[adapted]

by
Jack London

I

HE was a very quiet, calm sort of man, sitting a moment on top of the wall to listen to the wet darkness for signs of the dangers it might hide. But his careful listening brought nothing to him except the sound of wind through unseen trees and the soft sound of leaves on moving branches. A heavy fog moved and was pushed by the wind, and though he could not see this fog, its wetness blew on his face, and the wall he sat on was wet.

Without noise he had climbed to the top of the wall from the outside, and without noise he dropped to the ground on the inside. From his pocket he took out a flashlight, but he did not use it. Although the way was dark, he did not want light. Carrying the flashlight in his hand, his finger on the button, he moved forward through the darkness. The ground was soft and springy to his feet, being covered with dead pine needles and leaves and mold which clearly had not been touched for years. Leaves and branches brushed against his body, but it was so dark that he could not avoid them.

Soon he walked with his hand stretched out, feeling his way before him, and more than once the hand hit the thick trunks of big trees. All around him he knew were these trees; he felt their dark shapes everywhere; and he felt a strange feeling of being very tiny in the middle of big shapes leaning toward him to crush him. Beyond, he knew, was the house, and he expected to find some track or winding path that would lead easily to it.

Once, he found himself stuck. On every side he felt his way against trees and branches, or stumbled into thick bushes, until there seemed no way out. Then he turned on his light, carefully, pointing its beam to the ground at his feet. Slowly and carefully he moved it around him, the bright white light showing clearly all the things in his way. He saw an opening between trees with huge trunks, and went through it, turning off the light and walking on dry ground still protected from the drip of the fog by the thick leaves above. His sense of direction was good, and he knew he was going toward the house.

And then the thing happened—the thing he could not think of and did not expect. His foot going down stepped on something that was soft and alive, and it rose with a snort under his weight. He jumped away, and bent down low for another jump, anywhere, tense and waiting, ready for the attack from the unknown. He waited a moment, wondering what kind of animal it was that had risen from under his foot and that now made no sound or movement and that must be bent down low and waiting just as tense and waiting as he was. The strain became too much. Holding the night-stick before him, he pressed the button, saw, and screamed aloud in fear.

He was ready for anything, from a scared calf or fawn to an angry lion, but he was not ready for what he saw. In that moment his small flashlight, bright and white, had shown him what a thousand years would not let him forget—a man, huge and blond, yellow-haired and yellow-bearded, naked except for soft, tanned leather shoes and what seemed a goat skin around his middle. Arms and legs were bare, as were his shoulders and most of his chest. The skin was smooth and without hair, but brown from sun and wind, while under it heavy muscles were bunched like fat snakes.

Still, this alone, unexpected as it was, was not what made the man cry out. What caused his fear was the terrible wildness of the face, the wild-animal stare of the blue eyes, hardly bothered by the light, the pine needles tangled and sticking in the beard and hair, and the whole powerful body crouched and about to jump at him. Almost the moment he saw all this, and while his scream still sounded, the thing jumped, he threw his night-stick straight at it, and threw himself to the ground. He felt its feet and legs hit his ribs, and he jumped up and away while the thing itself went forward in a heavy, crashing fall into the bushes.

As the noise of the fall stopped, the man stopped and on hands and knees waited. He could hear the thing moving around, searching for him, and he was afraid to show where he was by trying to run farther. He knew that surely he would make a crackling sound in the bushes and be chased. Once he took out his revolver, then changed his mind. He had become calm again and hoped to get away without making noise. Several times he heard the thing pushing through the thick bushes for him, and there were moments when it, too, stayed still and listened. This gave an idea to the man.

One of his hands was resting on a piece of dead wood. Carefully, first feeling around him in the dark to know that he could swing his arm freely, he lifted the piece of wood and threw it. It was not a large piece, and it went far, landing noisily in a bush. He heard the thing bounce into the bush, and at the same time he crawled steadily away. And on hands and knees, slowly and carefully, he crawled on, until his knees were wet on the soggy soil, When he listened he heard nothing but the moaning wind and the drip-drip of the fog from the branches. Still careful, he stood up straight and went on to the stone wall, over which he climbed and dropped down to the road outside.

Feeling his way in a clump of bushes, he pulled out a bicycle and got ready to get on. He was turning the pedal with his foot to get the other pedal in the right place, when he heard the thud of a heavy body that landed lightly and clearly on its feet. He did not wait any longer, but ran, with hands on the handles of his bicycle, until he was able to jump onto the saddle, catch the pedals, and start to speed up. Behind he could hear the quick thud-thud of feet on the dust of the road, but he pulled away from it and lost it.

Sadly, he had started going away from the town and was going higher up into the hills. He knew that on this road there were no side roads. The only way back was past that scary thing, and he could not make himself face it. After half an hour, finding himself on a hill that kept getting steeper, he got off. To be even safer, leaving the bicycle by the side of the road, he climbed through a fence into what he thought was a hillside field, spread a newspaper on the ground, and sat down.

“Wow!” he said out loud, wiping the sweat and fog from his face.

And “Gosh!” he said once again, while rolling a cigarette and as he thought about the problem of getting back.

But he did not try to go back. He decided not to take that road in the dark, and with his head on his knees, he slept, waiting for daylight.

