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T E RRY
A TALE OF THE HILL PEOPLE




THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK - BOSTON * CHICAGO. DALLAS
ATLANTA  SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON  BOMBAY  CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO




,......:.
A TALE OF THE HILL PEOPLE
BY
CHARLES GOFF THOMSON
Late Lieut.-Colonel, U. S. Army.
Formerly Assistant Director of Prisons
for Philippine Government
jQetu pork
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1921
All rights reserved




COPYRTGHT, 1921,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1921




DEDICATED TO
MR. E. J. B.
WHO HAS GIVEN OF HIS
COUNSEL, SPIRIT AND SUBSTANCE
TO NEEDY YOUNG MEN




I




AUTHOR'S NOTE
The poem "Casey" used in Chapter IX was written by the late Arthur W. Ferguson, formerly Executive Secretary for the Philippine Government. It
has been edited and amplified but is substantially as
written by him. A man of unusual facility, Mr. Ferguson composed the verses under circumstances somewhat similar to those set down herein, and with like
spontaneity.








CONTENTS
CHAPTER                       PAGE
I THE Fox...... 1
II  TERRY  DECIDES.........  18
III MINDANAO......... 33
IV  THE FANATIC..........  52
V NEW FRIENDS, AND AN ENEMY... 66
VI THE LAND OP HEMP..       80
VII THE PYTHON..... 98
VIII  THE STRICKEN VILLAGE.....  1111
IX  MALABANAN STRIKES.... 126
X MALABANAN......141
XI  INTO THE FORBIDDEN HILLS..... 157
XII THE MAJOR FOLLOWS....    175
XIII  THE HILL PEOPLE....... 198
XIV  AHMA............211
XV THE SIGN......220
XVI  CIVILIZATION DAWNS IN THE HILLS... 239
XVII "SUS-MARIE-HoSEP!.... 250
XVIII THE Fox SKIN......   262




jl(




TERRY
CHAPTER I
THE FOX
T        IHE frosty silence of the snow-mantled hills
was rent by the vicious crack of a highpowered, small-calibered rifle. The hunter
sprang from the thicket in which he had lain concealed and crossed the gully to a knoll where a black
furry bundle had dropped to the snow after one convulsive leap.
Exultant, Terry bent down to examine the silky
black coat.
"Right through the ear. Well, Mister Fox, you're
mine-though you did lead me a merry chase for
twelve days! You laughed at me till the snow came
-knew I wouldn't bring you out of your hole with
formalin, that it was a square game we played. But
to-day everything broke against you, boy,-sun and
wind and snow. And perhaps hunger."
The twinge of pain that stabs every true sportsman
as he realizes that he has extinguished a spark of
life shadowed Terry's thin, sensitive face. It was a
face of singular appeal, dominated by a queer twist
of upper lip that stamped his mouth with a permanent wistfulness. Even in the bracing cold of the
1




2


TERRY


winter morning his skin was white, but the clear
pallor was belied by the swift energy with which he
moved and the eager sparkle of his dark gray eyes.
He picked up the fluffy bundle and stroked the sleek
fur.
"Hard luck, old boy! But now you'll never be
hungry again, or cold. And I haven't hunted you
all this time just for the sake of the sport."  His face
lighted. "You're going to be a proud little fox. If
foxes have souls-and I don't see why we should deny
you what we lay selfish claims to for ourselvesyours will rejoice in the purpose of your end. Every
night and every morning you —"
He broke off as the distant pealing of church bells
came to his ears, carried faintly but clearly by the
light wind that whispered over the snowy stretches
of rolling meadowlands. For a long time Terry stood
facing toward the invisible village, his face moody
and inscrutable. As the sound of the bells died away
he shook off the spell with conscious, humorous effort
and picking up his rifle and the fox he went into the
thicket to secure and adjust his snowshoes.
Ignoring paths and sleighroads he made his way
toward the town. The crisp pine-laden air charged
his muscles with exuberant excess of the fine energy of
youth and he made his way swiftly across the sparkling snow   that blanketed the! gentle landscape,
through the thickets of evergreens and across the tiny,
ice-edged creeks that flowed in swift escape from winter's frozen grip.
Keen-eyed, he stopped a moment in study of a
group of pheasants that huddled in a clump of un



THE FOX                      3
derbrush. They played possum till he passed on. A
rabbit, reared up in nervous-nosed inquiry, watched
him furtively as he approached the rock behind which
it had vainly sought concealment. Terry laughed at
its ridiculous plight.
"You'd better improve your strategy, you young
scamp, or you'll wind up in the pot of some one who
hunts rabbits!"
He watched its jumpy flight into a distant copse of
young pines, then went on swiftly. In an hour he
paused at the top of a last steep grade. Lake Champlain stretched her flat-frozen bosom to the north and
south of him. The more level timbered areas of the
opposite shore were broken here and there by clearings in which white farm houses and red barns nestled
like doll houses.
At the foot of the slope directly beneath him a
village lay primly along the lake shore. It was a
square-built town, its limits almost rectangular, its
breadth and width checkered into exact squares by
wide, straight streets. It was an old town: a score of
its flat-roofed structures had been built while the
Mohawks still guarded the Western Gate of the Long
House, and many of the great, old-fashioned homes
had stood when Ethan Alien strutted through its
streets.
It was not a snug little town, there was no air of
hospitality to encourage strangers to tarry within its
gates, but seemed to promise "value received" for
any who came, paid their way and attended strictly
to their own affairs.
Thus Terry saw the town in which he had been




4


TEIR Y


born and had spent all of his twenty-six years except
the four at Princeton. He tarried, his eyes fixed
upon the cemetery which limited the eastern edge of
the town, to which his father and mother had been
carried when he was a boy of eleven.
He faced about in lingering appreciation of the
blue-vaulted expanse, then descended toward the village. Whipping off his snowshoes at the border of
the village he entered the main street, which ran
straight through town to the lake front. No one
was in sight on the broad thoroughfare and he found
a measure of relief in its emptiness, for though he
did not adhere to the rigid New England doctrine that
governed his neighbors, he found no pleasure in wanton violation of their stiff code. Realizing that with
snowshoes, gun and fox he jarred heavily upon the
atmosphere of the quiet Sunday morning, he hurried
down the street.
He encountered no one, but as he passed by the
ice-incrusted watering trough at the central square
and approached the block made up by Crampville's
three churches, the big doors of his own church were
flung open and the congregation emerged. As the
decorous crowd filed out Terry hesitated a moment,
then kept on his way.
The progress of the lone figure along the opposite
side of the street was the topic of conversation at
nearly every dinner table in Crampville that Sunday.
It became a sort of small-town epic, so that they still
tell how  stern the elders looked, and how white
Terry's face against the background of black fur
which he had thrown across his shoulder in order to




THE FOX


5


free his right hand that he might gravely raise his
crimson hunting cap in respectful salutation of families he had known from childhood. And they still
tell, too, how Deane Hunter, flushed with mortification at her father's frigid refusal to recognize Terry's
greeting, checked the nudges and whisperings by calling out a cheerful "Good Morning, Dick."  Her courageous voice still rang in his ears as he entered the
iron-fenced yard that surrounded the home of his
fathers.
Inside the great, high-ceilinged house Terry stood
a while in somber reflection, then shrugged his trim
shoulders and passed through the shadowy rooms out
into the barn. In five minutes he had cleaned and
oiled his rifle, but an hour passed while he carefully
removed the pelt and tacked it taut upon a stretching
board.
He was in the library, reading, when his sister and
brother-in-law came downstairs in response to the
dinner bell. Susan and her husband, Ellis Crofts,
had lived in the old mansion since their marriage two
years previously, rather against Ellis' desires. He
had wished to set up an establishment of his own, but
had yielded to Susan's pleadings and Terry's sincere
letter from college asking him not to be instrumental
in closing up a house that had been lived in continuously by the Terrys of four generations.
They had been among the last to emerge from
church, but had come out in time to see Terry as he
opened the gate, and had heard enough of the murmured comment to understand its significance. It
had been difficult for them to control their emotions




6


TERRY


as they kept slow step with the throng down the
broad sidewalk. Susan, mortified but loyal to the
core, had set her face in defiant smile lest she burst
into tears: Ellis, devoted to Terry but tickled by the
situation, had smothered his snickers in protracted
fits of coughing.
Terry threw aside a handbook on the curing of pelts
and rose at their entrance, smiling:
"Well, do you good folks think you are safe in
sitting at the same table with an unrepentant sinnerr?"
Susan had been crying. "Oh, Dick! Why did
you do it? How do you do such things?"
He waved his hand in humorous deprecation.
"Easy. It's the simplest thing I do. It isn't difficult if you have a knack for it."
"But, Dick, it's no joke. I saw the three elders of
our church-Ballard, Remington and Van Slyketalking about it, and they were very bitter. And you
know they can expel any church member."
Terry made no answer save to put his arm around
each and lead them into the dining room. But Susan
was not content.
"Dick, I wish you would explain it to Ballard or
Van Slyke. They are influential men and both are
very religious."
Ellis took a hand: "Their religion is all right, so
far as it goes-but they mix it up with their dyspepsia
too much to suit me!"
As his wife turned rebuking eyes upon him he pursued doggedly: "Not that their dyspepsia and religion




THE FOX


7


are always mixed; they have their dyspepsia seven
days in the week!"
She joined in their laughter over Ellis' exaggerated
defense, then turned again to her brother.
"What are you going to do with that nasty thing
you shot, Dick?"
"Nasty?" broke in Ellis in quick alarm. "You
didn't shoot a skunk, did you?"
She ignored her husband and persisted: "Tell me
why you shot that fox, Dick. You have been out
hunting nearly every day for two weeks and have
shot nothing else, so I know you have a reason."
"I'm not going to help eat it!" Ellis broke in.
"I've heard they are stringy-and a bit smelly."
"Ellis, will you stop being ridiculous? Dick, why
have you hunted that fox so long?"
Ellis had seen that Terry was not to be pumped,
that this was another of his queer quests. He tried
again to shunt Susan away.
"Maybe it was a personal matter between him and
the fox, Sue."
She turned on him a look she endeavored to make
disdainful, but only succeeded in raising another
laugh from both. But she was not to be deterred.
Her eyes lit with sudden inspiration.
"I'll bet-I'll bet anything-" she began.
"Susan Terry Crofts! Even Dick would not bet
on Sunday!"
"I will bet anything," she insisted, "that it is
something for Deane-for Christmas!"
In the slight flush that rose in her brother's face




8


TERRY


Susan learned that she had hit the mark. But she
was instantly sorry that she had pressed the issue,
as she had learned long before to respect what was
to her his queer reticence.
Ellis hurried into the breach: "Wonder what
Bruce will give Deane this Christmas? He is about
due to present her with something really worth while
-like a patent mop!"
Even Terry laughed. The struggle for Deane's
favor between Bruce Ballard and Terry had been in
progress nearly ten years and had become one of the
town's institutions. The first formal offerings tendered by the two boys on the occasion of her graduation from high school typified the contrasting characters of the rivals: Terry, idealistic, impressionable,
reserved, had sent her a beautiful copy of the "Love
Letters of a Musician," while Bruce, sincere, obvious
and practical, had given her a hat-pin.
On her succeeding birthday Terry, after a six-hour
climb, had won for her a box of trailing arbutus
from Mount Defiance's cool top; Bruce had sent her
candy. From his medical college at Baltimore Bruce
had sent, as succeeding Christmas gifts, an ivory toilet
set, a thermos bottle, a reading lamp and a chafing
dish.
Terry's offerings on those occasions had been a
Japanese kimono embroidered with her favorite flower
-a wondrous thing secured by correspondence with
the American consul at Kobe: a pair of Siamese
kittens which he named Cat-Nip and Cat-Nap: a
sandal-wood fan out of India; and a little, triplechinned, ebony god of Mirth, its impish eyes rolled




THE FOX


9


back in merriment, mouth wrinkled with utter joy of
the world.
The rivalry had divided the town into two camps.
The pro-Bruce faction, composed largely of men folk,
claimed for their protege a splendid common sense
in selection of his gifts: but the women and girls, who
made up the other group, envied Deane not only
the gifts Terry gave her, but also-and more sothe rarefied romantic spirit of the youth who conceived and offered them.
Deane realized that both Bruce and Terry stayed
on in the dull old town principally to be near her.
This was true of Bruce particularly, as he was a
young surgeon of such promise that he had twice been
invited into junior association with Albany's greatest
specialist. She had strongly urged him to embrace
the increased opportunity for service and profit which
the city afforded.
But Terry was only six months out of college, a six
months spent in futile effort to adjust himself to the
theme of the village, to find appropriate outlet for that
urgent desire to be of use in the world which dominated his character. As the Terrys were of those
families termed "comfortable" in Crampville, he
felt no need of devoting himself to adding to an already ample estate. At his sister's request, he had
undertaken to manage a shoe store that represented
one of their holdings but at the end of a couple of
months had given it up-also in accord with her
wishes. Higgins, their old clerk, had come to her with
tearful warnings that Terry's unwillingness to refuse credit to any one who came in with a tale of




10


TERRY


hard-luck was ruining the business: and Terry had
lost the custom of several good families by declining
to humor their crotchety unreasonableness.
But Higgins did not know how they came to lose
the trade of the Hunter family. At the end of a
trying day of insistent demand for smaller shoes than
feminine feet could accommodate, of viewing bunions
and flat arches and wry-jointed toes, he had written
Deane:
DEANE DEAR:I used to think that the true glory of Trilby rested in
the wondrous mesmeric voice-but after a month in the
shoe business I know better. Between perfect vocal cords
and perfect feet, give me the feet.
The word "shoe" used to bring to my mind thoughts of
calfskin, kid, patent leather. But no more! Now I think
of-well, many things.
I am glad that your family is not among those who
favor this establishment with its patronage. I am very
happy in this, as it is good to think that your dear shoes
are but a part of you, are incidental to your being, and
not a consequence of drear barter and "fitting."
I will not be over to-night. But I will be thinking of
you.
DICK.
A bit puzzled, she had shown the note to her father.
Irate, he had issued a mandate that produced the
effect Terry had asked. Mr. Hunter was acutely sensitive about twin corns which had been a part of his
toes so long that he honestly thought them      congenital.
After quitting the store Terry had turned his




TIHIE FOX


11


attention to their farm properties but, as a careful
investigation covering three months had demonstrated
them to be in capable hands, he had returned them to
the full management of the old tenants at the end
of the harvest. He had then studied the possibilities
of enlarging their only other business, a small pulp
plant, but after satisfying himself that the meager
water power was being fully utilized and that the
location of the mill at Crampville precluded competition with those more favorably located that were operated with steam power, he had abandoned the project. For a month he had been seeking outlet for his
restless energy.
Deane, anxiously watching his endeavor to fit himself into one of Crampville's narrow  grooves and
vaguely understanding his unvoiced craving for wider
horizons, dreaded the break she knew would take
him  away. Susan, studying him   with the uneasy
solicitude of an older sister, saw in Deane an anchor
which would hold him to the town. Ellis had been
less concerned, as he had recognized that Terry's
intolerance of the village was but the outcropping of
a sane young spirit that gauged the peaks and sought
real service. He had been trying lately to prepare his
wife for Terry's departure to other fields, as he
thought it inevitable. It was a word to this effect
that had precipitated the tears with which she had
greeted her brother before dinner.
Ellis plagued Susan throughout the leisurely meal,
Terry adding an occasional word whenever the flow
of affectionate badgering lagged. Fanny, who had
served them since they were children, bustled in and




12


TERRY


out, redfaced, wholesome, fruitlessly trying to press
upon Terry an excess of the over-ample dinner. It
was a sort of unwritten law in Crampville that the
Sunday dinner should be sufficiently heavy to drive
the menfolk to a long digestive nap.
Ellis lingered at the table after Terry had excused
himself and gone out into the barn again. Susan
helped Fanny clear the old mahogany table, then
sank into a chair beside her abstracted husband.
"Sue," he said finally, "Dick hasn't said anything
lately about accepting that position in the Philippihes, has he?"
A worried look crept into her smooth face: "No.
I supposed he had decided against it. "
He patted her hand consolingly: "Don't be too
confident about his staying home, Sue. He wants to
see things-do things! There isn't much in this
town to hold one of his nature."
"There's-Deane," she said, hopefully.
"Sue, don't be so sure of that, either. You know
that you and I hold different theories about that.
Don't bank too heavily on yours."  He drummed the
polished table a moment before continuing: "He received another telegram from Washington yesterday
-I thought he might have mentioned it to you."
"No," she quavered.
"Nor to me. Guess he doesn't want to worry
you."
She was close to tears again: "I wish he had
never met that young Bronner in college-he gave
Dick all these crazy ideas about going to those horrid
islands where his brother is!"




THE FOX


13


"Well, Sue, he made me feel the same wayand I'm a fat married man! I enjoyed his stories of
his brother's experiences with the wild people over
there. It must be an interesting life."
"You don't talk like that to Dick, do you?" she
implored.
"Of course not. But I think you've been too sure
that he would stay on here indefinitely-I think
it will take very little to tip the scales the other
way."
IHe yawned prodigiously, rousing Susan to an ire
that stemmed the flow of tears which had threatened
to overflow her blue eyes. Then, content with his
tactics, he went upstairs for his traditional nap.
Later, Terry came into the big living room and
stood in front of the fireplace a long time, his lean
face grave and thoughtful. Decision made, he wrote
a note of sincere apology to Doctor Mather, his pastor.
He also wrote Deane that he would not be over in
the evening but would see her during the week, and
made the delivery of the notes an excuse to get the
faithful Fanny out into the crisp December afternoon.
The light in the Terry library burned long after
Crampville's other lights had winked out. He had
been picked up by Stevenson and carried by that
pathetic master into the far places of the earth.
The next morning he was in the barn, his gay
mood revealed by the running talk addressed to the
pelt on which he worked.
"Well, old boy, only four days to get you into




14


TERRY


shape for your dedication, but the book says it can
be done. So you might as well soften up now —" he
vigorously rubbed the dried bare side with some oily
preparation —" as later."
"What a destiny, old chap! Surely no other fox
ever born to lady-fox can be as happy as you're going to be!"   He rubbed industriously. "You're
not for me, you know. No, sir! I wouldn't bring
you out of the hills into this burg-where they kill
ambition by preaching content with your lot, where
the hoarders of pennies are venerated and the pluggers canonized-I wouldn't bring you here just for
me. For I'm not worthy of you. No, sir-ree! Don't
you know I'm no good-didn't you see that yesterday? Why, Old Samuel Terwilliger said I'm an atheist because I quoted Ingersoll's graveside orationsaid no Christian would repeat anything that man ever
said, even if his watch is a bargain at a dollar!...
Samuel likes bargains."
Working rapidly, with no lost motions, he rambled
on, congratulatory, reproachful, whimsical. Having
carried the curing to a point where a twenty-fourhour time process was the next essential factor, he
carefully pegged the skin to the barn door.
That evening Susan came running home excitedly,
having learned that one of the elders had asked that
a meeting be called to consider Dick's case, and
that the young pastor had very promptly and very
emphatically vetoed the proceeding. It seemed that
Bruce had heard of the move and persuaded his
father not to support it, after a stormy scene in which




THE FOX                     15
he had threatened to resign his own membership
if they moved against Terry.
Ellis looked long at Terry: "Nothing small about
Bruce, Dick. Some fellows, under the circumstances
-all the circumstances-might have let you have
it to the hilt."
Terry smiled gravely. "Good old Bruce," he
said.
IHe left the room, slowly, and sat alone in the
library. It had struck deep, that even one God-fearing but not God-loving old man should think him unfit to sit in the church in which his father and mother
had been married, from which they had been carried side by side for their long rest. It was midnight
when he went up the broad staircase to his room.
The following afternoon he dropped in to see
Father Jennings, the gentle little priest who had been
beloved by two generations of all denominationsand those of none. Terry loved the old study, which
in forty years had taken on something of the priest's
character. It was a comfortable room; cheerful in
its wide windows, warm with a bright hearthfire, and
well worn with long years of service.
Terry had found friendship and counsel here since
his boyhood, had been one of the procession that
passed through the door in search of wisdom and
cheer. All the gossip of the town came to the priest:
he knew of Terry's hunting trip and of the climax
which had scandalized the sterner factions of the
community. He was of those who knew Terry best,
and entertained no misgivings about the state of his
immortal soul.




16


TERRY


They talked fitfully, as intimate friends do. The
old man knew that it was worry over the town's
harsh reaction to the Sunday fox hunt that had
brought Terry to him. He broached the subject.
"Dick, I have wanted to see you since Sunday
morning. I had a question to ask you nobody else
could answer."
As Terry turned to him with somber mien he concluded, his eyes twinkling: "I wanted to know if
it was the best fox ever!"
And that was all, though Terry stayed to sup
with him. Till nine o'clock they sat before the fire,
the priest in a worn rocker drawn up close to the
hearth: the single log burning glorified his fine old
face as he placidly rocked and pondered.
He had spent the morning among his foreign parishioners, who lived in the squalid section of the town,
across the river. A frugal, law-abiding lot, they furnished the brawn needed in the three pulp factories
and lived a life apart from the balance of the townspeople, bitterly but voicelessly resenting the villagers' careless ostracism of all who came under the easy
classification of the term "wop."  There existed a
tacit agreement among property owners that no
house north of the river should be sold or leased
to a foreigner, and that no garlic might taint the
atmosphere their children breathed in school, they
had erected a small schoolhouse upon the southside.
So, sequestered six days in the week in a settlement
that was entirely foreign, communicating their
thoughts in the tongues of the Mediterranean and the




THE FOX


17


Balkans, the southsiders mingled with Americans only
during the brief hours of Sunday worship.
In his morning visit Father Jennings had again
met with several evidences of Terry's curious influence
over the foreigners. Terry understood them instinctively, grasped their viewpoints and ideals, and was the
only layman on the northside in whom they confided,
called in to settle knotty problems and to partake of
the hospitality they lavished upon appropriate occasions of weddings, christenings and the neverending
procession of days of patron saints. Subtle, romantic,
circumscribed by alien environment, they recognized
in him a kindred spirit and opened their hearts wide
to him. Terry, his ardent young pastor-Dr. Mather
-and Father Jennings were the only northsiders
whom they called friends. None of the three had
been named on the town's "Committee on Americanization. ". *.
The priest roused from his revery and for a long
time contemplated the quiet, thoughtful lad who sat
beside him. Gradually a deep concern spread across
his comfortably aged features, a presentiment of impending loss shadowed his pleasant eyes. He reached
out to lay his hand on Terry's forearm.
"Dick," he said, "there is plenty for you to do
right here in Crampville-what is this I hear about
your going to the Philippines?"




