigers thyself!”

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O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1921 from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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