He did not know how long after, he was woken by the yapping bark of a young coyote. As he looked around and found it on the top of the hill behind him, he noticed the change that had come over the night. The fog was gone; the stars and moon were out; even the wind had died down. It had changed into a warm California summer night. He tried to sleep again, but the yap of the coyote bothered him. Half asleep, he heard a wild and strange song. Looking around him, he noticed that the coyote had stopped its noise and was running away along the top of the hill, and behind it, running hard after it, no longer singing, ran the naked creature he had met in the garden. It was a young coyote, and it was being caught when the chase went out of sight. The man trembled as if with a chill as he jumped to his feet, climbed over the fence, and got on his bicycle. But it was his chance and he knew it. The fear was no longer between him and Mill Valley.

He went very fast down the hill, but at the turn at the bottom, in the dark shadows, he hit a pothole and fell headfirst over the handle bar.

“It’s sure not my night,” he said quietly, as he looked at the broken fork of the machine.

Carrying the useless wheel on his shoulder, he walked on. After a while he came to the stone wall, and, half not believing his experience, he looked in the road for tracks, and found them—moccasin footprints, large ones, pressed deep into the dust at the toes. It was while he was bending over them, looking at them, that he again heard the strange chant. He had seen the thing chase the coyote, and he knew he had no chance in a straight race. He did not try it, choosing to hide in the shadows on the far side of the road.

And again he saw the thing that was like a naked man, running quickly and lightly and singing as it ran. In front of him it stopped, and his heart stopped for a moment. But instead of coming toward his hiding place, it jumped into the air, caught the branch of a tree by the road, and swung quickly upward, from branch to branch, like a monkey. It swung across the wall, and about twelve feet above the top, into the branches of another tree, and dropped to the ground out of sight. The man waited a few amazed minutes, then went on.

II

Dave Slotter leaned angrily against the desk that blocked the way to the private office of James Ward, head partner of the company of Ward, Knowles & Co. Dave was angry. Every one in the outer office had looked at him suspiciously, and the man who faced him was very suspicious.

“You just tell Mr. Ward it’s important,” he said.

“I tell you he is telling someone what to write and must not be bothered,” was the answer. “Come tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow will be too late. You just go quickly and tell Mr. Ward it’s a matter of life and death.”

The secretary paused and Dave took the chance.

“You just tell him I was across the bay in Mill Valley last night, and that I want to let him know something.”

“What name?” was the question.

“Forget the name. He doesn’t know me.”

When Dave was taken into the private office, he was still in an angry mood, but when he saw a big blond man turn quickly in a revolving chair from telling a typist what to write to face him, Dave’s behavior suddenly changed. He did not know why it changed, and he was secretly angry with himself.

“You are Mr. Ward?” Dave asked in a silly way that annoyed him even more. He had never meant it at all.

“Yes,” was the answer.

“And who are you?”

“Harry Bancroft,” Dave lied. “You don’t know me, and my name is not important.”

“Did you send a message that you were in Mill Valley last night?”

“You live there, don’t you?” Dave replied, looking at the secretary with doubt.

“Yes. Why do you want to see me? I am very busy.”

“I’d like to see you alone, sir.”

Mr. Ward gave him a quick, sharp look, paused, then decided.

“That is enough for a few minutes, Miss Potter.”

The girl stood up, gathered her notes together, and went out. Dave looked at Mr. James Ward in wonder, until that gentleman stopped his unclear thoughts.

“Well?”

“I was over in Mill Valley last night,” Dave began, confused.

“I’ve heard that before. What do you want?”

And Dave continued despite a growing belief that was hard to believe. “I was at your house, or in the yard, I mean.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I came to break in,” Dave answered honestly.

“I heard you lived all alone with a Chinese man as cook, and it looked good to me. But I didn’t come in. Something happened that stopped me. That’s why I’m here. I come to warn you. I found a wild man loose in your grounds—a real devil. He could pull a guy like me to pieces. He made me run for my life. He doesn’t wear any clothes, he climbs trees like a monkey, and he runs like a deer. I saw him chasing a coyote, and the last I saw of it, by God, he was getting closer to it.”

Dave stopped and looked for the reaction that would come after what he said. But no reaction came. James Ward was quietly curious, and that was all.

“Very strange, very strange,” he said softly. “A wild man, you say. Why have you come to tell me?”

“To warn you about your danger. I’m a tough person myself, but I don’t believe in killing people… that is, when it is not needed. I knew that you was in danger. I thought I’d warn you. Honest, that’s it. Of course, if you wanted to give me anything for my trouble, I’d take it. That was in my mind, too. But I don’t care if you give me anything or not. I’ve warned you any way, and done what I should do.”

Mr. Ward sat thinking and tapped on the top of his desk. Dave noticed they were large, strong hands, yet well cared for even with their dark sunburn. Also, he saw again what had already caught his eye before—a tiny strip of skin-colored bandage on the forehead over one eye. And still the thought that pushed into his mind was hard to believe.

Mr. Ward took a wallet from his inside coat pocket, took out a dollar bill, and gave it to Dave, who noticed as he put it in his pocket that it was for twenty dollars.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Ward, showing that the interview was over.