CHAPTER II


TERRY DECIDES
C    HIR  ISTMAS EVE, the large snowflakes drifted
slowly down out of a windless sky. The dusk
was cheerful with the sound of sleigh bells
that announced the arrival or departure of last-hour
shoppers.
Terry, at his desk in the great living room, surveyed
the finished trophy happily. It was an unusually
black and lustrous pelt. He buried his face in the
silky mat a moment, then drew out paper and pen,
and wrote:
DEANE-DEAR:Some three years ago a mother fox suffered that this
one might be born: denied herself food that he might
satisfy his urgent little appetite as he grew bigger and
stronger. When he was big enough he left her and forgot
her-she may have suffered then, too.
He lived as foxes do. Things died that he might eat;
rabbits, pheasants, chickens, field-mice. He stalked all
things less strong and clever than himself. A cruel cycle,
but it is the law of the wild, something that you and I
cannot alter.
He enjoyed the summers best, with their longer days,
fuller larders, sweet wood odors, long naps in the cool
shadows of the thicket. But winter came, with its hard18




TERRY DECIDES


19


ships and its cold, a cold that little foxes feel the same as
you and I. But it was this cold that stimulated and silkened his fur, made it this wondrous, prized thing.
Then I came, and he ceased to be what he was-a hunter
of smaller, weaker things-and became what you see here:
a finer thing-a token. Your kind heart need find no
cruelty in a merciful shot that spelled no pain and that by
stopping him assured that gentler, weaker things will live
on and on.
And he will be glad, too, as not only is he forever freed
from cold and hunger and stark fear, but his is to be a
tender office.
Will you lay it at your bedside, that each night it may
cushion your last step at slumbertime, and each morning
soften the first contact between the vistas of dreamland
and the less yielding surfaces of life to which we wake.
So even the things of the wild are made to serve. To
serve-is that not the law of man?
My part in itf  But little: none other than I will have
touched it till it reaches your dear hands. I shaped it,
wrought to preserve its beauties that it might give you
pleasure.
To give pleasure-is that not the law of love?
A very, very Merry Christmas!
DICK.
He sent his gift at about nine o'clock. In gay
mood, he wandered about the great house: entered the
kitchen where Fanny was singeing the Christmas
turkey: returned to the living room to throw a fresh
log in the wide fireplace. His mood was too expansive for indoors. He donned short coat and thick
cap, but as he passed out of the gate a scared little
lad, a foreigner, rushed up breathlessly and begged




20


TERRY


him to come-trouble was brewing on the southside.
His questions elicited meager information. Excited, the lad relapsed so often into his native tongue
that Terry could make nothing of his tale.
Hand in hand they hurried through the village,
crossed the dark bridge and approached a ramshackle
house from which a babble of voices rose in strident
argument. The excited chorus abated at Terry's
sharp knock and the door was thrown open to disclose
the belligerent figure of Tony Ricorro, the leader of
the Italian colony. Recognizing the reefered figure
that smiled up at him through the falling flakes,
Tony's dark scowl faded as he reached out his powerful hands and with a joyous shout fairly lifted Terry
into the house.
Terry laughed as the gaudily dressed occupants
of the room crowded around him, and greeted most
of the score of swarthy men and women by name.
Tony masterfully stripped him of his overcoat and
cap and placed them in the kitchen from which
emanated odors of strange things cooking. The room
was stifling with heat and with smells-beer, garlic,
tobacco, perfumes, kerosene.
Tony charged in from the kitchen with a bottle of
beer but Terry shook his head. Tony was hospitably
insistent, "What! No beer?"
"No thanks, Tony."
"What's matt'? Bad stomach?"
"Yes," smiled Terry, "call it that."
He plunged into the business in hand. "Tony,
what's the trouble here to-night?"




TERRY DECIDES


21


Tony's first word of explanation was instantly
submerged beneath a chorus of voices; the excited
crowd surged around Terry, as voluble of gesture as
of tongue. Pandemonium descended.
Terry finally silenced the din by standing on his
chair and pantomiming his desire to be heard. "Now,
listen to me," he began, after quiet was restored,
"I'm going to ask you all to keep silent, and to
promise me that no one will speak except those I
call by name."  They all promised-each one not
once but in a series of lengthy assurances which he
had to raise his hand to cut short.
"Now, Tony, you first. What's the matter?"
Tony's face registered his utter disgust. "What'sa
matt'? What'sa matt'? Evra teeng      'sa matt'!
Tommor' we christen our bab' and evra' bod' want a
name heem!"   He glared at the restless circle which
ringed them.
The odd wistful twist at the corner of Terry's mouth
disappeared for a moment in his slow smile; this was
so like these people, who bore big troubles stoically
and reacted powerfully to inconsequentials.
He called on several others. All were relatives of
Tony or of his wife; sisters, brothers, several "inlaws," Tony's father, two uncles. Each had his or
her name for the child, and sound reasons for the
choice.
"Tony, where is Felice?" he asked, noting that
Tony's wife was not in the crowded dining room.
Tony took him into a dimly lighted room, where
his wife lay in bed; the guiltless cause of all this
dissension, obviously inured to clamor, was asleep in




22


TERRY


her arm. She smiled up at Terry as he sat down on
the edge of the bed and took her hand.
Tony stood looking down at Felice and their firstborn, his heart in his eyes.
"Tony, what does Felice wish to name your son "
Terry asked suddenly.
Receiving no answer, he looked up at Tony and
read in the agonized contrition of Tony's dark face
that she had not yet been consulted. Tears glistened
in the forgiving eyes Felice turned on Tony, and as
he flung himself down at the side of the bed and
buried his face in her pillow, Terry tiptoed out of
the room and softly closed the door.
In a few minutes Tony flung the door open and
strode into the room, unashamed of the tears that
shone on his rough cheeks.
"You all a go to hell-a with your a-names! Felice,
she name-a our boy and to-morrow we go Padre
Jenneeng. She a name heem'"-he paused with true
Latin sense of the value of suspense-"She a name
heem-Reechar' Terree-Ricorro!"
A moment of hesitation, of assimilation, and then
a hubbub of delighted acceptance and acclaim.
Terry stayed but a few minutes, realizing that much
as they liked him, there would be more spontaneity at
the fiesta if there were none but their own people at
the table.
He went in and thanked Felice gravely for the
honor she had conferred upon him, wished for them
all a merry Christmas, and passed out amid a medley
of thanks and benedictions.




TERRY DE ID ES


2R


The snowfall had ceased. He crossed to the North
Side and hastened up Main Street, and though it
lacked but an hour of midnight, he found Judd's
jewelry store still open. He went in and found
young Judd about to close up.
Judd, hollow eyed with the fatigue of the long
day, studied his old friend's beaming face: "Hello,
Sir Galahad!" he said.
Terry eyed him scornfully: "Hello, Rut!"  He
drew himself up proudly. "Behold in me a new
dignity-I am now a god-father!"
Having in mind the parents' love for the elaborate,
he gayly selected an ornate silver cup for the infant.
"I'll engrave it for you after the holidays," Judd
offered.
"Good old boy, Judd! The initials will be R-TR."
He buttoned his coat and went to the door: Judd
was musing over the monogram: "Richard-Terry
-what's the 'R' stand for, Dick?"
Terry grinned as he called back through the open
door.
"Why,-Romance, of course!"
He tramped far out the north road through the new
fallen snow, his whole being glowing. The stars
sparkled through the clear cold air in myriad chorus
of the message of hope that one in the East had
heralded to a sadder world on another Christmas
eve. The snow-flung star beams illuminated the




24


TERRY


peaceful countryside: there was no moon, no light
save the great glow of the heavens, no shadows under
gaunt oaks or huddled evergreens.
He was in harmony with the night. He followed
the sleigh-rutted highway for several miles, then
swung back to town along a woodcutter's trail that
edged the lakeshore, winding through the new growths
of pine and balsam whose night-black branches were
outlined by the white fall.
He loved the open: there was no loneliness here.....Magic-wrought, Deane's phantom   figure kept
apace, matched step with step along the shore trail
through the hushed woods, across the white sheen
of open spaces. Ever, when summoned thus, she
came to share the hours and the places that he loved
best.
Love surged hot through his veins: love of friends,
of living, of youth, love of a woman... probably
his gift lay at her bedside now, as she slept....
Unconsciously he slowed his pace and lifted his
fine, pale face upward: his low, clear baritone flooded
the broken woods, carried far out across the silent
frozen lake, unechoed; it was vibrant with the very
spirit of yuletide-love of man and woman.
Love, to share again those winged scented days,
Those starry skies:
To see once more your joyous face,
Your tender eyes:
Just to know that years so fair might come again,
Awhile:
Oh! To thrill again to your dear voiceYour smile!




TERRY DECIDES


25


It was long past midnight when he reached town,
his mood chilling indefinably at sight of its dark
houses.
"You're a queer old town," he muttered. "You
go to bed on this night of nights-yes, and you
batten your windows tight against this glorious air
-and all of the other glorious things."
Passing the suspicious village constable, he penetrated even his callous heart with the most gladsome
Christmas greeting he had heard in many a year.
Home, he stirred the dying logs into flame and
sank into a deep cushioned chair drawn up before
the glowing embers. The long day had taken no
toll of his lithe frame: sleepless, he sat long in pleasant retrospection of the day, which had brought him
opportunities to contribute to the sum of peace on
earth and to give pleasure to those whom he loved.
His gift to Deane had approached even his exacting
criterion of what was fit for her. He envied the
skin its rapturous reception, the sparkle of bright
eyes its beauty would invoke. It was characteristic
that his vision did not carry him to the daily contact of pink toes he had assigned as its function.
And it was characteristic of him, too, that he did
not think of the gifts which had come for him.
He would see the elders, he mused, and apologize
for what must have seemed to them a deliberate
flaunting of their standards... he had been a little careless, lately... he would remedy that...
it was a good town-his failure to settle down had
been a fault... he would find something to do,
worth doing-and do it..... Deane's friendship




26                   TERRY
might ripen into something mellower, and then...
He reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a
telegram, bending nearer the fireplace to read it.
Washington, D. C.
Richard Terry, Crampville, Vermont.
Wire will you accept commission second lieutenant Philippine Constabulary period immediate decision essential period if you accept wire date you will be able to sail from
San Francisco
Wilson Insular Bureau
The glow from the fire which ruddied his face revealed the struggle of the minute before decision came.
With an expression curiously mingled of renunciation
and relief he tossed the paper among the glowing embers. He rose as the sheet took fire and in the brief
flash of light which marked the consumption of the
telegram he saw a familiar-looking package on the
library table in the shadow cast by his big chair.
He carried it to the now fainter glow of the hearth
and saw that it was addressed to him in Deane's
trim hand. He opened it eagerly, to see what form her
remembrance had taken.
It was the fox-skin, returned. Vague, trouble-eyed,
he read the inclosed note.
DEAR DICK:I am sending you back your present. Father insists,
because you secured it on Sunday.
It hurts me, Dick, dreadfully, but you know how he
feels about such things.
It is the loveliest present I ever received-and it makes
me want to cry, sometimes, when I think of your doing




TERRY DECIDES


27


such things for me and thinking about me as you do. I
AM crying, now, Dick.
Though I can not have it, your present will always be
mine-I can never forget that you were good enough to
wish me to have it.
And will you accept my very best wishes that your
Christmas may be a very merry one.
DEANE.
He sank back into the chair again, sickened...
"That your Christmas may be a very merry one."
Susan, first down in the morning, raised the curtains to the brilliant Christmas morning, and turned
to find him sitting in the chilled room before the
dead fire. Shocked by the haggard face, she hurried
to him.
"Dick, are you sick?"  As she sank by the side of
his chair her hand brushed against the rich fur
which lay across his knees, and she understood. She
placed a pitying arm about his shoulders.
"I feared it, Dick-I feared it! You know how
he is-her father. I'll never speak to him again as
long as-"    She burst into tears.
Gently he withdrew her arm and took her hand
in his.
" It's all right, Sue, it's-all-right."
Through her tears she read the pain that lurked
in his eyes, the agony that betrayed the patient
smile. She sobbed convulsively, heartsick in her helplessness to ease this young brother to whom she had
been half mother.
"That's what you always say-about everything:




TERRY


28


'it will be all right.' When you were a boy it was
always the same- 'it's all right.' "
He comforted her with quiet words till the storm
abated. Then, "I'm going to miss you, Sue-sister,"
he said.
She stood up, comprehension dawning in her wide
eyes.
"You're going away!"
He nodded gravely.
Slowly, fearfully, she asked, "When?"
"To-night."
"Way off to-those-Philippines?"
He nodded, then unable to bear longer the hurt
in her tremulous face, he sought refuge in the ridiculous; he struck an attitude.
"I'm  going in quest of adventure-riches-romance! I'm going to sail the Spanish Main-seek
golden doubloons-maids in distress-the Fountain
of Youth! I'm going to cross strange waters-travel
untraveled forest... see unseen peoples... know
unknown hills..."
An odd light flickered in his eyes, as if he half believed what he spoke. Fanny appeared at the kitchen
door and with her cheery call of "Merry Christmas,"
the light faded from his face as he turned in quick
response.
He turned to his sister in mock reproof: "Shure
and it's ye that has not yet wished me aven a dacent
top o' the marnin', let alone the gratin's of the sason!
Shame on ye-ye heartless, thoughtless, loveless-"
He broke off, laughing at her bewilderment: she
never could keep apace with his quick moods. Not



TERRY DECIDES


29


ing a tear still glistening he took her cheeks between
his hands and kissed the wet eyes, then asked her to
get word to Deane that he would be over some time
during the evening.
Surprised and pleased that he should ask her to
participate in his affair with Deane, she hurried to the
desk set in a deep bay window.
Ellis, sleepy-eyed, came down with his hearty greetings of the day, and was surprised to find Sue bent
earnestly over her writing.
"Say," he said, "can't you wait till after breakfast to thank everybody for their presents? What's
the rush? Say, Dick, did you hear yet what Bruce
gave to the lady of his heart? No? Well, he outBruced Bruce this time! He gave her a patented,
electric foot-warmer!"
Terry smiled his appreciation of Ellis' chuckling
loyalty and escaped upstairs to his room. Ellis wandered aimlessly over to the Christmas table and noted
the number of unopened packages marked with Terry's name, then called up from   the foot of the
stairs:
"Come right down here, you ungrateful Non-christian, and see what Santa Claus brought you! You
got more than any of us and-"
He desisted as he suddenly became aware of his
wife's frantic signals, and reading the grievous trouble
in her twitching face, he went to her.
Susan, entering Terry's room at dusk, found him
standing at the window staring out into the evening,
watching the shadows paint out one by one the




30:.


T E R RY


landmarks he had known from boyhood. Two large
leather bags, packed but still open, stood at the
side of the bed. The two frames which had held the
pictures of his father and mother lay upon the table,
empty, beside letters addressed to, Father Jennings,
Doctor Mather, and Tony Ricorro.
He did not hear her but continued at the window,
his relaxed shoulders giving an unwonted aspect of
frailty to his body. She tiptoed out of the room,
crept back again to look through brimming eyes at
the lonely figure silhouetted against the darkening
window, then stumbled into her own room and closed
the door.
Terry returned to Deane in the sitting room after
bidding her father and mother a courteously friendly
farewell. Mr. Hunter, vaguely disturbed, had followed his wife upstairs reluctantly: he was not quite
confident. that his decision regarding the fox skin
had been justified, and would have been glad had
Terry given him opportunity to discuss it. In a moment his voice sounded down to them as he defended
himself against his irate spouse.
"I don't care what you say, Marthy, he's got to
settle down and-"
Then their door closed.
For a long time Deane and Terry stood voiceless,
each leaden with a dull misery. The shock of his announcement had paled her and she stared hopelessly
at him out of wide blue eyes, her full red lips aquiver
at the hurt she read in the gray eyes and the queer
wistful mouth.




TERRY DECIDES


31


She broke the pulsing silence: "I never understand you, Dick,-quite. Is it because of the fox
skin'?"
He shook his head uncertainly, barely conscious of
her words in a last rapt gaze at her, vaguely aware
that this was the picture of her that he would carry
in his mind through the years to come. Rounded,
long of lines, apart from him she looked as tall as he,
though there was a two inch discrepancy; the wide
eyes and generous, curved mouth indicated her infinite capacity for affection. The shadow of a dimple
flickered high on her left cheek: the quickened beat of
heart pulsed in the white column of her throat.
"Is it because you hate the town, Dick?" she
asked tremulously.
Again he shook his head slowly: "No, Deane, it is
not that. The town is all right-it is not that."
He paused, brooding, then went on: "Last night I
did not sleep-much-thinking about it. It's all my
fault.... I do not fit. So I am going away, going
to try to find my own place, somehow."
Tortured by his patient smile, she followed him
out into the dim hall, half blinded by her burning
tears. She sobbed unrestrainedly as he slipped into
his overcoat.
He came to her, his hand outstretched, his voice
husky.
"Good-by, Deane-girl," he said.
Taking his hand she stepped close to him, mistyeyed, atremble.
"Good-by, Di-   Oh, Dick! Don't go! Don't go
way over to those awful Islands!"




32


TERRY


He steadied her with an arm about the shaking
shoulders. She leaned full against him and in the
soft contact his pulses leaped. He fought to resist
the temptation to take advantage of her mood, knew
that for the moment she was his if he but pressed his
claim.
Suddenly she looked up at him, glorious in her
grief and surrender.
"Shall I-do you want me to-to-wait?"
For a few moments it seemed that he had not heard
the low voice.
Then: "Don't wait, Deane-girl,-don't wait."
Then the arm was gone from about her shoulder.
"But I will, Dick, I will!" she sobbed, but as the
words fell from her lips she heard the door close and
felt the gust of cold air that chilled the hall.
She was still awake when the midnight accommodation whistled its impending arrival from the north.
She listened, tense, as the train came to a stop in the
town. A brief halt, then it sounded its underway, the
pistons accelerated their chugging beat and it passed
out of Crampville into the south.
She stood, still-breathed, dry-eyed, till the last
grinding rumble died out of the frosty night, then
as a full realization of her loss came home, she
dropped to the side of the bed and buried her face in
the coverlid.
The floor where she knelt seemed cold and hard.




CHAPTER III


MINDANAO
T        HE old Francesca, directed by a nervous and
none too competent Tagalog captain,
maneuvered in the six-mile tidal current
which swept west through the Straits making Zamboanga a nightmare to all the native skippers who
called at that port. Crab-like, she crawled obliquely
to within a few hundred feet of the low-lying town,
then the screw churned up a furious wake as the
anxious Tagalog on the bridge swung her back into the
Straits to circle in a new attempt. Carried by the
tidal rush the old tub circled in a great ellipse.
Alone at the rail on the dingy promenade Terry
stood enjoying his first glimpse of Mindanao. Seven
months in Luzon had brought him countless tales of
this uncertain southland-tales of pirates, of insolent,
murderous datos defiant behind their cotta fortresses,
of kris and barong wielded by fanatic Moros gone
amok; of pearls as large as robins' eggs, of nuggets
tossed as playthings by naked children of the forests,
of mysterious tribes who inhabited the fastnesses
of inaccessible hills.
He wore the service uniform of the Constabulary,
the field uniform of khaki blouse and breeches, tan
shoes and leggings, and stiff-brimmed cavalry Stetson.
The smart uniform set his erect figure off trimly and
33




34


TERRY


added to the impression of alertness conveyed by his
steady gray eyes.
In the two wide swings back into midstream that
ensued before the steamer approached near enough
land to get ropes to the little brown stevedores who
waited on the dock, Terry had ample opportunity for
study of the tropic panorama. The sea was dotted
with Moro vintas, swiftest of all Malayan sailing craft;
tide and wind borne, some scurried at tremendous pace
toward the fishing grounds of the Sulu Sea, others
tacked painfully into the Celebes. A  Government
launch, its starred and striped flag brilliant against
the green sea in the morning light, left its jetty and
headed south toward the dim coastline of Basilan. A
score of gulls, that had followed the ship down from
Sorsogon, fattening on the waste thrown overboard
after each meal, circled around the ship aimlessly,
uttering unpleasant cries. The young sun mounted
swiftly in a cloudless sky, hot on the trail of the cool
morning breezes, white in its threat of blistering
punishment of all who dared its shafts.
The hawser snubbed, the drum of the rusty winch
rattled and banged on worn bearings to a tune of
escaping steam, laboriously warping the smelly hull
alongside the dock. Terry watched the sturdy little Moros spring into agile life as the vessel slowly
neared the pier, then he turned to look over the town
which was built flush with the edge of the narrow
beach, extending each way from the shore end of the
pier. The galvanized-iron roofs of the taller buildings-church, convent, club, a few more pretentious
dwellings,-were visible above the low foliage and be



MINDANAO


35


tween the tall acacias and firetrees which jagged the
skyline. A heavily laden breeze identified unmistakably several long buildings as copra warehouses.
It seemed a busy town, as towns near the equator
go. In the street into which the pier opened a thin
stream of pedestrians passed by in brief review before the watcher: Moros, a few Filipinos, a Chino staggering under a heavy balanced pinga, two white-clad
Americans, while several rickshaws, Moro drawn,
jogged by with patrons concealed under raised tops.
Then a big foreign touring car turned the corner and
drew up in front of the government building to deposit a middle aged American, immaculate in fresh
pongee.
Terry, observing him idly from where he stood at
the rail, saw a larger, uniformed American swing the
corner with vigorous stride and after saluting the
older man accompany him respectfully to the entrance
to the big building, where they stood a moment in
conversation. Terry's interest quickened as he recognized the big American as a member of his own
service; he watched him approach the ship through
the crowd of half-nude sweating Moros who now
swarmed the dock.
Terry, hastening down the ship's ladder, met the
tall officer as he reached the end of the pier.
Ie was a loosely knit, raw-boned man of about
thirty-five, of serious but pleasant mien. As he
stepped to meet Terry, Terry saw that he wore the
leaves of a Major.
"Lieutenant Terry?" he asked, responding with
friendly informality to Terry's stiff salute.




