Out of Times Abyss | Page 4

is in the center of the island.
Upon the fourth day of September, 1916, he set out with four
companions, Sinclair, Brady, James, and Tippet, to search along the
base of the barrier cliffs for a point at which they might be scaled.
Through the heavy Caspakian air, beneath the swollen sun, the five
men marched northwest from Fort Dinosaur, now waist-deep in lush,
jungle grasses starred with myriad gorgeous blooms, now across open
meadow-land and parklike expanses and again plunging into dense
forests of eucalyptus and acacia and giant arboreous ferns with
feathered fronds waving gently a hundred feet above their heads.
About them upon the ground, among the trees and in the air over them
moved and swung and soared the countless forms of Caspak's teeming
life. Always were they menaced by some frightful thing and seldom
were their rifles cool, yet even in the brief time they had dwelt upon
Caprona they had become callous to danger, so that they swung along

laughing and chatting like soldiers on a summer hike.
"This reminds me of South Clark Street," remarked Brady, who had
once served on the traffic squad in Chicago; and as no one asked him
why, he volunteered that it was "because it's no place for an Irishman."
"South Clark Street and heaven have something in common, then,"
suggested Sinclair. James and Tippet laughed, and then a hideous growl
broke from a dense thicket ahead and diverted their attention to other
matters.
"One of them behemoths of 'Oly Writ," muttered Tippet as they came
to a halt and with guns ready awaited the almost inevitable charge.
"Hungry lot o' beggars, these," said Bradley; "always trying to eat
everything they see."
For a moment no further sound came from the thicket. "He may be
feeding now," suggested Bradley. "We'll try to go around him. Can't
waste ammunition. Won't last forever. Follow me." And he set off at
right angles to their former course, hoping to avert a charge. They had
taken a dozen steps, perhaps, when the thicket moved to the advance of
the thing within it, the leafy branches parted, and the hideous head of a
gigantic bear emerged.
"Pick your trees," whispered Bradley. "Can't waste ammunition."
The men looked about them. The bear took a couple of steps forward,
still growling menacingly. He was exposed to the shoulders now.
Tippet took one look at the monster and bolted for the nearest tree; and
then the bear charged. He charged straight for Tippet. The other men
scattered for the various trees they had selected--all except Bradley. He
stood watching Tippet and the bear. The man had a good start and the
tree was not far away; but the speed of the enormous creature behind
him was something to marvel at, yet Tippet was in a fair way to make
his sanctuary when his foot caught in a tangle of roots and down he
went, his rifle flying from his hand and falling several yards away.
Instantly Bradley's piece was at his shoulder, there was a sharp report

answered by a roar of mingled rage and pain from the carnivore. Tippet
attempted to scramble to his feet.
"Lie still!" shouted Bradley. "Can't waste ammunition."
The bear halted in its tracks, wheeled toward Bradley and then back
again toward Tippet. Again the former's rifle spit angrily, and the bear
turned again in his direction. Bradley shouted loudly. "Come on, you
behemoth of Holy Writ!" he cried. "Come on, you duffer! Can't waste
ammunition." And as he saw the bear apparently upon the verge of
deciding to charge him, he encouraged the idea by backing rapidly
away, knowing that an angry beast will more often charge one who
moves than one who lies still.
And the bear did charge. Like a bolt of lightning he flashed down upon
the Englishman. "Now run!" Bradley called to Tippet and himself
turned in flight toward a nearby tree. The other men, now safely
ensconced upon various branches, watched the race with breathless
interest. Would Bradley make it? It seemed scarce possible. And if he
didn't! James gasped at the thought. Six feet at the shoulder stood the
frightful mountain of blood-mad flesh and bone and sinew that was
bearing down with the speed of an express train upon the seemingly
slow-moving man.
It all happened in a few seconds; but they were seconds that seemed
like hours to the men who watched. They saw Tippet leap to his feet at
Bradley's shouted warning. They saw him run, stooping to recover his
rifle as he passed the spot where it had fallen. They saw him glance
back toward Bradley, and then they saw him stop short of the tree that
might have given him safety and turn back in the direction of the bear.
Firing