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In India long ago there lived a man who made his living by theft and
murder and who saw no wrong therein. Or if in the bottom of his soul he
saw wrong, he ignored it, for he took a sense of guilt to be a sign of
weakness standing in the way of his prowess as a bandit. Moreover, a hungry
stomach was more painful to him than the pangs of conscience he may at
times have felt. Occasionally, however, when sleep did not come at night,
when there was nothing for his eyes to fasten upon in the thick blackness
of the forest and nothing for his ears to hear but the lonely cries of
jackals, he felt afraid and longed for the company of righteous men. At
such times, the faces of all those he had killed passed before him in parade
some silently accusing, some grimacing in pain or in anger, and some pleading
in terror. Fifty two in all. Lying in the dark, he would count them, and
the weight of so many sins seemed too much for one soul to bear. He would
vow with all his heart to kill no more, calling upon Shiva to hear him.
But with the first daylight, when the friendly chatter of birds replaced
the lonely and furtive night sounds, he would rise and leave his enclosure
of woven branches and look with pleasure at the red dawn. He would sense
the joyous excitement of the waking forest and feet his strength rise within
him, even as the sun rose in the sky. He would flex his muscles in anticipation
of adventure and be glad for the way he lived. He was his own master, an
expert at his work, and was respected as such among the other dacoits of
his time. Neither fear nor pity weakened his attack nor lessened the speed
of his flight. I
am Buckshee, the Terror of Travelers! And laughing loudly he
would break a sizeable branch from a tree and snapping it in two would
hurl the pieces far into the brush.
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