36


T E R R Y


"Yes, sir."
"I'm Bronner. Mighty glad to know you. We've
been looking for you ever since receiving a copy of the
Headquarters Bulletin ordering you down here.
Have a good trip?"
"Well, Major, the Francesca is no Empress liner
but we got along all right. I am very glad to know
you, Major. Your brother and I were roommates
at college-he used to tell me of your experiences with
the head hunters-"'
"Huh!"    the  Major  interrupted. "Guess he
stretched things some. Fine boy. Wants to come
over when he graduates this June, but his mother
says one son over here is enough. And she's right."
Terry liked the big irregular features. In the
steady eyes he saw something that forced instant
credence to the stories told of the Major's resourceful
bravery under difficult situations, a bravery which
had made the name of Bronner famous in a service
made up of intrepid men.
"Welcome to Moroland," the Major continued.
"I hope you like it down here-I think you will. If
I didn't I wouldn't have requested your transfer.
You are assigned to the most interesting of the Moro
provinces,-Davao. You go there to command a
Macabebe company. Your baggage still aboard?"
"Yes, sir."
"Forget the 'sir'! Leave your stuff on boardthe Francesca sails at daylight to-morrow, and you go
on to Davao with her. Had breakfast? I thought
not. Pack a bag with what you will need for a day
ashore-put on a white uniform   for to-night. My




MINDANAO


37


orderly will take you to my quarters where you can
get a shower and some breakfast. Join me at the
Service Club for lunch."
Throughout the abrupt discourse Terry had endured the frank appraisal of the shrewd black eyes.
He experienced a pleasant reaction when the Major
again extended his broad hand.
"Lieutenant, I said a minute ago that I was glad
to know you. Let me repeat it-I mean it. Adios,
till lunch time."
He pushed his way good-naturedly through the
throng of Moros who were handling the bales and
boxes unloaded from the roach-ridden hull and walked
off the pier, disappearing into the government building. Terry boarded the vessel, warmed by the friendliness of his new chief, and by the time the orderly
arrived had thrown a few things into his bag and
was ready to go ashore.
He followed the soldier down the main street, a
dusty thoroughfare lined with the usual assortment of
structures which adorn Philippine provincial towns:
adobe, tile-roofed business houses honeycombed with
little box-like shops in which the Chinese merchants
displayed their wares: square wooden houses set high
on stone understructures: scores of bamboo shacks
stilted on crooked timbers, unkempt, wry, powdered
with the dust risen since the last rains.
Though it was not yet nine o'clock, they sought the
shaded side of the street with the habit which becomes instinctive near the equator, and welcomed
the coolness of Bronner's low house.
The cook and the houseboy looked after him with




38


TEtRRY


the unobtrusive perfection of service found only in
the East. A good breakfast cheered a stomach outraged by the greasy mess perpetrated upon native
boats in the name of Spanish cookery, and a cool
shower bath eliminated the stench of stale copra which
had clung to his nostrils if not to his clothing. An
hour before noon he left the house and strolled about
the scorching town, regardless of where he went so
long as he found shaded walks on which to tread.
Most Philippine towns are coast towns, and most
coast towns are flat and uninteresting unless you are
interested in their peoples-and you are not interested in them unless they are of a different tribe than
you have known previously.
Take a couple of dusty-or muddy-streets, unroll them along some freshwater stream just above
a line of palmed beach: place an immense, desertedlooking softstone church in an unkept square flanked
with a few straggled acacias and a big convent in
which a native priest lives in weary and squalid detachment from a world he knows nothing about: line
the two streets with an assortment of rusty bamboo
and mixed-material houses which impress one as never
having been built but as always having stood there:
sprinkle a few naked, pot-bellied, brown children staring at each other in pathetic, Malay ignorance of
the manner and spirit of play: set a few brown manikins in the open windows-women who let life fly by
in dull wonder of what it is all about: add a few
carabaos lying in neck-deep content in mudwallows,
and a score of emaciated curs which snarl at each




MINDANAO


39


other in habitual, gnawing hunger and which greet
their masters with terrified whines: spread over it all
a pall of still moist heat and a sky arched by a molten
sun. Contrive all this, then imbue every objecthuman and creature, animate and inanimate,-with
an air of hopelessness, of the futility of effort, and
you will have a typical Malay town as the Americans
found them.
But not so where the American has set his impious
foot-impious of the dogma that you can not change
the East, nor hurry it. He enjoyed the finesse of
the phrase, quoted it, then jumped in to hustle the
East. The old timers,-Spaniards and Britishers for
the greater part —shrugged at each other over their
heavy tiffins and nine o 'clock dinners; these crazy
Americans would soon learn! But the crazy, enthusiastic Americans, engineers, health officers, executives,
school teachers, Constabulary, labored on in the glory
of service: eradicated cholera, built roads and bridges,
brought six hundred thousand children into school
that two score tribes might find a common tongue,
fought the devastating cattle plagues, wiped out brigandage and piracy, brought order and first semblance
of prosperity to eight millions of people.
Young men did it all. The old-timers suddenly
found that they were living in new times, in clean,
healthful towns: found that business was increasing
by leaps and bounds as the natives fell in behind
the young Americans with a quicker stride than
Orientals had ever known. And they are the reasons-those few thousands of smooth-faced Americans
who laughingly threw themselves at the wall of im



40


TERRY


memorial sloth and apathy-why Kipling's phrase is
seldom quoted east of India, and now not often there.
And they are the reasons, those carefully chosen, confident young men of whom too many are buried over
there, that we have so much of which to be proud in
what has been done in our name for a backward, unfortunate people.
But we, you and I, do not know very much about
it all: it is so far away and we are so busy with our
affairs, our politics, our-... You know... we are just too busy to bother
about those Tagalogs and headhunters who live over
there where Dewey licked Cervera, and Aguinaldo was
king of the Igorotes or something, and Pershing rose
from a captain to a general: why, I heard one of
those Filipinos make a speech about independence
and he was so smart and bright-he had been sent
to our congress or something and was handsome and
polished and...
Yes, he doubtless was. That is why he was sent:
but he bore about the same mental relation to the
race he is supposed to represent as a Supreme Court
Justice bears to a Georgia cracker!
Terry had thoroughly assimilated the atmosphere
of the Luzon provinces in his seven months in the
Islands, so he found a real pleasure in studying a
Moro town which had been under the energizing
influence of the Army for nearly two decades. He
wandered slowly through the native quarter, cutting
down clean cross streets lined with neat nipa huts
inclosed behind latticed bamboo fences, enjoying the




MINDANAO


41


novelty of a community different from any he had
known. Every detail of the well kept streets testified to the strictness of the standards set by the
white men who governed the town. The few Moros
whom he encountered on the noon-deserted streets
passed him silently and with averted eyes, wary,
secretive, entirely alien. One looked him square in
the eye, leaving him uncomfortable with the antipathy unveiled, the cold, everlasting contempt of the
Mohammedan for the unbeliever whom he does not
know.
He walked with lids half-closed against the white
glare and the heat waves which danced above the
tortured roads and roofs: by the hour set for his
luncheon engagement he had covered the town thoroughly, including the beautiful post which had been
turned over to Scouts when the Army at last finished
its tedious Moro project.
He found the Major waiting him at the Club, a
large, single-story building set in a grove of tall
palms at the edge of the beach and cooled by the
breezes from the Straits. He followed him out on
the wide veranda built over the water's edge, passing
through a friendly, incurious group of young Americans who sat at little round tables in groups of three
and four. Major Bronner responded to a dozen greetings as they crossed to a table set for two at the edge
of the veranda. In a moment the deft tableboy had
their service under way.
'"Well," began the Major, "you will have a busy
time of it during the rest of your stay-I wish it were
to be longer. This afternoon I want you to come




42


TERRY.Ti


to the office with me-there are lots of things to
talk over about your work down there. The Governor
will see you about five o'clock. How do you like
Zamboanga?"
"It's clean, and interesting, Major."
"'Clean   and  interesting!' That is a boost!
Though we can't take much credit for the 'interesting'
-the Moros furnish that!"
The white-smocked servants moved noiselessly about
the cool veranda, serving the score of Americans with
that perfect impersonal care found nowhere except
among Oriental servitors: the subdued clatter of silver
against dish and the tinkle of iced drinks was often
drowned in outbursts of merriment from    one or
other of the little tables. Most of the Americans
were mere youths, though two were evidently in their
forties. Bronner noted Terry's study of a group of
three who sat nearby, heavily tanned men evidently
not quite at home in the club.
"Davao planters," he explained. "Hemp planters: you will know them. Three good men: they're
going down on your boat."
Lunch finished, coffee and cigars furnished excuse
for the white-clad crowd to linger on the darkened
porch: scraps of shop talk reached Terry's ears, a
jargon of strangely twisted English and Spanish
words. Bridges, appropriations, rinderpest, lack of
labor, artesian wells, cholera-such was their table
talk, as such was their life.
The breeze freshened, gently stirring the potted
plants which flanked each row of tables; the hot stillness of the noon gave way to the sibilant murmnur




MINDANAO


43


of the cocoanut palms whose bases were lapped by the
quickening ripples. The breaking of the withering
calm was the signal for departure to office and field.
The veranda cleared rapidly. Bronner, watching the
three planters, interrupted their departure.
"Lindsey-just a minute."
He took Terry to their table and introduced him.
"Lieutenant Terry, gentlemen: Mr. Lindsey, Mr.
Cochran, Mr. Casey. Lieutenant Terry goes to Davao
to-morrow as Senior Inspector. You will be able to
help him, till he learns his way down there-and later
he may be able to help you."
Terry shook hands with the three in turn. All were
out-doors men, bronzed, diffident with the social shyness of men who live their lives alone or among none
but alien people. Lindsey and Cochran were squareset, serious young men: Casey, older, but of eager, enthusiastic mien.
The Major discussed them as he and Terry left the
club.
"They're three of the best planters in the Gulf.
You'll have no trouble with them. But you may
with some others, those who have a fancied grievance
against the government just now. I had better start
at the beginning.
"You know the best hemp in the world grows down
there-soil, climate, rainfall all combine wonderfully
to make it the one ideal spot for hemp production. In
another twenty years it will probably rate as the
richest single agricultural area on the globe-that's
why those little fellows over there"-he indicated a
pair of Japanese passing on the opposite side of the




44


TERRY


street-" are piling into Davao so fast these days.
"The world needs hemp-and areas where it can
be cultivated are rare. Three years ago a little stampede occurred into Davao; the pioneers are a mixed
lot-about sixty Americans, a few Britishers, a scattering of Moros and Filipinos and nearly two hundred
Japs. The Japs are quiet-you will seldom see them:
they stay on their places and 'saw wood'; they're
backed by some syndicate-probably their government.
But the others are lone handers, working on their
own 'shoe-strings' or financed by the contributions of
optimistic shareholders in Manila.
"They are good men, these planters. You will like
them. They went into the fastnesses of Mindanao,
braved the wild tribes, cleared their land, planted
hemp, working largely with their own hands-and in
a climate where they say the white man shall labor
only with his head. You will hear all about their
troubles and difficulties-you won't hear much else
down there but hemp-hemp and wild tribes! Hemp
and wildmen-that's Davao!
"About their grievance. They cleared and planted
rapidly and have raised fabulous crops, but when
it came time to strip the hemp for market they found
that the wildmen upon whom they had banked as potential labor would not work. A few came and
stayed, but most of them quit after earning a few
pesos. So the hemp rotted in the field. Desperate,
facing ruin, some of the planters went after labor too
strongly, frightened and browbeat the Bogobos into
working. The scheme worked, so a condition ap



MINDANA O


45


proximating peonage was developed upon several of
the plantations.
"We ordered it stopped. Those planters are very
sore, looking for trouble. That's the story-and the
condition you must face, and overcome. You've got
to hold down that class of planter, but at the same
time encourage the Bogobos to work for them. It
means prosperity for the planters, and money and
comfort for the Bogobos-and it will keep them out
of the hills: we want the Bogobos near the coast, under civilizing influences. They are newly won to us
and apt to fade away into the foothills on the least
provocation."
Crossing the acacia-shaded lawns of the beautiful
plaza he stopped in front of the artistic concrete bandstand, jerking a big thumb at the dedication inscribed
upon the ivy-covered facade.
"Pershing Plaza," he read aloud. "He was the
last military Governor, you remember. I knew him: a
good man. No genius-just a good man, hard worker:
has two traits that will carry him a long way if he
gets the chance-common sense and industry. Wants
to know everything about everything, and never quits
working. Surrounds himself with workers: gives his
men their jobs and doesn't bother them while they do
them-just wants results.
"'Make good or make way!' Some slogan! Pershing, Wood, Scott, Carpenter,-America has sent
some of her best into Mindanao. I'm   glad to be
here-aren't you?"




TERRY


46


At the sudden question Terry turned to him.
4"Yes,"' he said. "I hope to be-useful." 
They had reached the entrance to the government
building: the Major paused at the foot of the mahogany staircase to conclude earnestly: "It is fashionable just now in Manila to decry this effort to institute civil government among the Moros-but I know
you are not of the type to be influenced. Governor
Mason is making good: you will see that after you
have been here a month. He is a wonder, Terry,probably the only man who could handle this situation with a few Constabulary. Study, patience, and
square-dealing, backed by occasional use of troops, prepared the Moros for this experiment, and Governor
Mason is carrying it forward almost alone-opposing
the backward tendencies of Sululand with little else
save personality, inspiration and a wonderful knowledge of Malay character.
"You're going to like it down here," he wound up
suddenly, confused by his own unaccustomed oratory.
Mounting the polished stairway, they passed down
the tall concrete corridors and into the Major's office.
He drew up a chair for Terry and seated himself behind a desk whose orderly array of accessories bespoke his methodical bachelor habits. The walls were
covered with large-scale maps of Moroland showing
location of various tribes, scattered settlements and
district boundaries, with great blank areas eloquent
of the unknown character of unexplored fastnesses.
The crosses which indicated the distribution of Constabulary forces controlled from his office dotted every




MINDANAO


47


sizable island: pins bearing the names of government
agents showed into what remote regions our trailbreakers had penetrated. One purple-flagged pin
showed a veterinarian warring against a cattle plague
in Jolo: a blue flag thrust into one of the blank
spaces of Mindanao indicated the whereabouts of a
fearless ethnologist from the Field Museum: a red
sticker bore the name of an engineer who had been
out of touch for six weeks, running the line of a new
trail across the great bulk of Mindanao. The map was
symbolic of the Constabulary, whose duty it is to know
all, to protect all.
Leaving Terry to his study of the maps the Major
spent an unapologetic fifteen minutes clearing the
mass of papers that had accumulated during the
lunch hour, then turned to him. For an hour he outlined the salient problems which would confront the
young officer in his new assignment. He was all
business, curt, concise, definite. He touched upon
the ordinary service activities of drill, patrol, secret
service, supply and report, then took up those phases
which required delicate and original handling.
"Now, Lieutenant, we did not pull you down here
to handle an ordinary job-you know it means something these days to get a Mindanao assignment."
Terry did know it. Only men who had demonstrated unusual ability in their line had been sent to
Moroland under Governor Mason. As the months
went by the northern provinces were being stripped
of their crack men for assignment to the southern
experiment, so that detail there had become a mark
of distinction. He had been as surprised as pleased




48


TERRY


at his summons from Sorsogon, a poor, colorless province where he had spent seven months in uneventful,
and as he thought, inconspicuous service.
The Major detected something of what was passing in his mind: "You were selected because of
your understanding of native character, your sympathy with them: that, and your faculty for learning dialects. By the way, what is your method of studying
these languages-your record of three dialects in
half a year is remarkable."
"There was little else to do-and I like to study
them. "
The Major noted the slight flush of embarrassment. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a
card, scanning it carefully before continuing:
"Your qualification card indicates that you are an
unusual pistol shot: it reads 'Pistol rating-twohanded expert, extraordinary in accuracy and rapidity.' 
Disregarding Terry's increased embarrassment he
pushed the question: "How did you acquire such
skill?"
"Well, as I had to carry a sidearm, I thought to
make it useful-it is not much of an ornament.
After I became really interested it cost me about
fifty dollars a month for ammunition."
"Well, things happen down here! Some day you
may be glad you spent the money-your skill may
come in handy!"
"On-men?"     It was the one aspect of the service from which Terry shrank.
"Well, I hope not. It seldom comes to that. But




MINDANAO


49


a number of hard characters have been concentrating recently in the Davao Gulf, a batch of discharged convicts who served long terms for brigandage
and murder. We have been watching them, but nothing significant transpired till last month."
The muscles of his heavy jaw tightened as he went
on: "You have heard of Malabanan, haven't you?"
"The ladrone leader?"
"Yes, he. He was released from Bilibid prison last
summer and came through here last month. One of
our operatives uncovered him on the boat-traveling
as an ordinary steerage passenger. He went to Davao,
and I fear it means trouble. I think he gathered
that tough crew together to operate in Davao, thinking to test us out now that the Army is gone."
His face was grim as he snapped: "Terry, watch
him! And if he makes a single move-smash him!
Make no false starts, do not arrest him unless you
are sure that your evidence will convict in the
courts. Give him plenty of rope-but if he breaks
loose... smash him hard! Understand?"
Terry nodded quietly, but something in his competent face contented his chief. He repeated his
warning against premature action:
"Be sure you can get him before you move-he is
slippery and has friends in high native circles. We
do not want to be turned down in the courts at this
stage of the game, and it may be he intends to play
the game square-plant hemp, for instance. But if
he wants a showdown-smash him good and plenty!"
He briefly reviewed the substance of his instructions: "You can see that your work is going to call




50


TERRY


for a good deal of tact and patience: patience with
the angry planters, with the wild people. Everybody is scared and jumpy down there just now, and
we want to restore their confidence."
Terry had listened attentively throughout the interview, speaking only to answer questions. He
broke the silence which followed:
"Major, I have heard a great deal about the Hill
People of Davao: will I be near them?"
The Major eyed him queerly for a moment before
answering: "About thirty miles as the bird flies,"
he said, "but about a million to all intents and purposes! No living man has been among them-those
who have tried have left their bones rotting in the
dark forest. They kill all who attempt to reach them,
expeditions in force find nothing as the Hillmen simply fade away before their approach.
" I don't want you to attempt to go among them
- in fact I expressly forbid it, as it means certain
death. But some day we hope to open the Hills up, to
win among them: it is one of the Governor's cherished
ambitions. So learn what you can about them from
the old Bogobos who live in the foothills, and report
any interesting traditions you may hear. Pieced together, the tales may make a helpful contributionmay help solve the riddle of how to get to them peaceably. Not that you or I are likely to live long enough
to see it done-they are too confounded wild, too inaccessible behind their jungled hills."
He shrugged his broad shoulders in eloquent dismissal of a vain hope, and rose: '"I want you to meet
the Governor. I'll see if we can get to him yet."




MINDANAO                     51
He strode out of the office, returning immediately to
inform Terry that the Governor was closeted with the
two Moro datos whom he had fetched to the capitol by
launch.
"They haven't promised to be good boys yet," he
chuckled, "but they will before he finishes with them!
His Secretary says that he expects you and me to go
down to San Ramon with him to-night at seven sharp,
to dine with Wade, the prison superintendent.
You're in luck, Lieutenant. It will be an evening
you won't soon forget."
So it proved to be.




CHAPTER IV


THE FANATIC
T       ERRY, refreshed by a shower and change to
formal white uniform, was listening to the
Major's grave summing up of the Moro problem when the arrival of the governor's car took them
both down to join him. As Governor Mason alighted
to meet him Terry felt the magnetism of the man who
had been selected to attempt the difficult Moro venture. Governor Mason had grown up in the island
service, had been identified with the inner government circle since the days of the First Commission,
and had been retained and promoted by each succeeding administration. Far-sighted, patient, wary,
suave, he was the most consummate master of Island
policy developed under the American regime. A
press bitterly hostile to the idea of giving the Moros
civil government had attested to his proven capacity
by moderating its criticism following the announcement that he would head the new government.
Terry was welcomed with a graceful simplicity that
made him feel at home. Immediately he fell under
the spell of this man whose spirit enthused the small
band of whites who were redeeming a people from
their prehistoric lethargy. He was fit to lead; the
sweep of line from temple through jaw bespoke an
52




THE FANATIC


53


uncompromising force of character, but was gentled
by the deep cleft of chin: something in the poise of
head gave him the manner best described as aristocratic but it was toned down by the mischievous
gleam which flickered, often without obvious reason,
in the thoughtful eyes.
The big car bore them swiftly through the cooling
evening over smooth coral roads which were laid down
like ribbons on the green tableland over which they
sped: they shot under groves of tall cocoanut trees,
past clumps of feathery bamboo which flanked the
highway. Dusk was near when they entered the
reservation and drew up in front of a red-roofed
bungalow set on a great lawn facing the prison inclosure.
Superintendent Wade rose from the wide veranda
and came down to meet them, a tall, smooth-faced man
of young middle-age, evidently on most intimate terms
with the Governor and the Major. While expressing
his pleasure in being privileged to entertain Terry,
he bent upon him the searching look of appraisal
which is instinctive in the Orient, where the masses
are controlled by the white man's prestige, a prestige
which may suffer through attitude or actions of each
newcomer.
Terry halted a moment at the curb, rapt in appreciation of the spot. Acres of lawn, splashed with
flaming red and yellow canna beds, swept from roadway to edge of sea: wide shell roads, smooth as planks,
wound in great curves into the dark groves of cocoanut palms which surrounded the inclosure on three
sides and extended back a thousand acres in symmet



54


TE: RRY


rical rows of towering trunks which created endless
shaded glades: turning slowly, he saw the immaculately policed prison inclosure showing through the
steel grillwork which an intelligent mind had substituted for grim and stuffy prison walls. It seemed
less prison than sanctuary.
The development of the prison farm, the development of its Moro inmates, was Wade's life. "Lieutenant, I am glad you like it," he said simply. "It
is home to me."'
The Governor had strolled out on the lawn for a
lingering look around him. Returning to the veranda
he eyed Wade and Bronner quizzically.
"Each of you has too fine an establishment for the
barren needs of bachelors. I wish you had more confidence in the blissful state of matrimony!"
Wade shook his head     decisively. The Major
snorted.
"Huh! No petticoats for mine!"
A stolid Moro servant padded up with a tray bearing four cocktails: in a moment carried them kitchenward, rejected.
The Governor laughed: "Not one in four! An
unusual showing, Wade."    He turned to Terry:
"You never drink?"
"I-I don't care for it, Governor."
A pause, and he added, flushing slightly: "That
was not quite honest, sir. I have never tried it."
As they moved to the table the Governor exchanged
a glance of delighted approval with the Major over
the nice amend.
The steady breeze off the Straits that blew across




THE FANATIC


55


the veranda where they sat at dinner roused the sea
into a little confusion of beach sounds. They ate leisurely, talking of the strange things of Sululand,
talked as men do who find surpassing interest in the
little and the big things of their work; and Terry
listened as they deliberately drew him within their
circle.
It was a dinner deserving of the time given up to
it. Following a vegetable soup the Moro bore in a
great lapu-lapu, fresh from the Straits: if you have
never tasted the flaky substance of a lapu-lapu,don't! For once you do, you will be forever impatient of the quality of all other fish. Roast duck followed, with sweet corn, camotes, tart roselle sauce,
a papaya salad, an ice, and pili nuts; all perfectly
prepared, and flawlessly served by the expressionless
Moro boy who moved noiselessly about the snowy
table.
"I want to brag a little, Governor," Wade said as
he and the Major lighted cigars over a second cup of
black coffee. "Everything we ate to-night-with the
exception of such things as salt land pepper and
cream,-was the product of this farm. You will be
able to report at the end of the year that we are
eighty per cent self-supporting."
Pressed by the Governor, Wade explained to Terry
his system of handling the six hundred Moro inmates.
He stopped midway in a graphic account of three
prisoners whom he had sent out with instructions to
fetch in 'a runaway convict dead or alive.
"I didn't ask you down here to talk you to death!"
he apologized.




56


T ERRY


"But what happened?" insisted the Major. "Did
the three skip too?"
Wade glared at him. "Skip? My trusties? I
guess not! They came in last night after dark, after
being gone in the interior for three weeks, carrying a
gunnysack. I was sitting out here, so they came right
up and without a word emptied the sack on the
veranda floor. They had stayed out till they got
him-his head rolled out of the sack and landed right
under where you're sitting, Major. Then the three
walked over to the prison gate and reported in."
A moment later the Major moved his chair.
The Governor had been quietly studying Terry.
"How did the Philippines first impress you?" he
asked. "About as you anticipated?"
Terry hesitated, then responded to the authority
of the kindly eyes: "No, sir. I had read enough
typical stories of the tropics to absorb an atmosphere,
but I did not find it. You know what I mean, sir:
all that stuff about dulce far niente, manana, ginsoaked beach-combers,-that sort of thing. But I
don't find it, sir. I find a spirit of hustle, of getting
things done despite obstacles, a spirit which the natives seem to be absorbing,-though rather slowly."
The  Governor was frankly interested: "You
doubtless have formed some opinion regarding the
Filipinos-their fitness for independence?"
Terry felt the three pairs of eyes drilling him as
he answered: "It seems to me, sir, that-disregarding such baffling obstacles to independence as their
absolute defenselessness as a nation, the profound ignorance of the masses, lack of a common tongue, and




THE FANATIC


57


all that,-I think that in view of the fact that under
our guidance they have advanced further than under
four hundred years of Spanish rule, it would be
kinder if we waited decision until we see what a
second or third generation of English-speaking natives
are like. "
He reflected a moment, serious, then added: "In
short, sir, I think that it would be a great injustice to
them to mistake our own driving force for their
capacity."
" Sus-marie-hosep!" exclaimed the delighted Major,
who had fidgeted while his protege was undergoing
the Governor's test, "Don't mistake our driving
force for —I'd like to hear the native demagogues
argue on that thesis!"
The Governor surveyed Terry with added interest,
but was non-committal.
They fell silent, listening to the dark sea, in its
gentlest mood, caressing the beach: the wind flowed
past them steadily, like a soft current, stirring the
long fronds into purring contact. A sharp challenge
from an alert native sentry rang clear, followed by
the crunching sound of a heavy iron gate opening and
closing with grating finality. The hourly call was
sounded by a guard, who, unseen by them, paced the
main entrance to the inclosure: "All's Well."  It
sounded six times from invisible lips. Terry pondered its ironic message to those who heard it from
within those steel and concrete dormitories: "All's
Well," sounding to those who had crime on their
souls, and had left, somewhere, mothers, wives, children... sweethearts.... It oppressed him heavily.




