The Black Phantom

by Leo E. Miller

The siege lasted throughout the day; nor was it raised at nightfall. So far as Warruk was concerned, he crouched comfortably on the thick limb and interestedly observed the proceedings below, rather enjoying the impotent manifestations of the peccary herd; that is, he felt no misgivings so long as daylight lasted for the sun shone brightly and it was warm. But with darkness came a brisk wind that lashed the treetops into a madly waving, groaning tangle of spectral branches and brought a cold shudder to the besieged. There was no rain but the air was heavy with moisture from the saturated mould underneath and the chill penetrated to the very bones.

Warruk shivered. The cat tribe may endure neither excessive cold nor moisture and here was a combination of the two. The cub was rapidly growing numb and it was not long before that fact made itself felt. Should his strength fail him he would be unable to retain his hold on the elevated perch and would plunge down into the midst of the merciless horde that awaited him.

He arose, stretched his limbs and peered down; the frantic host was still there in full number. Then he began pacing back and forth on the branch. The exercise restored the sluggish circulation of his blood and he felt he had a new lease on life. Ten feet above his head was a thicker though shorter limb; he clambered up the trunk to it but the moment one paw touched the new footing it gave way, struck other branches in its downward course and fell to the ground a good fifty feet from the base of the tree. When it landed with a crash, stunning several of the peccaries and injuring others which immediately announced the fact in loud screams, the remainder of the herd rushed to the spot and in a moment was converted into a struggling, frantic mass. The animals were crazed with excitement and bent on but one thing—the destruction of their enemy which supposedly had fallen into their clutches.

That was Warruk’s one chance, provided by his timely though unintentional loosening of the decayed branch. He slid quickly down the side of the trunk opposite the struggling mass of animals and darted away.

The ensuing months of sunshine and balmy weather were passing all too quickly in a succession of glorious days and starlit nights. Everywhere, in grassy pampa, forest island, reedy marsh and in the streams and lagoons, life teemed and the creatures were filled with the joyousness of living. Everyone was happy. What did it matter if myriads were doomed to die in the course of each twenty-four hours to provide food for the others? Was not it the plan of Nature that it should be so, from the very beginning? When an individual of any species lost its life there were others left to carry on the purpose of the kind and the survivors took no note of the fact that one of their number had vanished. There was no trace of dread or tragedy in the demeanor of any creature. Each unconsciously took his chance in the game of life just as civilized man takes his in multitudinous ways. If a bird narrowly escaped the talons of a hawk, even losing a fluff of feathers in the encounter, it did not remain indefinitely in dense cover, in fear and trembling; it soon forgot the experience and went about its affairs in the usual way, just as a man who barely escapes being struck by an automobile while crossing the street will not hesitate to again run the same risk at the very next corner. That is exactly as Nature intended it should be for, if either man or beast spent the time brooding over the many things that could happen, life would be a perpetual torment and probably of short duration.

Warruk, the black Jaguar, lived with a measure of joyousness that was brimming over. He was thrilled with the vastness of his world and with the possibilities that arose each day. There were adventures and misadventures and he relished both, for each added to the sum total of the things he should know.

As the dry season advanced the water in the lagoons fell rapidly and some of the smaller ones dried up completely. Those of larger size shrank to narrow proportions, the water receding gradually under the onslaughts of the sunshine and drying wind.

The pools that lay in the center of the wide, sun-baked mudflats were the mecca of a host of things. They teemed with imprisoned fish. Ducks and other waterfowl swarmed to them. Jacanas, birds with wide-spreading toes, ran nimbly over the lily pads on the surface, seemingly skating across the water itself. And, crocodiles migrated from a distance to these havens of security and plenty.

There was no choice. The animals of the plains and forests that required water to sustain life were compelled to seek out the remaining pools to quench their thirst. Some of them came only at lengthy intervals. Others came not at all, for apparently they could subsist through the entire period of drouth without drinking. But the vast majority were forced to visit the lagoons frequently or perish.

And as it was, not a few of them lost their lives in the midst of plenty. The sun, however, shone just as brightly as if there were no note of tragedy; parrots screamed as usual; blackbirds trilled, frogs croaked and bellowed, and the turtles laid their eggs in the hot sand. In other words, the procession of life moved on without taking note of those that dropped out along the way. It was neither more nor less than the enactment of an old, old drama.