The Most Dangerous Game.

by Richard Connell (1893-1949)

"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 today?"

"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 seafaring 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 afterdeck."

"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

favorite 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 dosed 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 coolheadedness 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.

The Most Dangerous Game By Richard Connell