58


TERRY


Then a roar of laughter rose from within the prison,
the free and joyous expression of mirth from hundreds of throats, from men who found life good.
Terry looked up to see Wade observing him closely,
smiling.
"They're having 'movies' to-night," he explained.
"They're crazy about Charlie Chaplin."
Then Terry understood better the spirit of the institution, and of its inmates. This was no dungeon,
it was a school where men were being taught how to
live at peace with their kind, how to work,-and how
to laugh.
Vaguely conscious of being the object of intent
scrutiny by some one stationed behind his chair, Terry
turned, restlessly, to face the Moro servant, who
stood just within the circle of light cast by the lamp,
his smoldering eyes fixed upon him. Unabashed, inscrutable, he studied the white youth unblinkingly:
then, as if decision had ripened, he entered the full
glare of the lamp and faced Wade, his master.
Astounded at the extraordinary intrusion, Wade
questioned him curtly in his dialect. The Moro responded at length, in a listless monotone that contrasted strangely with the determined gleam of his
black eyes. Surprise flooded Wade's face, heightened
to astonishment as the Moro continued; and as he concluded his story with an expressive gesture toward
Terry, Wade struck his knee.
"Well, I'll be everlastingly consumed!" he prophesied. He searched Terry's thin face intently, then
turned to the Governor.
This boy, Matak," he pointed to the passive




THE FANATIC


59


Moro, "adopted me over a year ago: just dropped in
and said he was going to work for me. I didn't need
him-you know I draw on the trusties for servants
-but he would not accept refusal: he just stayed
on. He is a fine servant, but a queer fish-I let him
stay for both reasons! I've tried to persuade him
to go to different friends who needed servants, but
he looked them over and then refused. I don't know
where he came from, don't know anything about his
history: I only know that he is a very faithful boy,
with some grievance against life that leaves him
morose and silent.
"Now he coolly announces," he paused to again
study Terry's countenance queerly, "now he says he
is going with Lieutenant Terry!"
The small but powerfully built Moro calmly returned the stare of the four white men, his face
passionless, his inert hands and thick bare feet curiously expressive of a primitiveness beyond conception.
Evidently he had decided upon a course of action
from which nothing would sway him, and he waited
until the white men should adjust themselves to the
fact. The Governor's face expressed his sympathy
with the Moro as he turned to Wade and asked permission to address his servant.
"Matak, why do you wish to go with Lieutenant
Terry?"
The Moro shifted his brooding eyes to Terry, then
back to the Governor before he answered.
"Because I like him, sir."
"Why do you like him?"
"Because he understands, sir."




60


TEIRRY


"Understands what, Matak?"
"He understands us, sir,-the unfortunate. Because he is lonely too, sir."
The Governor had been trying all evening to solve
the strange appeal of Terry's countenance: the
primitive Moro had understood. Gazing at the white
youth, the Governor saw that Matak was right. The
tone in which he addressed Terry was gentle, fatherly.
"Lieutenant, do you need a boy?"
The Major's quick sympathy had been enlisted:
"Lieutenant, you will run your own mess down
there," he interposed.
Meeting the black eyes turned upon him in confident
expectation, Terry found their dull appeal irresistible.
"He may come with me," he said. "I will look
after him."
Matak stood motionless a moment, then stepped to
Wade and slipping to one knee pressed Wade's hand
against his lips in token of gratitude and farewell.
Then he rose and went silently into the house.
The Governor, the Major and Wade were busy men
with large responsibilities: Terry found ample material for reverie in contemplation of what was opening up before him. The incident served to stifle further conversation. The four settled comfortably into
the long rattan chairs drawn up near the railing, each
content in the mere association with friends and occupied with his own problems.
The quiet intimacy of the group was jarred by the
sudden jangle of a telephone. Wade jumped up with
a muttered excuse but before he had crossed to the




THE FANATIC


61


open door it rang again, insistent. They heard his
murmured "hello," then an incredulous "What!" in
higher pitch. He appeared at the door, pale, excited.
"Governor Mason," he exclaimed, "Captain Hornbecker reports that there is a juramentado loose between here and Zamboanga! "
At the startling intelligence the Governor's feet
rapped to the floor: the Major jumped to his feet,
astounded.
"Why," he protested, "who ever heard of a Moro
running amuck at this time of night!"
"Hornbecker insists that it is true, nevertheless.
He has sent a detachment out after him but was worried because the Governor and you might have started
before he got word for you to wait."
The Governor shook his head decidedly: "We
will not wait. Please call my car."
The Major's protest against the Executive's endangering himself died in his throat at a quiet look
from the Governor. They hurried to the car, Wade
delaying them a few seconds while he secured three
heavy pistols, handing one to each of the two officers.
They found Matak waiting in the seat beside the
driver.
A sharp order from the Governor and the chauffeur
shot them out of the reservation and into the provincial road. The big Renault roared through the
night, the kilometer posts flitting by like specters, the
headlights tunneling the cocoanut groves through
which the white highway spun.
The four Americans crouched low in the tonneau
to escape the blinding rush of air that eddied over




62


TERR'Y


the windshield. They shot over a bridge, tore through
a dark village, rounded a corner at top speed and
took the grassed shoulder of the road as the little
chauffeur twisted the wheel to avoid a bewildered
carabao which blocked the middle of the highway. A
sickening skid, and they were back in the road. At
the end of a roaring flight down a long straightaway
they rounded a sharp curve into a short stretch
terminating in a nipa village which seemed to leap
toward the rushing car. As the powerful lights
swung upon the widened road which formed the
village street the alert driver saw that which brought
foot and hand to the brakes in a frantic effort that
brought the car to a grinding, sliding stop and
tumbled the Americans to the floor of the tonneau.
Crouched in the middle of the road a Moro, gone
amuck, darted fanatic glances in search of the Christians he had vowed to die killing, his eyes bloodshot
with the self-inflicted torture of the juramentado rite.
He balanced a great two-handed kris that gleamed
like a row of stars where the headlight struck its polished corrugations.
A Filipino, unaware of the terrific figure behind
him, had sauntered from the shadows into the path
of light, curious, half-blinded by the glare he faced.
As he reached the middle of the road the most terrifying of all cries issued from one of the dark windows.
"Juramentado!! Juramentado!!!"
At the cry his face turned sickly green in the
glare. He wheeled, uncertain, then ran blindly toward the frenzied Moro who was creeping toward him.
It happened with the swiftness of nightmare. By




THE FANATIC


63


the time the Americans had picked themselves up from
the bottom of the car the Filipino's frantic burst
had brought him within twenty feet of the black-clad
fanatic. His flying feet lagged to a halt, he stood
stock still in sheer horror till the Moro bounded toward him, then turned back toward the car-too
late!
The four white men leaped out just as the Filipino
turned back toward them with fear-leaden feet, and
in the moment of discovery of the Mohammedan who
leaped in his shadow, they saw the glistening blade rise
above the Filipino's head and fall in a terrific sweep
that seemed to end at the point where neck and shoulder join. Before their eyes the body opened like a
book.
It seemed inconceivable, but the crazed face of the
Moro showed through the cleft which widened as the
victim fell.
"God!" sobbed the Governor.
Sighting the group of Americans the blood-crazed
Mohammedan bounded toward them triumphantly,
swinging a kris which no longer gleamed. Bronner
had reached the road first and stood in front. His
heavy pistol roared six times and at the last shot
the leaping Moro spun clear around and fell heavily.
He staggered to his feet and with the same implacable hatred gleaming in his eyes came on toward
them, still grasping the awful weapon. Then, as
Matak stepped out to meet him, armed only with a
hub wrench, Terry's right hand extended in swift
gesture as he shot once. The Moro collapsed to the
road, limply, like a wet stocking off a line.




64


'TERRY


His race was run, but he had taken one unbeliever
with him to justify his claim to a choice seat in the
Mohammedan heavens. There is a certain impressive
earnestness about the followers of Mohammed.
The dismayed villagers poured out into the street,
venting their frenzied fear by kicking the dead fanatic. Captain Hornbecker, a round-faced officer, arrived with his soldiers. As the chauffeur had emerged
from his hiding place in the brush, the Governor
turned matters over to the captain and the four drove
on into Zamboanga. All had been sickened by the
horror of the swift tragedy.
They stopped at Bronner's house to get Terry's bag,
then drove him to the wharf. The Francesca was
about to cast off, her dim-lit decks loud with the
confusion of misdirected effort.
Terry sent Matak aboard, thanked the three warmly
for their kindness to him; after a moment of hesitation he added something that was drowned in a sudden rumble of winch. Two waiting sailors threw off
the hawser in response to a shouted signal from the
bridge. The three Americans remained at the end
of the pier till after Terry had mounted to the deck
and the boat swung out into the current.
As they walked along the dark pier the Governor
asked: "What was that he was saying?   I did not
quite catch it."
"I heard only part of it," answered Bronner. "It
was something about how queer religions may behe was thinking of the juramentado."
Wade spoke: "Did you notice how hard the affair got him? Of course it was a pretty stiff sight."




THE FANATIC                    65
"It wasn't that," said the Major, slowly. "From
something he said to me to-day I know that he has
had a horror of some day being compelled to kill a
man-and the day came. I'm very sorry I didn't
stop that Moro devil-yet I hit him three times."
The Governor walked the short distance to his
residence. Wade dropped the Major at his bungalow,
and sat oblivious to the Major's outstretched hand,
musing.
"Major," he said finally, "Matak's selecting Terry
for his master-queer, isn't it?"
"Huh!" growled the Major, "I would go with him
myself-anywhere! "




CHAPTER V


NEW FRIENDS, AND AN ENEMY
HE Francesca, no slower and no dirtier than
most of the other steamers which ply the
inter-island trade routes, had waddled all
night and all day through the Celebes Sea. Afternoon found her laboring over a becalmed mirror of
sea, past rippled reefs, through clusters of little coral
islands from which straggle-plumed palms raised wry
fronds in anemic defiance of inhospitable, root resisting soil. Mindanao lay to the west and south, vast,
mysterious.
Terry stood alone at the forward end of the small
promenade deck watching the third class passengers,
who, though still manifesting the uneasiness of the
Malay landsman at sea, were comfortably sprawled
upon the dirty hatch covers enjoying the seven-mile
breeze created by the movement of the vessel through
the still atmosphere. Upon the cooler side of the
upper deck the first class passengers had disposed
themselves under the once-white awning. Two natives, a Tagalog planter named Ledesma and his bigeyed, full-bosomed daughter, had withdrawn themselves from the whites and were seated in conscious
dignity near the aft rail. Four Americans were
grouped up forward, stretched out in full length
66




NEW FRIENNDS


67


steamer chairs in the complete physical comfort born
of a cooling evening after a blistering day.
Lindsey reached out to pull up an extra chair,
beckoned Terry to join them and introduced him
to the fourth member of the group, naming him as
Sears.
He was a big man, heavy-set, a bit untidy of
dress and beard: his face was flushed, and he answered Terry's pleasant salutation with a muttered
growl. Lindsey moved in his chair, uneasily.
"Lieutenant," he said, "we want to get acquainted
with you. We shall see much of each other in
Davao."
Before Terry could respond a harsh voice broke
in: "Yes, none of us are stuck on ourselves down
here!"
The words fell cold. Sensing the purpose to offend,
Terry straightened in his chair to face Sears. He
met his surly stare squarely: their eyes battled, but
under the level gaze Sears' bloodshot eyes wavered
and lowered, the flush deepening angrily with his
confusion.
Lindsey hastily summoned the deckboy to take
their orders and by the time he returned with the
drinks the constraint had abated. Sears, the only
one who had ordered whiskey, settled back in his
chair in sullen relief from a situation not quite to his
liking. Lindsey raised his glass to Terry.
"To your arrival among us," he offered, pleasantly.
"To you all, sir," Terry responded.
"More hemp " suggested Cochran.
Little Casey attested to his passion: "To breeds




68


T Ei R RY 


and breeders and breeding!" he grinned: it was his
never-failing toast at the Davao Club.
They waited a moment for Sears, but he had
gulped his drink.
It was the enthusiastic Casey who first spoke:
"Lieutenant, and when do you think you can come
down to my place? I want you to see my Berkshire
boar and my two American mares!"
'Cochran smiled at him, affectionately: everybody
liked Casey for his wild enthusiasms. His latest
hobby was the importation of blooded animals to
cross with native stock.
"Casey," said Cochran, "if you would pay half
as much attention to your plantation as you do to
your mares and that old grunter, you'd get somewhere!"
Casey snorted: "Sure, and in about three months
I'll have a colt to show you-then you'll sing another tune! And wait till I get some half-breed
pigs-instead of the hollow-backed scrawny things
we've got now-then you'll admit that Casey was the
boy!"
Casey was more or less of a character in the Gulf.
His words flew so fast they overran each other in
effort to keep abreast of his racing ideas. Thoroughly
respected for his sterling character, he was made
the target of much good-natured hilarity because of
his constant hobby-riding and the rushing speech
that made him almost incoherent. His mares and
boar had cost him money that could better have gone
into plantation improvements.
The conversation, drifting fitfully, touched upon




NEW FRIENDS


69


a new stripping machine which Lindsey had purchased in Manila: he was bringing it down in the hold
of the Francesca.
"I watched them load it," he declared. "I took
no chances in being shy a necessary bolt or belt.
I'll have it set up in a couple of weeks and if it
works as well in the field as it did in the agent's
warehouse-no more labor troubles for me-no more
hemp rotting in the ground for lack of strippers!"
Cochran was mildly pessimistic. He had seen too
many other heralded inventions which worked well
experimentally but failed in the hemp fields. Of
course Casey was hopeful-it was his nature.
Sears broke his long silence: "Labor troubles,
labor shortage! Hell!-there's plenty of labor in the
Gulf-if only the Government wasn't always hornin'
in on us!"
Terry knew the remark was aimed at him but refrained from comment. Sears mistook his silence.
"But no meddlin' government is goin' to interfere with me! I'm goin' to run my own place from
now on-and get my labor where I please-and how
I please!"
As this elicited no response from the patient officer
he continued despite Lindsey's distressed signals.
Emboldened, he turned directly to Terry.
4"I suppose," he snarled, "that you were sent down
to be the little fairy god-father to the Bogobos-to
protect the poor heathen from the awful planters
who want to make them work. No?"
Terry stirred. "Mr. Sears, I am instructed to
protect the Bogobos from any oppression-and to aid




70


TERRY


the planters in every legitimate way. I hope to do
both."
Sears' passion seemed fed by the conciliatory tone.
Terry studied the convulsed face and through the
thick veil of rage saw the lines of worry that had
aged him prematurely: the black hair was streaked
with gray and his hands were thickened and stained
with toil. Moved by a quick sympathy Terry spoke
again:
"Mr. Sears, this is no time to discuss the matter. In a week or so I will come to see you and-"
Sear interrupted in a voice hoarse with anger:
"Terry, if any government man comes-snoopin'
round my place —I'll —I'll-he will never snoop
again!"
In the tense silence that followed the challenge
Lindsey bit clean through his cigar. Terry's answer
was so long in coming that the trio of Americans
who listened experienced something of the faint qualm
which sickens a man when he witnesses another's
backing-down. Finally he spoke, slowly, his measured words scarcely audible above the muffled beat
of the propeller.
"Sears, I am coming to your place first. I will
come within a week. "
Sears jumped to his feet, shaking with the hatred
he had conceived for the young officer. Terry rose
easily, looking frail in comparison with the burly
figure opposing him, but he surveyed Sears steadily,
unafraid, and not unfriendly.
Cochran coughed loudly, and again. Casey nervously undid a shoelace, retieing it with meticulous




NEW FRIENDS


71


care. Lindsey rose with studied leisureliness and
stood at the rail near Sears, ready.
But the ship's bell rang out the dinner hour, a
waiting Visayan steward stepped out on the deck
hammering a Chinese dinner gong, and in the strident din the crisis passed. Lindsey lingered to speak
with Terry after the others had passed below.
"I'm very sorry, Lieutenant. Sears is a rough
fellow, but he is half-crazed with worry. He's really
not a bad hombre."
Terry nodded: "I can see that he is worried about
something. "
"It's his plantation. He has invested what little
money he had in it, has worked hard for three years,
and now that he has his first big crop he can't
harvest it-the Bogobos won't work for him He is
pretty rough with them, I guess-but if he doesn't
harvest this crop he's ruined. He's in debt-and
pretty desperate."
He paused, a deeper concern crept into his face:
"Lieutenant," he said earnestly, "can't you stay
away from his place-a while-till he gets his hemp
cut and stripped?  He is really desperate-and always packs a gun."
Terry smiled his gratitude. "Lindsey, I am much
obliged to you. You need not worry about it."
Neither Sears nor Lindsey were of the group which
assembled on deck after dinner to enjoy the brilliancy of the swift sunset. The ship had swung
through Sarangani Channel and was paralleling the
west coast due north toward Davao. The red glory




72


TERRY


of the dying sun tinted the waters of the Gulf to
the line of palm-fringed beach which edged the distant shoreline. From the shore the land sloped gently
to the west and north, mile after mile of primeval
jungle broken here and there where brush and thorn
and creeper had yielded to man's demand for more
and more hemp. Far inland the steady rise persisted, grew more abrupt and more heavily timbered,
terminating in the far interior in a dim and mighty
mountain whose dark-wooded slopes and misted crest
dominated the Gulf: the red orb of the sun had
dropped behind this towering summit.
Cochran pointed up at the distant mountain:
"Mount Apo."
Terry nodded: "Where the Hill People live?"
"Yes, —where they are supposed to live: no one
really knows... you will hear all sorts of stories."
The shadows which lurked upon Mount Apo descended over the lower slopes, then enfolded the Gulf.
The lights on the steamer shone murkily. The three
lay back watching the stars brighten overhead. For a
long time nothing was heard but the querulous mutterings of the old boat as she waddled on her way.
Terry broke the silence: "Where is Lindsey?"
Cochran answered quickly to head off the more explicit Casey: "Oh, he's busy-busy with Sears."
Terry understood. Cochran sparred for an opening in the silence his friendship for Sears made
embarrassing.
"Lieutenant, you are likely to have work for your
soldiers pretty soon. There's a rough outfit gather



NEW FRIENDS                     73
ing down here in the Gulf-though I imagine Bronner told you all about it."
"He told me something of it, but I would like
to hear more."
"Well, I don't know much about it, excepting that
a score or more of tough characters have come down
in the past two months. They settled on a mangy
plantation up the coast, north of Davao, but they
aren't working: just loafing around all day. They
seem to be waiting for something-or somebody. The
natives are scared, and the whites don't feel any
too good about it either! You know we are scattered
all over the Gulf-everybody a mile or more away
from his neighbors-and that means a mile of jungle."
Casey flared up: "We ought to run 'em outthey're no good, probably carabao thieves or worse —"
"How worse?" grinned Cochran. "Horse thieves
-or pig thieves?"
Casey did not mind being ragged by his friends.
He persisted: "Lieutenant, you ought to run 'em
out as undesirables or under the vagabond law!
They're no good-they won't work-and they're the
toughest lookin' lot I ever did see! Sure and if I had
my way I'd toss the lot into Sears' crocodile holethe dirty, low-lived, shiftless lot of 'em!"
Terry was interested: "Sears' crocodile hole?" he
asked.
Cochran laughingly explained: "It's more or less
of a joke between Sears and Lindsey: each has a hoodoo on his place that makes it harder to get laborers.




74


TE RRY


The Bogobos fear a great snake they swear haunts
Lindsey's woods, and none of them wants to go near
a pool on Sears' places just below the ford-they
claim it is the home of a monstrous crocodile, thirty
feet long. No white man has ever seen either: it's a
big joke in a way-but a costly one for them as it
makes the wild men give their places a wide berth."
"What have they done about it?"
"Everything. Got up hunting parties-stalked the
places for hours and days, tried to convince the natives that it is all bosh. But they insist it's all true,
and stay away-and loss of man power means loss
of money they both need this year. Both of them
think the stories are just the usual Bogobo exaggerations. 
Terry thought Cochran not quite convinced:
"What do you think?"
"I?  Oh, I don't know. It's hard to swallow the
stories-man-eating snakes and crocodiles sound all
right on the lips of the old Spaniards but where our
flag flies things seem to sober down. Yet I've usually
found that back of all these Bogobo tales there is
an element of truth: and two years ago when I was
clearing my place I shot an eighteen-foot python.
Stumbled on it sleeping-glad it was!"
The evening monsoon had set in, rippling the surface of the sea and humming its cooling refrain
through the rigging. Casey yawned heavily and went
below to seek the planter's early sleep. Cochran
remained with Terry for a half-hour, enlightening
him with a running talk of the problems confronting
the planters. He was well educated, progressive, and




NEW FRIENDS


75


backed by ample family means had developed the
best holding in the Gulf. He told Terry that on this
trip he had succeeded in persuading thirty timid Visayan families to settle upon his plantation despite
their native fear of all things Mindanaoan, and that
his profits for the year would return him sixty per
cent of the capital he had invested in his place.
"You will soon understand conditions, Lieutenant," he declared as he rose to go below. "Most of
the planters need labor, and they need capital."  He
threw his cigar butt over the rail, debating the ethics
of uttering what might be thought a criticism of his
associates. "And they need farming intelligence
most-too many of them were army men or government men before coming down here, yet they tackle
a highly specialized form of tropical agriculture with
utter confidence! They aren't farmers-they're just
heroes!"
He half-turned to go, hesitated: "Lieutenant,
you're going to like it down here-because we're going to like you. Now, of course it's none of my business, but if I were you I would keep away from
Sears' place-he will make his threat good. He has
it in him to become a pretty bad man-but as I say,
it's none of my business. Goodnight, sir."
After Cochran had gone, Terry, sleepless, slowly
walked the gently rolling deck. Ledesma stood at the
rail near the forward lifeboat gazing into the soft
shadows which shrouded, the muttering ship. At
Terry's quiet approach he turned to address him
abstractedly in the liquid Spanish of cultured Filipinos.




76


TE R RY


"Buenas Noches, Sefior Teniente."
Terry answered in the same tongue: "Good Evening, Sefior Ledesma. A fine night."
The natives' vague fear of the dark-wrought into
instinct by a thousand generations of ancestors who
crouched at night around flickering campfires in jungles through which crept hostile men and marauding
beasts-had fastened upon him, stripping him of the
thin veneer of civilization the Spaniards had laid but
lightly over the Malayan barbarism. He shifted uneasily, looked out over the starlit sea.
"Teniente," he murmured, "I like not the night.
The dead rise... some sing... some complain...drift through the black mists searching for those
they have long lost... the vampires seek for unprotected children... I like not the night...
Lost in the ghastly realms of native ghostlore, he
ignored the American. Terry rounded the deck once
and when he came again to where Ledesma had stood
he found him gone to seek the cheer of lighted cabin.
Terry stopped at the forward rail, his face upturned
to the big stars which burned in the soft depths of the
warm sky: the Southern Cross poised just over the
crest of Apo. Below, on the black sea, the thrust of
the vessel threw up a great welt which bordered the
wedge of disturbed waters: phosphorescence gleamed
like great wet stars. The tips of cigarettes glowed on
the forward deck where members of the crew lay
prone, exchanging occasional words in the hushed
voices races not far from nature use in the still hours
of the night.
The morning would find him in a strange place,




NEW FRIENDS


77


among strangers... he leaned upon the rail in a
sudden excess of yearning for those whom he loved,
summoned the spirits of those who loved him. They
came to him through the night-Susan fretting, Ellis
affectionately  gruff, Enrico! boisterously  cheerful,
Father Jennings wise, patient, watchful. Another,
fairer, unutterably dear, hovered near him: he strove,
as of old, to bridge the gap-and was baffled, as of
old.
The eight bells of midnight roused him from his
dejected reverie: he straightened from the rail. The
Cross had dipped into the clouded crest: miles to
the west a shorefire bit into the black mantle that
draped the Gulf. The low wailing of an infant and
the guttural endeavors of the mother to soothe it came
up from the forward deck where the native passengers
lay sprawled in the profound slumber of the Malay:
pacified, it slept again, then the night was still but
for the soft sounds of displaced waters and the
creakings of the ship's old joints.
As he passed along the narrow, ill-lighted passage
toward his cabin he heard a voice raised in ugly imprecation:
"I'll get him if he comes, the -- upstart! Just
let him show his face on my place, by --, I'll fix
him!"
It was Sears' voice. As he felt his way down the
dark corridor, he heard Lindsey's low   tones, reproachful, conciliatory.
A few steps further brought him near Sears' door.
Suddenly he distinguished a figure outlined against




78


TER RY


the door, listening. As a match flared in Terry's
fingers, the native whirled.
It was Matak. He followed Terry to his cabin, unabashed.
"Master," he said simply, "he talk about you. IHe
make fight talk-kill talk-so I listen."
The seed of his loyalty fell on ground furrowed by
the lonely hours on deck. Shame at having given
way to a great depression swept over Terry-friends
were in the making, this splendid friend already
made... and he had come to serve, not to seek.... He smiled into the worshiping black eyes.
"It's all right, Matak. You do not understand.
You go to your quarters and get some sleep. '
The Moro lingered. "Anything more, master?"
"Yes, Matak. Don't call me 'master': call me
'lieutenant.'
"Yes, master."  He left the cabin.
Terry, always a light sleeper, was awakened toward morning by a slight sound outside his door.
Looking out into the dim corridor he saw that Matak
was standing guard over his slumbers, armed with a
big bolo whose naked length gleamed viciously in the
semi-darkness.
Touched by the devotion and realizing the futility
of trying to drive him from his vigil, Terry lay back
on the pillow, the rhythmic beat of the propeller in his
ears. Asleep, he dreamed, and the chug of the screw
became the beat of an engine bearing him    away
from the home of his fathers.
The Moro heard the restless tossing and stepped
silently into the little stateroom, his young-old eyes




NEW    FRIENDS                79
fastened upon the wistful lines that marked the competent young face. While he stood brooding over
his young master the dawn streaked through the open
porthole, and a sof4 splash sounded from up forward
as the ship dropped her roped anchor. They were
off Davao.
Terry had come into port.




CHAPTER VI


THE LAND OF HEMP
N three months the Gulf had laid its spell upon
Terry. He had come to love the great slopes,
from the sandy coastline to the last swift grades
to Apo's distant top, the loveliness of the wind-tossed
palms which fringed the water's edge, the sparkle of
the ocean's blue expanse and its quick response to
moods of sun and wind.
During the noontime hours the sun was blazing
hot but he could order his work so as to avoid exposure. Out at daybreak, he usually accomplished
the duties of the day during the cool morning hours,
reading through the siesta hours in the coolness of
his great open house.
Seldom did the routine of his work-the drill, the
sifting of patrol reports, the minutiae of the service
-overreach into the afternoon hours: then he was
free to range the country, to learn its trails and towns,
its people and its spirit. His big gray pony had become a familiar sight in every village, on nearly every
plantation. Sometimes he was gone upon two-day
trips up or down the coast, or riding the narrow
trails through the deep green shade of the woods,
his Stetson seldom touched by direct sunlight.
There was a never-ending pleasure in the hemp
fields, great sweeps of tall abaca plants glinting in
80




THE LAND OF HEMP


81


the sun: and in the sluggish, useful river which
drained the levels, its turbid bosom bearing a few
silent native craft, its oily depths suggesting a basis
for the legends of huge crocodiles which no white
man had ever seen.
He worked hard, but it was not all work. Many
an early evening found him out on the broad Gulf
in an outrigger canoe he had learned to handle with
native skill, sometimes with Matak, oftener with Mercado, the first sergeant of his Macabebe company.
Sometimes, when the surface was calm, he spent wonderful hours in studying the cool depths of the waters,
the lee-shore coral ledges which bore fairy gardens
of oceanic flora, brilliant-hued, wierd-shaped, swaying
gently in the tidal current: strange forms of sea-life
moved among the marine growths,-some beautiful
in form and color, others hideous. Once, while he
watched a school of smaller fish playing around a
huge sea-turtle, they disappeared as if by signal and
the tortoise drew in his scaled head and sank to
rest on the bottom as a swordfish swam majestically
over the spot, then darted into deeper waters. There
were clams as large as washtubs.
Often, while Mercado-or Matak-paddled, he
trolled a flashing bait to lure the gamefish which
swarmed in the depths. Rarely did such an evening
pass without a long fight with a leaping pampano
or a sea bass: with thirty or forty pounds of desperate muscle at the other end of a hundred-yard line,
the song of reel was sweet. One night he brought
in an eighty-pound barracuda but usually the larger
fish cost him line, leader or spoon.




82


TERRY


At times the surface of the Gulf was alive with
schools of leaping fish: one evening he saw a great
fish, a tanguingi, rise into the air with nose pointed
upward, till, at a height of twenty-five feet, it reversed for a downward rush to plunge in the exact
center of the ripples its great leap had created.
Once, far out on the Gulf with Matak, he came upon
a forty-foot whale asleep on the surface, rolling
dreamily from side to side: the Moro, unafraid of
man or devil, turned Malay-green with terror as
Terry prodded the huge black surface with his paddle. Awakened, it upended in a sluggish dive, the
heavy flirt of its great glistening tail smashing the
left outrigger and drenching them to the skin.
Terry had attended strictly to the affairs which
properly came under his control and in doing this and
doing it well, had won the respect of natives and
whites, a respect which had warmed into admiration
among those who knew him better, into affection with
those who knew   him  best. The loyal Macabebes
would have followed him against any foe, and, better
than that, they drilled hard and worked faithfully
that they might be a credit to their leader.
The natives knew him as "El Solitario," "The
Solitary," partly because he played his game alone
in a quiet competent way, to all appearances equally
friendly to all, regardless of color or condition, partly
because he seemed unconscious of the lures of all
those brown maidens known to be as shady of character as of color.
He had often stopped to spend an hour or two with
Ledesma on his prospering plantation. He liked




THE LAND OF HEMP


83


Ledesma's sincere, old-school courtesy, and he liked
him because Ledesma was known as an Americanista,
looked upon the Americans as God-sent to guide his
people out of their sloth and abysmal ignorance. But
he gave up these visits following a day when he
found the dark-eyed, ripe-bosomed daughter alone in
the house and learned, in her flaming passion for
him, that she had misunderstood the reason for his
calls.
The frequency of his trips to the outlying plantations had increased as the weeks went by, especially
to the pitiful holdings of some of the poor natives.
Malabanan's coming had been broadcasted across the
land, and an uneasiness had settled over the Gulf,
a vague fear Terry sought to allay. But Malabanan's record, a dark and dismal history of hideous
crime for which he had been but half punished, was
known throughout the country, and was the nightly
subject of fearful conversation in every hut on every
isolated plantation.
Terry had ridden, alone, to the neglected settlement up the coast where the gang of roughs had
rendezvous, but Malabanan was away. A dozen hardlooking natives had sullenly responded to his curt
questions. None were working, though he had arrived during the cool of the afternoon and the fields
cried for attention.
In Davao, the town, he found consuming interest.
Sleepy six days in the week it woke each Wednesday during the couple of hours the weekly steamer anchored offshore to discharge cargo into a lighter, drop
a passenger or two, and send ashore the exiles' great



84


TERRY


est balm-home mail. He came to know everybody:
first the other government people-Lieutenant-Governor; Scout officers; Dr. Merchant, the district health
officer; school teachers, native postmaster. Seldom
a week passed that he failed to saunter into each of
the Chinese tiendas, making the purchase of matches
or other small articles the excuse for a half-hour's
visit. Oftenest he went into Lan Yek's smelly little
shop, for there the Bogobos brought their mountain
hemp to trade for small agongs: tired from their
heavy packing, they would squat down on the floor
along the wall, one of them occasionally stepping to
an agong to test it with deft contact of finger, all
joining him in rapt study of its tone, measuring the
duration of the lingering waves of sound. Terry
learned, in time, that they found greatest merit in
those agongs which rang longest to lightest stroke.
Even those timid Bogobos who never left the wooded
foothills knew him. He went among them, studying
their language, learning their customs and hopes
and fears, listening to their picturesque traditions.
Always, when he met a file of the beaded, braceleted
folk upon the trail, he dismounted to exchange a few
words with them. Unbelievably shy at first, in time
they came to know him as word passed through the
foothills of the young white man who understood: so
they brought their problems to him, some pathetic,
some ridiculous-recently he had ridden twenty miles
to settle a dispute regarding the ownership of some
yet unborn puppies.
As their confidence increased, they unsealed their
tight lips in relation of strange tales of the Hill




THE LAND OF HEMP


85


People, unbelievable stories of the wild tribe who
lived in the forbidden mountain beyond the Dark
Forest: stories told usually by old men and old
women, who shivered as they whispered their legends
to the white man by the campfire. They told him the
dread stories because they liked his quietness, his
slightly twisted, friendly smile, and because, as they
told each other, he listened as one who sees not
with the eyes alone.
When he saw that the fear of Malabanan had
spread among these widely scattered, defenseless wildmen, Terry grew grimmer. But as the weeks passed
peacefully by, hope grew within him that Malabanan's presence in the lovely, fertile Gulf boded no ill.
Major Bronner, arriving unexpectedly, found that
Terry had been away all day on a mission among
the Bogobos. Learning from Matak that his master
would return within a few hours the Major left his
bag and crossed over to the Davao Club for dinner.
Entering the club, a roomy house furnished by the
planters to provide a comfortable place in which
to put up when forced to town by business or the
monotony of their isolation, he passed straight to the
dining room, discovering Lindsey, Cochran and a
dozen others he knew. As he paused in the doorway
Lindsey spied him and called him to the table he
shared with Cochran and two others. After the
Major had responded to the greeting called from all
four tables, Lindsey took up the thread of a story
the Major's entrance had interrupted.
"Major, I was just telling of my experiences with




86


TERRY


the hemp machine I brought down three months ago.
As I was saying, I set the machine up in my biggest
field and tried it out in private-and Man! How
she did strip hemp! Convinced that I had the world
by the tail I sent word out to all the Bogobos in the
neighborhood to come in next day to see the machine work, and sent a special bid to the old chief
who lords it over that section.
"Well, they came all right-ready to see the crazy
Americans' newest devilment —and all set for the
feast they knew I'd give! The chief came, with the
bunch who act as a staff for him, and I lined them up
right in front of the machine in the center of a crowd
of two hundred wild men-all about as scared by
the machine's appearance as they could be. I was
pretty proud, and pretty happy: I gave them a good
spiel through my interpreter, telling them that from
now on all who worked for me would be free from
the hard toil of stripping-nothing to do but field
work-and all that. I thought that they would admire this new evidence of the American genius, would
pile over each other in their desire to work for me.
"I nodded to the mechanic: he cranked the engine
and it got off to a fine start and before throwing in
the clutch that hooked it up with the stripper I
looked out over the silent, brown-faced crowd. I had
to grin at their expectant, half-scared attitude: the
old chief stood right in front of the big machinehe was uncertain about it all, but game. I threw her
in and waved to the feeders, who tossed in the great
stalks as the big iron arms started to revolve in the
air. It did make an infernal racket-but it did strip




THE LAND OF HEMP


87


hemp. The fiber came out of one end, the juice ran
into a trough-oh, it worked great.
"I spent a minute or two seeing that everything
worked right, then I turned triumphantly to the
crowd. But, Lord-there wasn't any crowd-I saw
the last of their brown backs disappearing into the
brush!
"All but the old chief. He stood right there; stiff
with fright, I guess! I stopped the machine and
went over to him to ask him to tell his young men
to work for me as he could see how easy it would be
for them, now that I had this machine."
He paused, laughing ruefully. "But I didn't
get a chance to say a word. He took one last look at
the now quiet iron monster, clucked that peculiar
'Tuk!' in which they express the maximum of emotion, uttered two words-' Americano devils!'-then
stalked away as rapidly as his bent old legs would
carry him. Ie disappeared into the woods-and
hasn't been seen since!
"And worst of all, all of my Bogobos quit me, so
that instead of cornering the labor market in Davao
I lost most of what I had! I'm punching the bag
every day now, getting in shape to greet the next
hombre that tries to sell me a machine!"
He joined goodnaturedly in the laugh which filled
the room and when it subsided turned to the Major
gratefully.
"Major, my hemp lay rotting in my fields: it meant
serious loss to me-it would have wiped me out. But
Lieutenant Terry heard about it and without saying
anything to me, went among the Bogobos and per



88


TERRY


suaded sixty of them to work for me-the most I
ever had was thirty-one. He has a wonderful hold
upon them-they will do anything he says: and I'm
not the only one he has helped out; am I, boys?"
A dozen planters supported him, enthusiastic, vehement.
Cochran knew the Major intimately, his hobbies and
aversions. He turned to him solemnly.
"Married yet, Major?"
"Who-me? I guess not! No petticoats for
mine!"
In the laugh which rose over Cochran's elicitation
of the bachelor's invariable formula, several of the
planters moved their chairs near the Major's table.
All of these quiet, efficient Constabulary were well
liked, and the Major had been known to many of
these Davao pioneers since the days when they had
fought together against insurrectos, cholera, torturing sun, treachery; the days when capture had meant
the agony of dissection piecemeal, hamstringing, the
ant hill.
The Major's face had relapsed into gravity:
"Lieutenant Terry is well liked, then?" he suggested.
Lindsey replied, earnestly: "Major, he owns this
whole Gulf. He hasn't an enemy-not counting that
gang of Malabanan's up the coast."
Burns, a gruff old planter, interposed: "Hle had
one enemy, once."
Cochran understood that the uncommunicative
Burns would go no further and thought the Major
should be enlightened.




THE LAND OF HEMP


89


"As I was the only witness," he began, "I guess
I must tell the story. One of our planters, Sears,
took a dislike to Terry on the way down from Zamboanga: no reason for it-he was grouchy and sore,
had been drinking too hard trying to forget his
troubles.
"You know    Sears, Major. His inability to get
labor was ruining him and he went too far in 'persuading' the Bogobos to work for him. Well, he
went after Terry on the boat, and it wound up
with Sears threatening to do Terry up if he came
near his plantation: and Terry quietly assured him
that he would go there first of all.
"We were all worried about it for a week, as
Sears is a bad man when aroused and never goes back
on his word, and we knew Terry would go-he was
all business, though quiet and white. Well, when
Sears got back to his place all of his Bogobos had
left him, the fields were deserted. It meant the loss
of his crop, complete ruin, so he got to drinking
harder and finally, desperate, brought in some Bogobos at the point of a pistol and put them to work.
"It was pretty raw, of course. Everybody knew
of it that night. The next morning I rode over to
offer him some of my men and as I came in sight of
the house I saw Terry, riding his gray pony, enter
Sears' clearing from the east trail.
"I was pretty scared. I knew he was there on
business-that he would be the first one to hear of
Sears' coup. I spurred up to see if I couldn't prevent serious trouble, but when I drew near I pulled




90


T ERIRY


up: there was something in his face that made me
keep out, made me understand that I was an outsider in this affair.
"Well, Sears rushed out just as Terry dismounted,
his eyes inflamed with rage-and with a whiskey
hangover, I guess, though he seemed perfectly sober.
He stood at the top of the steps looking at Terry, his
face purple, trembling all over: he had his 45 in his
hand. Terry tied the reins to the lower railing, then
stood looking up at Sears with that queer expression
which I couldn't fathom. Sears spoke first, his voice
husky.
" 'So you've come, Terry,' he said.
"'Yes, I have come, Sears.' He looked sort of
small and white compared with Sears up there, but
somehow I could not worry about him. I thought
Sears would choke for a minute, then he said:
"' If you put a foot on those steps I'll-I'll-'
"Terry didn't give him   a chance to finish the
threat, but stepped forward. I noticed that his gray
pony sort of nipped at him, affectionately, as he
passed his head and made the first step up. Sears
must have gone clean crazy. He raised the big pistol
and fired pointblank!
"They weren't fifteen feet apart, but he missed,
and that shot passed over Terry's shoulder and tore a
great chunk out of the cantle of his saddle. The pony
tore loose and ran away. I just sat there, scared to
death!
"Terry never took his eyes off Sears and he still
wore that same expression I mentioned before: he was
white as a sheet but he was not scared. No, sir!




THE LAND OF HEMP


91


Sears kept the pistol pointed at him and as Terry
came up another step I saw the hammer lift again,
but it eased back and the pistol wavered as Sears fell
under the spell of Terry's upturned eyes. His face
changed queerly as Terry kept coming, he stepped
back uncertainly, the pistol dropped to his side. He
understood why Terry had come, and I did also, at
the same time.
"Terry was SORRY for him!"
Cochran paused a moment to conquer a little catch
that had crept into his voice, and then concluded
his story: "Well, Major, Sears realized suddenly
what he had tried to do and looked down at the gun
in his hands as in a dream, then offered it to Terry.
But Terry shook his head, said something in a low
tone I didn't hear, and they went inside, leaving me
to cool my heels in the yard like the rank outsider
I was! They came out in half an hour, arm in arm,
and Terry stepped to the rail and sounded the Bogobo call. In about a minute a big gang of half-naked
Bogobos filed out of the woods into the clearing and
gathered around him at the foot of the steps.
"Terry talked to them awhile in their own lingo,
then asked Sears if he had living accommodations for
the whole bunch. Before coming to Sears' place he
had spent the night in the foothills and persuaded
seventy Bogobos to come in and work for SearsBogobos, mind you, who have always feared Sears
and refused to approach his place!
"That's the story, Major,-except that Sears harvested his full crop, is on his feet again, has cut
booze and treats his men as well as any planter in




92


TERRY


the Gulf. And he sure does worship this young
lieutenant of yours!" 
The Major studied the end of his cigar. "He
never reports anything like that," he admitted. "I'm
glad you told me."
"You'll hear plenty more such-" Cochran began,
but was interrupted by the loud entrance of little
Casey. He tore into the room, breezy, voluble, greeting every one with short, jerky sentences. He reached
the Major last.
"Hello, Major! How's everything?     I passed
Lieutenant Terry on the trail-three miles out-he
was leading his pony-said it was lame though it
hardly limped at all! Tried to get him to mount and
ride in with me-but he wouldn't-sure and he's the
merciful man to beasts! "
He rambled on till the Major interrupted him with:
"How are the breeding experiments coming on, Casey?
Any foals yet-or pigs?"
The little man disregarded the amused grin of the
planters, pouring forth in long eulogy of American
mares and boar. "You come down to my place in
about two weeks," he wound up at last, "and I'll
show you! I'11 have some cross-bred colts and pigs
worth the seeing-and I'm  going to name the first
one after Terry "
"First pig?" Cochran seemed serious.
"No-first colt-the first pig I'll name for you!"
Soon the Major left Casey capably sparring with
the plaguing Cochran, and seated himself on a broad
window ledge above the dark plaza, smoking thoughtfully. He had made no mistake in sending Terry




THE LAND OF HEMP                    93
here. Three phonographs strove against each other
from different houses along the plaza. It is characteristic of the Americans in the Philippines that
most of them take unto their bosoms these mechanical
comforts, instead of the animated talking machines
which the Spaniards affected. The sky was black with
the threat of rain, low thunder rumbled in the west,
above Apo.
A few minutes, and the Major distinguished two
forms making their way along the north side of the
dark plaza and as they passed under one of the oil
park-lamps he recognized Terry, leading a weary pony
which limped slightly. As the Major secured his cap
and waved a cheery goodnight to the gathering, Lindsey hurried to the door to intercept him.
"Major, Lieutenant Terry promised to come over
to my place to-morrow afternoon. We were going to
have a drive against the wild pigs-they've been raising the devil with my young plants. You will come
along with him, won't you?"
"You bet! I haven't had any shooting in months.
But you won't let that big snake get me, will you?7"
Chuckling, he left the club and crossed the plaza
to Terry's quarters. Entering, he heard Terry splashing under the shower. Terry emerged soon, kimono
clad, his face lighted hospitably when he spied the
Major sitting by the lamp-lit table.
Dressed, Terry ate and listened while the Major
smoked and talked.
"Lieutenant," he finally remarked, "there is no
more trouble among the Bogobos?"
"No, sir. It has stopped-as I reported to you."




94


T EERRY


The Major regarded him closely: "What stopped
it?"
"I just talked to some of the planters, and they
understood. "
Looking up, he flushed under the Major's quizzical
gaze.
"Major, those planters at the club have been stuffing you!" he complained.
The Major gravely discussed Malabanan. "Terry,
you may not have to move against him-I hope not,
anyway. But I want you to be in a position to finish
anything he starts. Do you want me to send you
an additional company?"
"No-I can handle anything in reason with the
Macaebebes."
"What did you do with the secret service man I
sent down?"
"I planted him up the coast where he can watch
that gang."
Terry unfolded his plans for handling the situation
should the ladrones break loose upon the Gulf, and
the Major was satisfied.
"It hardly seems possible," he said, "that they
will try it-but with only one company here to cover
the whole Gulf-and in so remote a settlement —it may
look like easy pickings. But if Malabanan daresyou smash him!"
The threatened rainstorm had passed to the north,
leaving the night clear and cool: a strong breeze fluttered the lamp. Matak entered to clear the table! and
Terry, who had not eaten the fried chicken, pushed it
toward the Moro with goodnatured impatience.




'\.     THE    LAND     OF HEMP             95, "Matak, this chicken is only half cooked: I've
warned the cook several times-tell him to eat it."
Matak, silent and grim as ever, bore the offending
dish out, while Terry turned to the Major to discuss
the morrow's sport. In a moment their voices were
drowned by the crash of dishes falling in the kitchen,
then a fearsome shriek reached the startled pair, a
moaning cry terminating abruptly in a choking gurgle. They sprang up and into the kitchen.
Matak was astride the prostrate Visayan in the
midst of the broken crockery and bent tinware spilled
from the upset table. He had the cook's mouth pried
open in determined endeavor to ram what looked like
half a chicken down the Visayan's gullet. Halfstrangled and crazed with fear the cook rolled his
eyes beseechingly.
Bronner raised Matak bodily and Terry helped the
trembling Filipino to his feet. He turned to Matak
sternly.
"What does this mean?"
"He would not eat it, master."
The cook broke in, almost hysterical: "Matak say
I must eat cheecken, that you say so. I say 'all right,
eat to-morrow.' He say 'eat now.' I say 'no, tomorrow.' Then he fight. I no eat to-day-notheeng
-to-day church fast day!"
As recollection came of his joking instructions to
the ever serious Matak, Terry turned to the Major
but he had run from the kitchen, choking. Having
patched up a truce between them, Terry followed the
Major into the sala.
At sight of his rueful face the Major burst into




96


TERRY


fresh  laughter. "His fast day!"    he  chuckled,
"These Moros are sure literal-minded-they follow
your words exactly. I've had some queer examples
in the past year."
They sat through the cool evening talking of their
multi-phased service, Bronner earnest and unwittingly eloquent in his summing up of its ideals, its
hopes for the future, Terry silent and thoughtful as
the big man talked about plans for Mindanao, for
the Gulf.
"And some day, Terry," he concluded, after a stirring account of what two officers, Case and Gallman,
had done among the Luzon headhunters, "some day
we will get to the Hill People: the right man will
come along, and the right combination of circumstances. It is an unusual combination-the right
man plus the right place plus the right time. Carnegie would probably have been just a tight-fisted
Scot had he lived in Napoleon's time, and Napoleon
if born in this generation might never get a headline.
"I would like to be the man who first wins to
the Hills. Think of the glory of such a life work
-opening the doors for a benighted people and leading them out of savagery into the decencies and comforts and safety of civilization!"
The steady evening breeze had stiffened, swinging
the great airplants which hung in the big windows.
The far howl of a dog sounded through the dark:
the sleepy crowing of scores of gamecocks accurately
guaged the passing of another hour. The Major suggested sleep.




THE LAND OF HEMP                    97
Terry, in pajamas and slippers, came in to see if
his guest were comfortable for the night: assured,
he crossed the sala, blew out the light and entered
his own room, closing the door behind him. Shortly,
while the Major lay watching, he threw open the
door and the Major heard him climb into bed and
adjust his mosquito net.
The Major mused: "That's queer-I wonder what
he does behind the closed door?"
He fell asleep puzzling over it.




CHAPTER VII


THE PYTHON
NNOTHING could be more impersonal than the
manner in which the Major inspected the
company. He was very curt and official:
no detail eluded his attention, no fault of equipment,
quarters, drill or training escaped comment and correction. The command was in fine shape but it is a
service in which there is but one standard-perfection,
and perfection may never be attained. The inspection
consumed the morning, but when they sat at lunch in
Terry's quarters, rank had perished again.
At two o'clock they set off leisurely for Lindsey's,
Terry quiet, the Major jovial at the prospect of a
drive at the wild boar. They jogged through the hot
afternoon over a trail winding under a canopy of
foliage shrill with the plaint of myriad insect life.
An hour out and the Major was nearly unseated as
his pony shied violently from  a three-foot iguana
that scurried across their path in furious haste. Farther into the woods, and they drew rein, listening to
the mystic tone of a Bogobo agong rung at minute
intervals: Terry judged the gong to be six miles distant westward, the Major contended for half a mile,
north of them. Such is the weird quality of the
agong in the forest.
98




THE PYTHON


99


At four o'clock they drew up at Lindsey's roomy,
thatched house set in the middle of his clearing
and in a few minutes Lindsey, soaked with perspiration, hurried out of the tall growth of hemp ripening
in his south field.
"I feared you might not be able to make it," he
smiled. "You can never tell what the next day may
bring you Constabulary fellows!"
He called his head native, a stocky Visayan, and
ordered him to start the beaters out, explaining to
his guests that they would take their places in an
hour. The three then strolled through the streets of
the little village Lindsey had built for his laborers and
their families, a double row of neat bamboo huts,
grass roofed, of which he was very proud. Returning, they passed a huge machine rusting under a
rough shed, Lindsey's ill-fated hemp machine, introduced a little too early to an ignorant people.
Lindsey unlocked a trunk and brought out three
high-powered rifles, two of them borrowed, contrary
to the law of a land where firearms must be zealously
protected against falling into hostile hands. He led
the way through the long rows of abaca which drooped
listless fronds in the quivering heat, and into the cool
woods which surrounded his fields. They went on
for a half-hour into deeper jungle, emerging into a
strip of natural clearing from which they could hear
the beaters converging toward them. Lindsey stationed Terry at the left end of the break, Bronner in
the center where the shooting should be best, himself
taking the right end.
As the beaters approached, crashing the under



100


TERRY


brush and shouting lustily, the three stood motionless,
guns ready: the suspense grew tense and the beaters
grew silent as they hurried, unseen, from the line of
fire. A moment of dead silence, then Lindsey heard
to his right a dry twig snap and turning saw a big
boar slip out from the brush and pause, its ugly tusks
foam-flecked. His heavy gun crashed, the boar leaped
convulsively across the clearing, falling at a second
shot. As it dropped he whirled to cover a big buck
which sped across his field of fire: as it fell he heard
the cracking of a lighter weapon to his right and
thought, as he shot again and again, that his guests
were not being disappointed in their sport.
It was fast work while it lasted. Lindsey inspected
with keen satisfaction the bag of two pigs and one
deer that had fallen to his gun: he had missed one
boar and another, which he had wounded, had escaped
down the trail which led to his house. He turned
to see how his friends had fared.
The Major was known as a crack shot but no game
lay before him. Approaching him, surprised, Lindsey
saw that he was absent-mindedly putting his rifle at
safe the while he stared at Terry.
"Major, I'm sorry you had no chances-'" Lindsey
began but the Major interrupted him.
"Chances! Chances     Sus-marie-hosep! Some of
those pigs almost ran up my breeches!"  He was as
nearly excited as Lindsey had ever seen him, and
they had served together in a Kansas regiment.
"Lindsey, I'm sure glad you asked me to comeI've seen something worth seeing. I've seen him
shoot!"




THE PYTHON                    101
He pointed to Terry. His borrowed rifle stood
nearby against a tree and he was busy clipping fresh
ammunition into his pistol magazines. Five wild pigs
lay in front of him near the opposite side of the
clearing. Lindsey looked his unbelief.
"Yes, he did!" asserted the Major. "I watched
him do it-that's why I drew a blank. Five pigs,
five shots,-and after each shot he holstered the gun
till the next pig hove in sight! I've seen good shooting, but such drawing-such certainty"Sus-marie-hosep!" he wound up, lamely.
Terry, having replenished his magazine, clipped it
into the big automatic with a deft snap, and turned
round toward them. Noting their attitude, he colored
boyishly.
"Pretty lucky, wasn't I?" he said.
"Yes," agreed the Major, drily, "you were pretty
lucky!"
The beaters had come up. Lindsey ordered them
to carry the game for distribution among his villagers. The sun was dipping behind the hills as the
three started back the trail through the dense woods,
Lindsey leading the way and searching for signs of
the wounded boar. Every few rods he found a pool
of blood where it had paused in flight.
They entered the deep shadow cast by the spread of
a great banyan tree from whose thick branches a
score of accessory trunks were sent down to seek root
in the soil. Rooting, they grew into smooth, heavy
supports for the wide-spread limbs which towered
above the surrounding forest. Terry paused a moment in the twilight of the tree, studying appre



102


TERRY


ciatively the miniature forest of trunks parented by
the one ancient growth. Suddenly a warning cry
escaped his lips as he saw one of the long dark trunks,
a foot in diameter, loosen from a branch where it
hung suspended high over the Major's head.
" LOOK OUT, MAJOR!
He leaped forward, expecting to find the Major
crushed, but involuntarily halted midway in his stride
as the heavy trunk, landing at the Major's feet
with a slithering thud, writhed a terrible length into
massive folds. No eye could follow the inconceivably
swift contortions that wrapped the Major in a triple
fold.
Two heavy coils prisoned his legs, a third passed
round his back up over his right shoulder to curve to
the trail in front of him and rear again in a length
which terminated in a massive head poised six feet
from the Major's blanched face. Demon-eyed, unwinking, its thin lips bisected the thick-boned jaws in
frightful, moist grimace.
Lindsey, horror-stricken, stood helpless while the
hammer head catapulted at the sickened face of its
victim. The Major's free left arm, raised instinctively
to blot out the sight of the living horror, took the
terrific impact, then dropped to his side, paralyzed.
Still bearing that hideous grin the flat head drew
back for another blow at the exposed face. The
Major, faint with the terror of his helplessness and
the crushing weight of the quivering masses of muscle
about him, would have fallen but for their dread support. His consciousness fast deserting him, fascinated, he watched the monstrous leer as the head drew




THE PYTHON


103


farther back, poised. He felt the agonizing pressure
as the great muscles steeled for the blow, and in the
moment before his senses departed, heard two crashing shots that sounded from behind him. With the
smashing reports the poised head thudded to the
ground, the folds fell from about him and he slid down
among the great quivering coils.
Recovering consciousness, the horror crept back
into his face but receded when he saw Terry standing by him. Still faint and sick he struggled to his
feet, leaning against the trunk of the banyan and
stamping his feet weakly to restore the still numb
legs. Terry helped him hobble over to where the
Bogobos, who had come up at the shots, were grouped
about the dead monster. Lindsey, kneeling to examine the head of the great reptile, struck a match
to point out the jagged wounds that had shattered
the base of the head.
"Cut the spinal cord," he explained quietly. He
was as pale as the Major. "Any other wound, even
fatal,-it's death struggles would have-I hate to
think of it, Major."
At the Major's questioning look he pointed toward Terry: "He shot it. Pistol."
The Major surveyed Terry steadfastly, striving
for appropriate expression of what was in his heart.
Then, "Terry, I am much obliged. If I ever-if
ever you-I'm much obliged!"
It was dark when they reached the house. Later
they heard the triumphant shouts which announced
the arrival in the village of the men bearing the
carcass of the snake, which had haunted the neighbor



104                 TERRY
hood for a generation. The celebration of its passing
lasted far into the night. After dinner Lindsey and
Terry strolled to the village to measure the python,
and Lindsey ordered it skinned immediately.
You may still see the trophy in the Davao Club, its
scaly length stretched along the molding on two sides
of the library, where the Major asked Lindsey to
place it with this legend:
This python attacked Major John Bronner, P.C.,
on the Lindsey Plantation.
Length.............24 feet, 9 inches
Greatest diameter..............14 inches
Major Bronner owes his life to the wonderful
pistol marksmanship of his friend,
Lieut. Richard Terry, P.C.
The ride home through the dewy night stiffened
the Major's sore muscles and strained joints intolerably. Terry called in the Health Officer, fat Doctor
Merchant, who looked him over and pronounced him
uninjured, leaving some vile-smelling liniment. The
Major winced under Matak's too efficient rubbing of
bruised areas.
"Horse dope!" he snorted.
Later, dozing, he waked to see Terry's door close
and open again after a few minutes. Puzzled as on
the preceding night, he fell asleep over the problem.
Governor Mason had dropped the Major at Davao
while he went on to Mati, planning to return for a
short stop at Davao in forty-eight hours, but as they




THE PYTHON


105


finished their leisurely breakfast they heard the whistle of his cutter approaching Davao from the south.
"Wonder what's up," said the Major. "He's
twelve hours ahead of his schedule."
They walked slowly to the dock, the Major still
stiff-legged, arriving just as the launch was lowered
over the side of the trim white boat which lay anchored a half-mile offshore. As the launch neared
shore they saw the Governor standing on the stern
seat.
He stepped up on to the little dock and greeted the
Major, then turned his smile upon Terry, apologizing:
"I planned to spend a day here with you all, but
have been recalled. As usual my departure from
the capitol was the signal for a dato to start a
row!
A group of officials and more prominent natives
had gathered at the pier. He shook hands with each,
calling each by name, then gathered the officials
about him in a brief conference which disclosed his
grasp of conditions in the Gulf. At the end of the
short discussion he drew Terry aside.
"No trouble yet with that gang of roughs-with
Malabanan?"
"No, sir."
The Governor's face bore a look Terry had not seen
in it, an unrelenting determination, a grimness:
"Major Bronner has told you how I want this matter handled?"
"Yes, sir. Wait, let him  make the first move,
then move against them."




106


TERRY


"Exactly! I want to demonstrate for all time
that this province is as unhealthy now for criminals
as during Army days!"
For a moment he studied Terry keenly, then his gaze
traveled over the splendid vista of the Gulf appreciatively, mounting higher and higher till it rested
on Apo's dim crest. A moment and he turned to
Terry again, to find that he, too, was lost in a rapt
contemplation of the Hills.
"Lieutenant, some day... somehow...
"Yes, Governor."
The Major fidgeted uncomfortably in the presence
of the two dreamers. Two short blasts of the cutter's whistle restored the Governor's urban manner.
In a minute he and the Major had said their good-bys
and were bobbing over the little seas toward the
ship.
The group of Americans and natives split up as
they returned toward the town but Terry lingered
at the dock watching the cutter as it got under way
and raced toward the horizon, leaving a white ribbon
of wake on the blue gulf waters. Three large bancas
were approaching the shore, belated fishermen returning with the night's catch: a fleet vinta, bearing Moro
traders, bore toward Samal, its little sail glaring white
in the actinic sunlight: the morning air was hot and
filled with the heavy odors of sea and shore. It was
a fair spot, Davao, productive, peaceful.... He
looked up the coast toward the north where Malababan had settled with his unsavory crew.


He spent the day at the cuartel, correcting all the




THE PYTHON


107


little defects the Major's stiff inspection had uncovered. The Macabebes responded eagerly-they, too,
wanted to be perfect. They felt trouble in the air,
scented impending combat, and Macabebes thrive on
combat. Sergeant Mercado, veteran of seven campaigns in Samar and Cavite, drilled them tirelessly,
his eyes afire with the old fighting glint. And that
night he donned his starchiest uniform, pinned on
his bright service medals, and made the round of
the tiendas, throwing chests at the black-haired girls
behind the counters. Great fighting blood is usually
great loving blood.
Terry ate dinner alone. The house seemed too big
without the Major. Restless, reading failed of its
usual absorption. After a while he took up a letter
the last mail had brought from Deane and reread
it.
DEAR DICK:Your letter telling of transfer to the Moro Province has
just come. I had to study the map to find out where it
is! If it means advancement I am glad-though we had
all hoped that when you left Sorsogon it would be to
come home.
Your letters are so funny, so interesting. You write
such nice things about the natives that I am becoming fond
of them too. But the other day I read an article written
by a cynical woman who has lived in the Islands only a
few months. I read part of it to father, the part which
says that "the Filipinos are a worthless, shiftless, lazy
people; improvident, untrustworthy and immoral!" After
I had read that he thought a moment and then said:




108                  TERRY
"Well, Deane, people are just about the same as that
around here!"
Everything is going about as usual around Crampville.
They are tearing down the old watering trough in the
square-it is a nuisance to automobiles. They had some
trouble over on the South Side last week among the foreigners but Father Jennings smoothed things out. He
told me that he has a harder time keeping them contented
since you left. I learned from him that you used to spend
a good deal of your time among them, that they idolized
you.... Why did you never talk to me about such things,
Dick?
Bruce is earning a great reputation but insists on staying
in Crampville. He has been called to Albany twice during
the month to perform some special operation. He finds
time to run in on us nearly every day.
Susan and Ellis do not change: they are quite the happiest couple we have-though they both do miss you terribly.
You never mention the native girls. Are they attractive,
lovely? Do not let one of them fascinate you. We need
you here, Dick,-Susan and Ellis, Father Jennings, the
foreigners-all of us.
DEANE.
His deft fingers fumbled as he folded the letter and
locked it in the drawer. Vainly smoothing at the
lock of hair which always stuck out from the crown of
his head, he stared vacantly at the lamp shade, oblivious to the entrance of the silent, morose Matak, who
carried the bottle of boiled drinking water into the
bedroom and then went out for the night.
A hoarse ghekko lizard croaked its raucous six-song
from a rafter overhead: a giant bat flapped through




THE PYTHON                       109
an open window, fluttered, crazy-winged, thrice about
the big room and blundered through another window
into the night: the low voweled voices of native passersby floated up from the dark street.
But Terry heard nothing, nor felt the scent-laden
breezes which roused the heat-soaked town to life....He was walking up Main Street again, with
rifle and snowshoes and fox, of a Sunday morning just
as the heavy church doors swung wide to the emerging
congregation..
A strong gust flickered the lamp. He rose, slid shut
the exposed window and returned to his desk. In a
few moments he took pen and paper, and wrote.
DEANE-DEAR:Your letters come to me across the thousands of miles
of land and sea, carried by sooty train and boat, buried in
a dross of mail in prosy canvas sacks: I open them with
the delight one feels when he brushes aside the mat of
damp and frosty withered leaves to find the timid beauty
of arbutus.
You think, perhaps, you might grow fond of these people? I know that you would love this Gulf as I do. The
humid heat of the day oppresses me but little: I love the
sparkling hours of dawn, the cool of the evenings; the
great tangled stretches of green which clothe the slopes from
sea to the edge of the mountains that loom gray in the
distance, like the rim of the world. And I like the courageous planters, toiling that the world may have its hemp:
the young-old wild tribes, emerging from their primitive
mental shallows, a bit bewildered, pathetic.
Yes, I think that you would like it all, too, thoughsometimes-I am not quite sure.
The mountains are not like our Vermont hills: more




110


TERRY


rugged, wilder, more-what shall I say?-unsolved..
Thinking of the home hills I can almost conceive the vast
significance of the word "eternity": but thoughts of these
primeval hills sweeps my mind backward, to the infinity of
creation. Untamed, untraveled, mysterious by day as by
night, they threaten as they beckon.
Nearly every evening, near sundown, I see a pair of wild
pigeons homing toward the crest of Apo. "Limosons," the
Bogobos call them-"leem-o-sahns": the word falls limpid
from their lips, unaccented. They say the limogon never
was heard to sing in the lowlands, and tell a strange legend
that it is an oracle of the Hill People, its song a harbinger
of good or evil tidings.
An old Bogobo woman told me of this one night, in a
little foothill village, when the spell of dusk had unlocked
her lips: and she told, whisperingly, of twice having heard
the Giant Agong of the Hill dwellers, once when she was a
child, again when she was grandmother to nineteen. I
wish you could have been there to watch and to listen: sitting near the fire in front of her hut, surrounded by a
circle of almost naked wildmen who moved, uneasy, she
told quaveringly of how the booming tones had rumbled
down the forested slopes, and of how ill had befallen her
people both times; when she ceased, they stood breathless,
their whole beings strained to catch the dread sound none
but she had ever heard. Yes, she moved me, queerly... I
scarce know why.
I am lonely-a little-at times. But who is not? Yet
I have my work to keep me busy, usually happy. Just now
I am facing less pleasant duty-but it is, I fear, a work
that must be done. It is good to know that one is needed,
as I am here,-just now.
But never a day is born or dies but that I miss you all, as
I love you all... Susan and Ellis, Father Jennings, the
foreigners... all of you.                  DICK.




CHAPTER VIII


THE STRICKEN VILLAGE
A       WEEK later, Terry stood at the window looking down over the blistering plaza. Davao
was torpid under the noonday heat. Three
carabaos grazed undisturbed on the forbidden square:
another of the awkward powerful brutes dawdled up
the dusty road, hauling a decrepit two-wheeled cart
on which a naked-backed, red-pantalooned native
dozed: Padre Velasco, the aged Spanish priest, waved
a weary hand at Terry from his window in the old
adobe convento. As he watched he saw the soldierly
figure of Sergeant Mercado emerge from the cuartel
and hurry toward him.
Entering the room the soldier saluted stiffly and
reported that a patrol had just come in from the
foothills with the information that a mysterious fever
had attacked the Bogobos in the barrio of Dalag, that
a score were stricken and four already dead.
Terry hastened to the quarters of the Health Officer to apprise him of the facts. He found him cursing the heat, sweating profusely, though wearing
nothing but a thin kimono. A very fat man, Doctor
Merchant, inclined to be fussy about little things but
magnificent in big things, and thoroughly imbued with
the idea that his work of protecting the natives against
their own sloth and filth was the only interesting
111




112


TER EY


problem in the universe. Alarmed at Terry's report,
he ordered his horse saddled and rose heavily to
don his field clothes.
Terry expostulated. "Doctor, you ought to wait
till it cools off."
"Lieutenant, disease spreads all the time-it takes
no time off duty-so why should I?"
He came out fuming over a missing button: "Confound it all! I never have-how   do you keep so
immaculate, Terry? You always look as if you were
on your way to a dinner or dance!!"  Wiping the
perspiration from heavy jowl and neck he lumbered
about the room collecting medicine cases, saddle bags,
two big canteens, finally answering Terry's question.
"No, you can't go with me-if I need you I'll send
for you."
Terry followed him downstairs and helped him
mount the ridiculously small pony, then watched the
sweating, cussing, bighearted doctor ride out into
the sun on his errand of mercy. As the tough little
pony bore his heavy burden into the trail and out
of sight in the brush, Terry decided humorously that
Casey was right-bigger ponies were needed.
During the afternoon the Francesca had limped in
and out of port. Among his official mail Terry received a confidential memorandum from Major Bronner that erased the softer lines about his mouth:
Zamboanga, 12/18/191-.
Memo for Lieut. Terry.
Last night a notorious criminal, Ignacio Sakay, passed
through Zamboanga enroute to Davao.




THE STRICKEN VILLAGE 113


Sakay was identified with Malabanan in some of the latter's most vicious undertakings, was convicted of brigandage
and has been but recently released from Bilibid Prison.
Sakay is not a leader but is bold and absolutely relentless. Among the natives he was known as "Malabanan's
stiletto," and was supposed to do all of the killing.
You may look for immediate action from these men:
Malabanan has doubtless been awaiting his arrival.
Destroy this memorandum.
BRONNER.
Terry read the terse communication twice before
lighting it with a match and scattering the charred
remnants over the polished mahogany      floor. He
passed a grim afternoon with the Macabebes on the
target range, where the scorers wagged bull's eye after
bull's eye, for twenty-seven of the Macabebes were
expert riflemen, forty-three were marksmen.
He saw that Matak, serving dinner, was gripped in
one of the smoldering moods that often preyed upon
him. Though his attentions to his master were even
more meticulous than usual, he moved with an air of
somber detachment. Terry had often pondered on the
history of the queer Moro and now he studied him
as he cleared the dishes and lighted the desk lamp.
"Matak," he said.
The Moro came to him, his melancholy eyes fixed
steadfastly upon the master of his choice.
"Matak, you know that I have never asked you
anything about your past life. I am not going to
ask you now, unless there is something in which I
can be of help to you."
Matak faced his master, his brown features Moro



114


TERRY


masked, inscrutable. A moment he searched the concerned countenance, then before Terry understood his
purpose, the tight muscles of his face relaxed and he
slid forward to kneel on one knee and raise Terry's
hand to his lips in the Moros' final homage to an
apo-a self-chosen master. Rising, he exposed a face
stripped of its mask of Oriental imperturbability.
"Master," he said, "I tell you. No other knows.
When I am small boy-twelve years old-my family
live east coast Basilan. Very happy family, master:
father, mother, sister, me; three carabaos we have, a
little house, chickens, a little vinta in which to fish
-everything Moro family want. We hurt nobody,
just work.
"One night, very late," his face darkened, "men
come. They steal carabaos, everything. My father
wake up, go out to see, and they laugh-and kill him.
I-a little boy-see them do it: see them kill my
father-with bolos. Then they kill my mother-the
same man-the same bolo. I see that, too: they say
she too old, and they laugh." He spoke slowly, hesitating before each short sentence, his black eyes dulled
with the terrible memories.
"My sister-she sixteen years old-they take her
away. They take me, too, because I soon be strong boy
to work. My sister-they say she pretty girl!" He
raised his hand in unutterable execration.
"We sail all night, all day. Second night, I hear
my sister scream, see her fighting with same big
Filipino who kill my father and mother. Another
Filipino hold me away, laughing... always I know
that laugh, master!




THE STRICKEN VILLAGE 115


"She Moro girl, he Filipino, so she fight hardshe rather die. She hurt him, so he draw knife, kill
her, and throw her in sea: then other Filipino holding me hit me with bolo and throw me in too."
He whipped off his thin cotton camisa and exposed a deep scar which furrowed his left shoulder.
It had severed the clavicle, and improperly knit, drew
the left arm slightly forward.
"I swim ashore, two miles, to Lassak. Next morning I take boat, find sister, bury her on beach. I,
twelve years old, master."
He paused, a picture of implacable hatred and purpose.
"Master, I see Filipino who kill all three my family. He born with left eye all white. I know him
any time, any place. That nine years ago. Nine
years I no laugh, no sing, no play, no talk with Moro
girls, no marry-just listen-just look; listen for that
laugh, look for big Filipino with left white eye. Nine
years I no tell anybody, just listen, just look. I never
find.
"But now I know I find him, soon. For I know
you help Matak, master."
He had read the distressed white face correctly.
Terry rose, placed his hand upon the Moro 's shoulder
-the scarred shoulder-and looked down into his
now emotionless face:
"Yes, Matak, I will help," he said simply.
Content, the Moro turned silently on his bare heels
and padded out into the kitchen.
Usually Terry strolled the dark streets before going to bed, but to-night a heavy downpour kept him




116


TERRY


indoors.  Outside, the square was loud with the drumfire of the heavy fall on iron roofs, the rush of
water through shallow dirt gutters; inside, the big
house roared, the roof trembled overhead. He paced
the floor, sleepless, worried with thinking of Matak's
terrible story, of the Doctor striving to succor the
stricken village, of Sakay's joining Malabanan.
There was another worry, too. Though there was
nothing in the eternally verdant land in which he
was living to make the fact seem real, the calendar
indicated that Christmas was less than two weeks
distant, and for the first time since the days when
she had first intruded upon his boyish consciousness
as something different, something wondrously dear
and fine and unattainable, he had sent Deane nothing.
He was awakened before daylight by the arrival
of a spent Bogobo runner bearing a note from Doctor
Merchant:
Dear Lieut:Can you come to Dalag for a day? These people are
panic-stricken, won't do a thing I order, won't take treatment, but are trying to exorcise the devils of disease by all
sorts of queer rites.
I hate to ask you to come but your influence among them
is so great that it seems justifiable to ask it.
If you do come, bring your mosquito net-don't fail
to do this. The disease is mosquito-borne, and fatal if
untreated. The temperature runs are terrific-highest I
ever saw.
MERCHANT.
Terry rode out of Davao at seven o'clock, bound




THE STRICKEN VILLAGE 117


for Dalag. Within a mile he overtook Lindsey, who
had spent the night in town. They rode together
several miles to where the trail, soaked with the
night's rain, forked toward Lindsey's plantation: the
sun shone white hot, the earth steamed through its
mat of decayed vegetation.
They drew rein at the fork, dismounted. Lindsey
broke the silence in which they had ridden following
Terry's brief explanation of his mission.
"Terry," he said, "you're too young for all this
worry. "
Terry's face relaxed into a slow grin: "Lindsey,
how old are you?"
"But your work is different-and you are different, Terry."
Terry's bantering grin gave way to a smile of singular sweetness, the queer smile which deepened the
depression at the corner of his mouth.
"Lindsey, I know what you mean, I think....
All my friends —"
He paused, gently discouraging his pony from its
persistent nibbling at his arm. Lindsey waited, hoping he would continue, but Terry looked away, idly
studying the thickly planted hemp fields that extended
from the fork to Lindsey's house, a mile distant.
The still wet leaves flaunted on great stalks fifteen
feet above the wonderfully fertile soil.
"Lindsey, I wonder if you really appreciate what
you are doing in taming a soil that was wild in
jungle ages before Pharaoh's time, and making it
useful to man."
He pointed to the huge plant nearest them; "The




118


TERRY


fibers in those stalks-I can see them, woven into a
rope that may warp a steamer to dock in Tripoli or
Hoboken or Archangel: or fashioned by happy Japanese fingers into braided hats to cover lovely heads
in Picadilly or Valparaiso or Montreal: or woven into
a cord which will fly a kite for some tousle-headed
boy in Michigan or for a slant-eyed urchin on the
banks of the Yang-Tse Kiang: or, somewhere, it may
be looped into ugliest knot by a grim figure standing
on a scaffold-though I hope not!"
Lindsey had listened in curious wonderment to
this conception of his work. He thought it over,
laughed.
"Well, maybe that's what you see, Lieutenant,-but
I see wild pigs rooting up my immature plants, lack
of labor, poor transportation, fluctuations of price,
typhoons undoing a whole year's work-take my word
for it, I see aplenty!"
Terry tightened the girth, tickling the knowing
pony's nose till a sneeze compelled contraction of the
expanded chest. Mounted, he seemed loath to go, and
twisted in the saddle to look down at Lindsey.
"About what you said a moment back-that I was
'different.' All my friends have always been like
that-wanted to look after me, somehow, though I can
look after myself, pretty well. I never quite understood why they felt like that... about me. So,
I know what you meant, Lindsey. And I want you
to know that-that I like it."
Lindsey gripped his outstretched hand, then stood
at the fork watching the slender rider thread through
the maze of the trail out of sight. Mounting, he




THE STRICKEN VILLAGE                   119
started homeward along the edge of the field trying
to interpret the strange appeal this young officer had
exerted over him, this quiet lad whose very competence and cheerfulness he somehow found pathetic.
He involuntarily halted his pony as solution came
to him.
"Why, curl my cowlick!" he exclaimed aloud.
"That's it-he was BORN lonely!"
Terry rode into Dalag at noon and found the doctor
even redder and hotter than usual. The perspiration glistened on his hands and wrists, dripped from
his fat face and neck, and his once-starched clothes
hung limp from his rolypoly frame. Worn with loss
of sleep and fruitless efforts to bring the frightened
Bogobos to reason, he welcomed Terry weariedly to
the little hut that had been sat aside for his use.
Terry took command, so quietly that the doctor
did not realize it. A few brief questions elicited
the measures the doctor wished put into effect, simple curative methods and preventive precautions.
Understanding, Terry started out, but was recalled
by the doctor.
"Lieutenant, did you bring your mosquito net?"
At Terry's affirmative nod he continued: "It's a
good thing you did-the village is swarming with
nightflyers, and every one of them is loaded to the
hilt with plasmodiae!"
The village, a mere scattering of crudest huts along
the river front, seemed deserted, but from nearly every
hut came the low wailings of the sick and the frightened. Noting that the lamentations had ceased a few




120


TERRY


minutes after Terry went out, the doctor stepped to
the door and watched his progress from shack to shack,
saw how the picturesque little savages grouped about
him. They knew him and listened to him confidently,
so that the parboiled doctor was as much disgusted
as pleased with the ease with which Terry secured
the cooperation for which he had begged and stormed
in vain.
Under his direction they cut down all of the plant
life whose upturned leaves or fronds held stagnant,
mosquito-breeding water, climbed tall palms to brush
out the rain water accumulated in the concave depressions where frond joins trunk, even twisted off
the cuplike scarlet blossoms from hibiscus shrubs.
They carried green brush to a series of smudges he
lit to cordon the village against the vicious singing
horde of germ carriers. Best of all, they ceased their
incantations over the sick, unwound the tight cords
they had knotted around the abdomens of the stricken
to prevent the fever from "going further down,"
opened the grass windows that gasping lungs might
obtain decent air, and swallowed the doctor's hitherto
neglected medicines.
There were no chickens in the village, no eggs. The
doctor bemoaned the lack of nourishment for his
sick. So Terry summoned four of the ablest hunters
and disappeared into the woods for an hour, returning with a young buck speared through the lungs
and shot mercifully through the head. In an hour a
big pot was boiling in the middle of the street that
throughout the night the sufferers might receive hot




THE STRICKEN VILLAGE 121


soup made up of venison, yams, eggplant and rice,
all that the village afforded.
Doctor Merchant, watching the transformation,
marveled at the method of persuasion. There was
no attempt at exercise of authority, no raising of
voice, no gestures, only patient explanation, an assumption of mutual friendliness, a sincere and ample sympathy.
Shortly after sundown the doctor, exhausted with
the worry and stress of the hours before Terry came,
distributed his bulk as comfortably as possible on the
bamboo floor, tucked in his mosquito net very carefully, and fell into a heavy sleep, too exhausted to
await Terry's return.
It was as well that the doctor did not await him,
for Terry spent half of the night by a fire kindled
at the base of a big tree in front of the chief's abode.
Seated on a stump near the blaze, surrounded by a
ring of half-nude Bogobos whose timid eyes seldom
wandered from his face, he answered their questions
and erased the last vestiges of the panic into which
the epidemic had precipitated the villagers.
Interrogation at an end, he still stayed on with
them. The flickering blaze lighted the circle of little brown folk, each flare gleaming on an eye here,
glinting there on beaded jacket or brass trinkets with
which both men and women were adorned. The first
mad panic had abated, but Death had stalked through
the settlement six times in as many days, and they
listened superstitiously for the stark Tread through
the woods which hemmed them in. Each whispering




122


TERRY R J


wind that stirred the leaves overhead brought a deeper
silence, each wail from delirious sufferers in nearby
huts tightened the little circle.
The quavering gutturals of a half-blind old woman,
wrinkled and shrivelled with a number of years no
man could estimate, jarred the dumb circle.
"My years are as the scales of a fish. Each year
has brought wisdom. Listen."
It was the invariable preface of a Bogobo legend.
Terry stirred: it was the old woman who had told
him of the Giant Agong.
" This sickness takes not many more of our people.
The white men will stop it. Trust them. These
white men are Bogobo friends. These white men are
strong, wise, honest. White is better blood than
brown blood. Yes. The Hill People knew this."
At the mention of the dread folk the group of
tribesmen moved uneasily. A young hunter nervously stirred the flagging fire into brighter blaze as
the old woman went on:
"Yes. The Hill People knew. Have you forgotten how the Giant Agong rang the night the Spaniards lost their girl-child?
"No. You have not forgotten. The Hill People
took her-they wanted white blood in the veins of
future chiefs. They knew what white blood means
-the Hill People know!"
Curiously thrilled by the simple legend, Terry
moved nearer to the old woman.
"Grandmother, how many years ago was this?"
'"'Years? Years? I know naught of your white
man's years, but this I know-it happened during




THE STRICKEN VILLAGE 123


the rains before the dark-eyed white men gave way
to the blue-eyed white men."
Interpreting this as referring to the departure
of the Spanish troops, he gently pressed her for further details. But she was finished.
It was dawn when the doctor rose. Groaning in the
agony of the fat man who wakes stiff from the discomfort of an unaccustomed hard bed, he sat up, then
forgot his miseries in a new worry as he saw Terry
asleep under the open window, wrapped in his saddle
blanket but without the protection of a mosquito net.
He cursed, stopping midway in his vehement outburst to cock his head at the absurd angle in which
men think their ears function best. As he heard the
ominous drone of the insects his experience had
taught him to fear more than wild beasts, he scrambled to his feet with amazing celerity.
A light sleeper, Terry awakened and lay regarding
him quizzically, enthusiastically dissecting the stream
of invective the doctor poured upon him for sleeping without his net. Suddenly sensing the responsibility the doctor felt in having summoned
him to the village, Terry explained his lack of a
net.
"Doctor, I gave my net to the chief's wife: sheshe is about to become a mother, and she had none."
"Htell's bells! What Bogobo woman isn't about
to become a mother?" he stormed, refusing to concede the justice of the act. " 'She had none'-and
probably didn't use yours!"
He was facing the window, past which the chief,
arrayed in all his half-naked splendor of beads and




124


TERRY


brass, sauntered with an air of confidence quite different from his terror of the past week.
"There goes the chief, Terry, all fancied up like
a bathroom on a German liner! But he has no pants
-why don't you give him yours?    He 'has none'!
You make me —"
He stormed on and on. Terry, still wrapped in his
blanket, sat before him looking up with an absurdly rapt air as of a student at his master's feet.
Merchant stopped to swab the thick perspiration from
his face, laughed at Terry's humbugging pose, and
desisted. Terry slipped on his shoes, buckled on the
leather leggings he had used as a pillow and picking
up his saddlebags went out to clean up at the river.
Finding on his return that the doctor was again
genuinely disturbed over his exposure to the disease,
he sought to divert him. He sneezed violently, and
as the doctor listened with professional interest he
followed it with a series which mounted in volume
and vigor. Merchant eyed him solicitously.
"You've caught a bad cold, Lieutenant."
"Yes."   Terry snuffled and drew his handkerchief.
"It was awfully damp in here last night."
"Damp? How could it be damp in an open shack
this time of year?"
"Well, it was. A regular mist!"  He sneezed explosively, then took a few short turns about the
little hut in search of the cause of his malady.
The doctor watched him, interested. Bending suddenly, Terry held aloft the perspiration-soaked nightshirt which the doctor affected.




THE STRICKEN VILLAGE                   125
"Eureka! " he exclaimed, dramatically, then dodged
the shoe the hoaxed doctor let drive at his head.
After an hour's investigation of conditions in the
village the doctor was convinced that he could now
handle the situation alone and insisted upon Terry's
returning home. His parting injunctions were worried.
"Now Lieutenant, you watch yourself closely for
several days and if you display fever symptoms,
you send for me."
After Terry had ridden down the river bank and
into the long homeward trail, the doctor's overworked
conscience smote him hard:
"Hell's bells! I never thanked him for coming!"




CHAPTER IX


MALABANAN STRIKES
N        EXT morning Terry rose as the first sleepy
cock challenged the pink-streaked day.
Shaving in the dim light, he watched the
plaza merge out of its darkness and fill with the
natives passing listlessly to field or waterfront. A
few short minutes and the day arrived hot and still:
hens sauntered forth to begin their tireless, day-long,
scratching search: bony curs, sleepy after their instinctive vigils through the night, made couches in
the dusty road: across from where Terry stood at
his bedroom window, the four daughters of his Tagalog neighbor sat in a little circle on a sunny bamboo
porch structure, each intently examining another's
loosened hair in a community search for-well, for
whatever might be found.
By nine o'clock he had snapped the company
through a sharp drill and by noon had finished the
weekly inspection. The afternoon passed in preparation of monthly reports scheduled to go on the mailboat expected in that evening. It is the function of
the Constabulary to know everything that transpires:
health conditions, state of crops, appearance of any
strangers, activities of native demagogues, movements of suspicious characters, morale of the people.
126




MALABANAN STRIKES


127


Everything is observed and reported, and summarized
at headquarters to form  the basis for intelligent
handling of a difficult problem.
Of the epidemic he wrote: "A disease identified
as a particularly virulent form of pernicious malaria
appeared last week among the Bogobos in the barrio
of Dalag. The Health Officer is on the scene and
in conference with the undersigned decided that the
use of our troops for quarantine duty was not necessary. It appears that he has the disease under control. 
Under the heading "Recommendations " he set
down: "Request that the old provincial archives
be searched to ascertain if a Spanish family living in
this Gulf during the last months of Spanish occupation suffered the loss, by abduction, of a female infant. An interesting story to this effect has been
communicated to me by Bogobos, who attribute the
crime to the Hill People."
The mailboat limped in early in the afternoon,
waking the torpid town into semblance of interested
activity during the brief duration of its stay. But
before she had disappeared over the horizon native
Davao had relapsed into stupid placidity, and the
Chinos had stored the meager cargoes dropped for
them-print goods, cigarettes, matches, rice, a few
small agongs, and, probably, a little opium. The
lethargy of the tropics during the hot hours is entire
and complete: the angel Gabriel himself will fail of
unanimous native response unless he toots his cheerful summons during the cool hours between dusk to
dawn.




128


TERRY


Terry still sat in the cool orderly room at the
cuartel, energetically clearing his desk of the last
accumulations of the paper work he found a chore,
when the dapper sergeant entered with his mail.
Sorting quickly through the dozen official envelopes
in anxious search for one addressed in the neat hand
that always quickened his pulses, he discovered, miserably, that there was none from her. Fighting off
the discouraged feeling that accompanied lapses in her
correspondence with him, he slowly opened a letter
from Ellis. Ellis' letters, few in number, had always
been cheerful but brief statements of how matters
went on at home, usually business affairs. He put
Ellis' letter in his blouse pocket to read after dinner, then attacked the pile of official mail: he wanted
no unfinished office work to keep him in the morrow,
as he planned another quiet look at Malabanan's
place. When the Sergeant bore in the lighted lamp
Terry ordered him to have the launch ready at daylight.
Night had wrapped the town when he crossed the
plaza to his quarters. Matak, silent as ever but of
more cheerful countenance, set the table. At his second laconic announcement Terry rose and crossed
to the dinner table, and as he seated himself a
white missile was tossed through the open window
by an unseen hand and landed with a thud on the
bare floor. Matak brought it to him, and unwrapping
the paper from about the pebble Terry read the
note. It was from the secreto whom he had planted
near Malabanan's plantation.




MALABANAN STRIKE S


129


Sir:
At eight o'clock last night Malabanan left here with a
newcomer named Sakay and 22 of his "laborers."
From my post I could not see if they were armed.
They have not yet returned. (9 A. M.)
I will follow in banca. They sailed south in a large
lorcha.
Will report further when I return.
"47"
Leaving his unfinished dinner, he paced the floor.
The midnight departure of Malabanan with his chief
lieutenant and a majority of his followers might mark
the beginning of outlawry, or it might be a legitimate
excursion into the deepsea fisheries. Yet the secreto
had said nothing of nets, and a party of twenty-four
men would be in each others' way. Terry hastened
over to the cuartel, checked up the patrol chart, then
called the Sergeant, who, verified the position and
route of each of the two-man patrols who were covering the countryside. Satisfied that his men would discover and report the landing of any strangers within a
few hours after they touched soil, Terry returned to
the house.
He sat on the wide ledge of the window, thinking.
The night seemed unusually warm despite the stiffening breeze which blew off the Gulf; he opened the
collar of his blouse.... Where was Malabananwhat was he doing? He saw a man's form outlined
against the bright Club window and answered the
arm waved at him: it looked like Lindsey, he thought.. "Give 'em plenty of rope and if they make a




130.TERRY


break-Smash 'em!"    He shivered at the thought of
sighting a gun against a fellow man, and again in
sudden rush of memory of the night in Zamboanga.... He saw Lindsey appear again at the Club window to peer in his direction, then turn abruptly.
In a moment he saw him leave the Club and cross
the plaza, hatless.... Deane-why had no letter
come-he had expected one, wanted one....
He slid off the window ledge as Lindsey came in,
sincere and direct as usual.
"Terry," he began, "I saw you sitting here alone
and came over to ask you to join us at the Club."
"I can't, Lindsey."
Lindsey studied the unusually pallid skin: "Why
not?" he demanded. "You're working too hard,
Terry, and worrying too hard. Let's forget it all for
an hour or two!"
"I'm much obliged, Lindsey, but I can't come tonight."
"The fellows asked me to get you, Terry. They
think it is queer you come so seldom."
Understanding something of Terry's weariness of
spirit he strove hard to persuade him to spend the
evening in the pleasant Club, but was unsuccessful.
Desisting, he talked a few minutes with Terry and
then left, a little embarrassed, wholly disappointed.
Alone again, Terry slumped into a big cane chair
drawn up by the table. His cheeks burned; he
thought, vaguely, that he must have shaved too closely.
Loosening his stiffly starched blouse, he crackled the
letter from Ellis, opened it without much interest:
then his whole being tensed.




MALABANAN STRIKE S


11


Crampville, Nov. 23, 191-.
DEAR DICK:
Everything lovely here-and things are going to pick
up with you when you read this!
Yesterday Deane's father came in the bank and asked to
see me confidentially. Thinking he had come on bank business I took him into my private office. Well, he just sat
there facing me for several minutes, not knowing how to
begin. You would have thought he had been robbing
a train or something, he looked so absurdly guilty!
I just sat there watching him, taking a most unchristian
joy in his trouble, whatever it was: I have had it in for
him ever since-since you know what. I liked the way his
Adam's apple chased up and down his throat.
Finally he swallowed hard and began: "Ellis, I came
over to-to ask you to-to send over that fox skin that
Terry gave Deane last Christmas."
Just like that! It sure was a pill for the old boy to
swallow but he went the whole hog like the old Puritan
he is. Once started he kept going, though still phased.
Said that he was glad that you had found something worth
doing and were doing it well, that he took a lot of interest in your goings-on-as he called it-and that Deane always read your letters aloud. And the last thing he said
before he went out was that he hoped you would soon
get spunk enough to write her some letters she "wouldn't
dast read out loud!"
He said THAT about my brother-in-law! Great leaping frogs! What is the matter with you?
Get busy!.'Write-and make 'em sizzle!
ELLIS.
P.S.-I forgot to say that I am sure she made him come
to see me. Also that Sue took the skin over last night.
And also that Bruce is more than professionally interested
in the nurse he imported from Albany to look after his




132


TERRY


office. It has been some time since he hung around Hunter's-and as to why, I do not know, but I sure am some
little guesser!
Terry had never questioned the decision he thought
she had made that Christmas eve in returning the fox
skin, had thought it hers, and final. As the burden
of a year fell from him he sat quietly, smoothing at
his stubborn crown lock, the wistful twist of mouth
ironed out by a faint smile. He bent to read the
letter again but after a few lines the words were
blurred out by a salty rush to his steady gray eyes.
Rising, he went into his bedroom and closed the door
quietly behind him, emerging in a few minutes. Perfect peace lay in his eyes and they shone with the
light that will never die in this world as long as men
live, and women.
Two days to Christmas, he thought, and he had sent
her no remembrance. He stood at the window, tasting the cool thickness of the evening, breathing the
fragrance of ylang-ylang: leaf and frond, stirred by
the monsoon, purred in gentle contact. In the starlight the old stone church outlined its old-world, oldtime architecture in friendly shadows which veiled
the pitiful scars and age-stains: the bamboo shacks
across the square-wry, flimsy, smutted by a hotly
jealous sun-had yielded to the magic of the night to
become little golden houses in which the fairies abode
till the morning stars should fade.
A present for her... he pondered long, the while
he stifled his desire to go outside and shout the joy
that tugged at his restraint. Suddenly he started,




MALABANAN STRIKES


133


tightened as the idea fastened upon him, then fairly
ran to his desk. A hurried search for cable blanks
and he wrote in desperate haste that consumed four
misused forms before he accomplished an intelligible
message:
Miss Deane Hunter, Crampville, Vermont.
Christmas greetings from palmed coast to snowy shore.
Please cable will you accept so humble a Christmas offering as an equal share in the future of one
RICHARD TERRY.
Buttoning his blouse as he ran, he raced down out
of the house and over to his orderly room, where
he typed the message and sent it out by a soldier. The
dozen Macabebes lounging in the cuartel, who had
sprung to attention when he passed, stared at him
and then at each other-this joyous, whistling boy
was new to them! He crossed the dark plaza: natives, looking out of raised windows, wondered who
that Americano was who walked in and out of the
shadows of the great acacias, singing:
When in thy dreaming
Moons like these shall shine again:
Being natives they did not understand the English
words, but being natives and instinctively attuned to
the most ancient of emotions that throbbed in the
low baritone, they listened silently and stared out into
the night long after the singer had passed.
He reached the house, hesitated. Lindsey had said
that the fellows wanted him to come over to the Club




134


T ERiRY....he had neglected opportunities to be with these
good friends. He sailed his cap up through an open
window and crossing a corner of the square went up
into the gayly lighted building.
That night at the Club became a sort of tradition
in the Gulf. They still tell, wonderingly, of how he
entered-a laughing, mischievous, fun-loving boy, and
of how the crowd welcomed this new Terry that none
of them had ever known before. They talk, still,
of his deviltries, the clean jests and keen wit he
whetted-always at his own expense, and as rough old
Burns put it the next morning when they talked it
over: "And he niver took a drink and he niver
cussed once, I'll be -   if he did!"  As the story of
Terry's night at Club spread over the Gulf all of the
planters found excuses to bring themn into town afternoons in the hope of being present when he came again.
They rode in by pony or launch every night for two
weeks, and then they ceased coming.
For two hours he held them in the spell of his infectious deviltries. Irrepressibly gay, impish, it
seemed as if he vented all of the stored up boyishness
in him, spilled it in one heaping measure. Story followed story, in quickly shifting brogues that rocked
the building with the sidesore laughter of the transported audience; they followed him through a seemingly inexhaustible series of anecdote, through a dozen
ridiculous parodies he sang to a one-handed accompaniment chorded on the battered piano the while he
pantomimed with free hand and roguish face.
"Why," whispered the astonished Cochran, "the
-the-son of a gun!"




MALABANAN STRIK E S


135


The uproar stilled suddenly as, seated at the old
piano, he forgot them for a moment, saw a vision
on the white wall that was not visible to the others.
A few deep chords from knowing fingers, then his
low voice, rich with the depth of his happiness:
Love, to share again those winged scented days,
Those starry skies:
To see once more your joyous face,
Your tender eyes...
The song, or something in the deep voice, pulled
at the heart-strings of those lonely men, who, womenless, never discussed women. Burns sniffled, then
glared belligerently at the others.
Cochran whispered to Lindsey: "Just what is
there about-about that boy?    Is it because he's so
pale?"
"Yes, that's it-you poor fish! But it's about time
you quit pinching my arm-it's getting numb!"
Flushing slightly in realization of his lapse, Terry
had sprung astraddle the corner of the billiard table,
where, absurdly solemn, he declaimed tragically, combing the classics for sepulchral passages, plunging the
intent listeners into deepest melancholy but concluding with a droll extemporization that swept them
from verge of tears to convulsed mirth.
Lindsey, flinging a laughter-helpless arm across a
call-bell, rang an inadvertent summons to the steward
that cost him the price of the drinks and gave Terry a
breathing spell. He sat astride the billiard table under the acetylene lights, vainly trying to smooth down
his scalplock, his eyes dancing in eager enjoyment of




136


TERRY


the hour and of the friends who crowded around him
in affectionate amazement, laughing and shouting at
each other and at him.
Cochran's voice rose above the clamor of the room
in a raucous whoop. They all turned toward where
he stood near the bulletin board reading a message he
had just torn down.
He waved the sheet joyously: "I saw the steward
tacking it up a minute ago-it just arrived-from
Casey. He couldn't wait to tell us-the long awaited
day has come for Casey!"
He bent with laughter, then straightened and sobered to read it aloud.
",Casey talks like the Congressional Record but he
sure minces his written words. Listen.
Davao Club, Davao.
Horray! American mare had a filly colt last night. Also
sixteen pigs by Berkshire boar.          CASEY.
A roar of merriment greeted the phraseology in
which Casey had hurriedly couched the double event
of his day of days. The terse-too terse-message
passed from hand to hand till it reached Terry. He
studied it, his head cocked to one side like a puppy's
and with something of a puppy's quizzical expression.
A moment and he slid slowly from the billiard table
and crossed to the corner of the room where a typewriter had been placed for the convenience of club
members.
They watched him, glancing uncertainly at each
other, as he inserted a sheet of paper, spelled out a




MALABANAN STRIKES


137


few hesitating words, then jerked it out, crumpled
it in his hand.  Slipping in a fresh sheet he started
slowly, pausing, rapt, after each few works. As line
followed line the room became quiet save for the click
of the machine, the planters eyeing each other, waiting impatiently for disclosure of the new deviltry his
whole attitude betokened. Pausing after each few
lines to seek inspiration at the roots of his thick
tumbled hair, he wrote for about fifteen minutes.
Then, tearing out the sheet, he mounted the chair
and with a face owlish in its affectation of heavy
wisdom, he thrust his hand in his blouse in classic
barnstorming attitude and read his creation.
"CASEY"
The palm-fringed gulf of fair DavaoThe garden-spot of MindanaoHas been the Theater where Surprise
Has pried apart our mouth and eyes.
But bounteous Nature, in her last,
Has all her former deeds surpassed!
What now are Burbank's grafting deeds
Marconi's stunts, whose genius speeds
A message on a wireless track
And makes of space a jumping-jack?
Where now does Edison hold sway?
Or radium's finder, Pierre Curie?
Does not this deed alone suffice
To render all that men or mice
Have wrought since days of Tubal Cain
Infinitesimal, and vain?




138                  TERRY
No man before has seen a dam
Provide the rudiments for a ham.
And not content with razor-backs
Produce a quota for the tracks.
It seems like thistles yielding figsA blooded mare with sixteen pigs!
And Truth receives a serious jolt
To find the seventeenth a colt!
Can anything on earth compare
With this performance of a mare?
But hold! For while I eulogize,
There is another claims a prize
And puts to shame all gone before;
I mean this humble Yankee boar!
What lowly hog did yet aspire
To ribboned fame as race-track sire 
Consult the annals of all time,
Great deeds extolled in prose and rhyme,
Delve deep in Clio's treasured store,
Exhaust encyclopedic loreYou will not find in one edition
A hint of such high pig-ambition!
Had he but lived in days gone by
When Richard raised his voice on high
And offered Kingdom for a Horse,
To him he might have had recourse...
Imagine bristly Berkshire swine
Upon the throne of Coeur de Lion!!
But, while we give our meed of praise
To those who would these isles upraise,




MALABANAN STRIKES


139


Forget not him who planned all thatFor it was Casey at the bat!
Forget not him whose Celtic head
Outdid, when all is done or said,
That classic stunt-the herculean
Minerva sprung from Jovian bean!
Where else but in the Philippines
Amid these sunny tropic scenes
That lull the senses into rest,
Could come this genius of the West?
For, not content with colt and swine,
He must produce domestic kineTo heap the brimming measure full
He perpetrates an Irish Bull!
Finished, he still stood on the chair, frankly happy
in the uproarious response to his effort to amuse them.
The clamor subsided in a sudden and almost incredulous appreciation of his swift composing: and in the
momentary silence during which they gazed at the
happy, laughing boy, a pair of heavy shod feet sounded
on the bare stairway-loud, hurried.
All eyes shifted from where Terry stood on the
chair to the stern visaged Macabebe sergeant who had
stopped in the open doorway. He hesitated a moment, then urgency overbore his instinct against violation of the white man's domain, and he stepped toward his chief.
Terry met him in the center of the room. The
Macabebe saluted, then reported in a savage grating voice that carried clear to every startled ear.




140                TERRY
"Sir, Patrol Number Seven reports that ladrones
raided Ledesma's plantation at one o'clock last night:
killed one servant, stole all of Ledesma 's carabaos and
money, and stole his daughter. "
Malabanan had dared! The ladrones had struck!




CHAPTER X


MALABANAN
TE      ERRY'S pace across the plaza taxed Mercado's shorter legs. He was surprised that
Malabanan's move came almost as a relief
after the weeks of anxious waiting. Scoffing the Constabulary, they had sought to test the strength of the
new government..."if they make a break-Smash
'em!   He whirled, taut, as they reached his quarters,
and the battle-loving veteran thrilled with delight
as he caught the hard ring of voice.
"Sergeant, I'll be ready in ten minutes-you will
go with me to Ledesma's plantation-have the ponies
saddled. Double every patrol along the coast. Send
the launch out at once to scour the gulf for information about a fifty-foot lorcha-add four soldiers to
the regular crew: if they sight or learn of this lorcha
they are to return at once and report the factsthey are not to engage. Retain in the post twenty
of your very best men, under full field equipment
ready to move instantly. Issue extra ammunition. 
Understand?"
"Yes, sir!"  He about-faced and hurried on his
mission, eager, joyful. This was the life!
Terry ran upstairs, turned up the light, ripped off
his white clothes and slipped into riding clothes and
flannel shirt. As he buckled on his belt and hooked
141




142


TEERRY


in canteen and holster, he heard the Sergeant galloping down the street with his led horse. A swift inspection of the mechanism of his big automatic, four
extra clips added to the belt, and he'ran downstairs
as the Macabebe drew up.
Reaching the beach they turned south, riding fast
through the chill darkness, Mercado keeping his pony
a length behind Terry's nervous gray. They had
covered several miles before the sun rose from behind
Samal, gray-pinked sky and sea for a brief bewitching moment, then swept the low hanging mists from
gulf and mountain, and smote, full-powered, upon the
sandy shore down which they rode. The tireless ponies-crooked of leg but splendid of head and eye in
true indications of their heritage of coarse Chinese
and fine Arabian bloods —toiled steadily over the hightide beach, sinking coronet deep in the soaked sand,
their footprints disappearing almost as they lifted
hoofs. Courageous, the little animals scrambled over
the coral formations that blocked their path, picked
their way, delicately, through sour mangrove swamps:
once, unsaddled, they swam a wide tide-deepened creek
that the riders crossed, bridle reins in hand, in a
small dugout which they found on the bank.
Their sharp shadows had shortened a third when
they swung up from the beach and trotted down the
unkempt street of Sabaga. A chorus of howls, set up
by bony, slinking curs of the type that infest all
native villages, announced their presence but there
was no sign of life in any of the shambling bamboo
houses. The village seemed deserted.
They pulled up, the Sergeant pointing significantly




MALABANAN A


143


at the carabaos tied up under the high perched huts.
Terry understood: fear of the ladrones had paralyzed
the natives. As he studied the closed windows and
doors, sensed the terror of these defenseless, harmless
people, a cold hatred of the spoilers narrowed his
steel-gray eyes. They were about to press on when
the quiet of the town was suddenly broken by a cry
sounded from a house behind them:
"El Solitario! El Constabulario!"
The exultant shout was taken up by other voices
as windows were cautiously raised: in a moment the
doors were thrown wide and a crowd of natives
swarmed about the two riders. The men shrill-voiced,
women and children hysterical, they crowded around
the pair in a confidence that was pitiful.
Frightened beyond a white man's conception by
the midnight visitation of ladrones within a halfmile of their village, cowed, witless, they were reassured merely by the uniforms the two riders wore
-the red-piped uniform of the small, scattered force
of five thousand Filipinos, who, ably officered, highly
trained, intrepid, have never tasted defeat: have wiped
out every murderous band that raised treacherous
hand and then, outlawry scotched, have turned the
power of their discipline against the scourges of diseases, floods, cattle plagues, typhoons. Unsung, unwept, they have carried on, their motto Service and
their goal Success.
Terry, patient, reassuring, lingered till he had
overcome their immediate fears, left them  content
with their faith in the protection he promised them.
Hurrying on, Terry and his Sergeant shortly came




144


TERR Y


to Ledesma's well kept plantation, and Terry turned
his pony over to the Sergeant and approached the big
bamboo house.
Ledesma, gray-haired, distinguished looking, bearing his grief with Tagalog stoicism, greeted him with
the finished courtesy of the Spanish tradition and
led him up the precarious slatted steps into the house.
It was a house of desolation.
The mother lay moaning wretchedly upon the cane
bottom of the carved mahogany bed which, with four
chairs, a round table and a talking machine made up
the furniture of the main room. Ledesma's son, a
lad of eight, sat big-eyed and solemn near an open
window, not fully understanding the blow that had
fallen but vaguely frightened by his mother's lamentations.
The Tagalog, dignified in his suffering, answered
Terry's brief interrogations intelligently but as he
had been out on the gulf with his fishermen during
the raid he had little to offer. Terry turned to the
sobbing mother and in a few minutes she had quieted
sufficiently to tell her story. He grew paler and
grimmer as she dramatized the terror of the midnight entrance of the ominous shadows, the noiseless
gliding of bare feet, the vicious whispered threats, the
cries of the girl as they bore her away into the night
and the long wait for Ledesma's return. Finishing
her story, she sank back upon the great bed, moaning and muttering incoherently.
Ledesma elaborated her story with details she had
told him. She had recognized neither shadowed forms
nor whispering voices of any of the four who had




MALABANANA, AN ~


145


entered the house while the others herded the stolen
carabaos toward the waterfront. One of them had
warned her that this was what would happen to all
of the natives who made too good friends with the
Americanos: and the biggest of the four had bent
over her to whisper in the dark: "And the pale
Constabulario won't be able to help you with his
celebrated pistol-soon we will visit him!"
Terry soon realized that he was wasting valuable
time here-and time was the big factor. He conferred with Mercado, who had been questioning the
scared laborers, but equally without result: no one
could identify any of the band, there was no evidence
that would lead to Malabanan's conviction, though all
were certain that the biggest figure had been his.
Bidding Ledesma a hurried adieu he rode away.
Time was pressing... Ledesma's daughter must be
rescued... soon. He followed the trail of the stolen
carabaos, the renewed lamentations of the distracted
mother ringing in his ears.
Fifteen minutes along the plain trail torn through
the brush by the driven carabaos brought them out
on the beach. There the trail ended: it was for this
that Malabanan had brought the big lorcha that the
secreto had mentioned. A moment of thought and he
swung northward toward Davao, again following the
glistening beach. At noon, and low tide, they forded
the creek and swung up off the beach to breathe the
sweating ponies in the deep shade of a mango tree that
spread high above the surrounding brush. Dismounting, they stood as in a huge green bowl: its bottom
the smooth waters of the gulf, iridescent under a




146


TERRY


zenith sun and framed as far as the eye could reach
with a slant of parched beach; the sides of the vast
concavity were formed by the verdant mat of jungled
slopes that rose with ever increasing abruptness to the
far, somber-edged mountains.
The doughty Macabebe gave not a glance at the
great panorama, busying himself in refolding the
reeking saddle blankets and tightening girths, then
lighted a casual cigarette. Terry, impatient of the
necessary halt, paced the shadowed space restlessly
after his first appreciation of the sun-drenched Gulf.
He turned to the Macabebe with the first words they
had passed since leaving Ledesma.
"Sergant, what is your opinion? Was it Malabanan?''
Mercado looked up quickly, pleased with this mark
of confidence from his uncommunicative chief. He
was positive.
"Yes, sir. Malabanan."
"Of course-it could be no other. But-what
would you do if you were in my place-we have no
legal proof."
"I would take a platoon of our best men, sir, and
visit his hacienda-and then there would be no Malabanan, sir-unless dead men live!"
"But the courts, Sergeant: we could not convict
him on the evidence we have. And what you suggest would be mere murder."
"Courts, sir? Malabaana  will never face a court
-I know that, sir. I FEEL that, sir!"
Terry studied the hard face of the little fighting




MALABANAN


147


man: "Sergeant, you don't seem to fear man or
devil."
Mercado's white teeth flashed as he shrugged
pleased denial of claim to such courage, then his roving gaze focussed upon a distant object and the confident expression altered swiftly to uneasiness, awe,
superstitious terror. Terry, startled at the transformation, followed the direction of his dread stare
and saw that his eyes were fixed upon the distant,
mist-wreathed crest of Apo. He understood. Even
this sturdy little soldier cowered before the obscure
menace of the hidden Hill People. Terry resented,
vaguely, that others did not respond to the spell of
the Hills as he did.
The five minutes had freshened the wonderful little steeds, so they mounted and pushed on through
the heat with eyes half shut against the glare of
sand and water. At four o'clock they pulled up in
front of Terry's quarters.
A note from the secreto lay on his table. He
opened it and read that Malabanan had not returned,
that the place was deserted. He had anticipated
this, knowing that the band would now operate from
some secret rendezvous in the maze of the forests.
His problem now was to locate their meeting place:
his patrols must search them out. Information would
be passed quickly to them by the inhabitants of
the gulf-every planter, laborer, trader and native
now knew that the ladrones were rampant: and now
the Bogobos would be most valuable to him, as in
their wanderings they covered every inch of the




148


TERR Y


woods to the edge of the Hill Country, and news of
strangers would be brought to him by swift Bogobo
runners.
A quick shower to rid himself of the intolerable
stickiness of the long hot ride, a change to fresh
shirt and breeches, and he hastened to the cuartel.
Two patrols had come in during the afternoon, reporting no intelligence of the bandits but bearing
tidings of an aroused American and frightened native population. The launch returned an hour later
after a fruitless search of the west coast for signs of
the lorcha. He manned it with fresh crew and detail
and hurried it out to cover every inch of the east
coast.
He ordered out two additional patrols to help cover
the back country; detached four of the twenty men
whom he had retained for pursuit and sent them to
guard the heedless doctor who labored with his sick
at Dalag. The four warriors marched off cursing picturesquely at the luck which took them away from the
combat group.
An air of expectancy hung over the cuartel. Terry,
grave, smoothly efficient, sat in the orderly room
studying maps and keeping the Sergeant and the
clerk busy as he wove a net of patrols of gulf and
coast and foothills which would cover every inch
of terrain within the night. In the big squad room
the fierce little Macabebes joked with each other as
they repolished stainless rifles and repacked field
equipment under a zealous corporal's eye. Outside,
a knot of frightened natives occluded each window
facing the plaza, peering in at the laughing soldiers,




MALA. ~.BANAN


149


dully wondering at the makeup of these men who
grinned at the prospect of facing the dread ladrones.
Every loose string tightened, every loophole closed,
Terry left the cuartel and crossed the plaza toward his
quarters. Preoccupied, he noted that for once all of
the phonographs were silenced, the plaza deserted;
and already the town's doors and windows were
closed against the coming night. The impact of Malabanan's first blow, struck thirty miles south, had
been felt in native Davao. His face hardened.
He strove hard, under Matak's urgings, to do justice to the perfect dinner. But a dull headache had
fastened across his forehead, a symptom he attributed
to his long ride over the scorching beach and to loss
of sleep.
He had spread his net, the quarry could not escape
capture, he had but to wait as patiently as possible
for information as to their whereabouts: some time
during the night word must come from launch or patrol, from planter or Bogobo.
Another thought had pressed all day-the answer
to his cable. He sent Matak to the postoffice, hopeful, nervous. But nothing had come. Rising, he
found the room   stifling, and he reached for his
hat to go out. Matak noticed that he had forgotten
his sidearm and delayed him long enough to lift it off
the wallhook and fasten the belt about his waist.
The sun had set. As he! walked aimlessly across
the town he noticed that all of the little stores, whose
main trade came during the evening hours, were
boarded tight. He wandered down to the little dock
and out to its end, looking over the rippled waters




150


TERRY


with eyes that ached strangely. The light faded
swiftly, taking with it the pall of oppressive humidity
and freeing the Gulf to the coolness of approaching
night. None of the fishing craft which usually dotted
the gulf at this hour had ventured out. Malabanan
had indeed made himself felt.
Terry stood near an upended pile, numb with disappointment over the expected cablegram. The dusk
yielded in the distance to a darkness which crept
toward him over the ever diminishing circle of
water.
Suddenly his dulled faculties registered an insistent warning of danger, he caught the slight creaking
of a board behind him. Aroused, he whirled to face
two figures which had halted ten feet from him in
attitudes expressive of the stealth of their approach.
In the dusk he distinguished two unusually large
natives dressed in coarse unstarched crash, and wearing shoes. Each carried a bolo thrust in braided hemp
belts.
For a tense moment they maintained the pose in
which he had surprised them, then the shorter of
the two, who was a pace in front, took a slow step
backward, uneasy in being the closer to the
young American whose eyes drilled him through the
gloom.
Terry, idly fingering his pistol belt with his left
hand, shifted his gaze to the larger of the pair, then
unconsciously took a step forward to better see that
queer face. In the shock of surprise he stopped short
and his right arm jerked back into a curious position
that brought the hand below and behind his holster.




MALABANAN


151


The left eye of the big Tagalog glittered white in the
night!
His impetuous, fearless step toward the pair had
broken the spell which held them motionless. The
white-eyed native hesitated, glanced uneasily at
Terry's holster, then spoke in brief gutturals to his
companion. Lifting his hat in salutation he bade
Terry a suave "Buenas Noches, Senor," and turning,
walked off the dock, his consort close behind him.
Through the soft darkness Terry saw them mount
two ponies which were tethered to a tree near the
end of the wharf, and heard the shrill, mocking laugh
aimed back at him by the smaller of the two as they
galloped away into the night.
As he made his way rapidly across the poorly
lighted town he gave no thought to the fact that
the pair had evidently meant him harm, speculating
upon the peculiar birthmark in the eye of the larger
Tagalog and wondering if he could be the man for
whom Matak had sought so many years.
He found Matak sitting crosslegged upon the floor
fastening brass buttons into some uniforms which
had just returned from the lavendera. Terry stopped
before him:
"Matak, I want to thank you for reminding me of
my gun. As it happened, it didn't do any harm."
Stepping to the window he blew a blast upon his
whistle, an unusual summons that brought Mercado
running across the plaza in most unsoldierly fashion.
Entering, he cracked his heels in salute, his eye agleam
with hope that the break had come. Terry dismissed
Matak from the room before addressing him.




152


TEiER Y


"Sergeant, do you know anybody in this Gulf who
has an albino left eye-an eye that is all white but
the pupil?"
"No, sir."
"Who might know?"
"The Chino Lan Yek, sir. He knows everybodyeverybody owes him money, sir!"
"Fetch him here."
In a few minutes Lan Yek stood before Terry, his
Mongolian imperturbability shaken by this night summons from an officer of the law. With the natives'
love of ragging a Chinamen, Mercado had been very
stern and mysterious concerning his mission-and
Lan Yek knew a thing or two about opium smuggling
that bothered him as he faced the American.
Terry repeated his inquiry regarding the identity
of the white-eyed native, and Lan Yek's response was
startlingly illuminating.
"Yes, me know him. Me know white-eyed fellah.
His name Malabanan!"
Malabanan! This had been the "visit" they had
told Ledesma's wife they would pay Terry.
"Lan Yek, when did you see him last?"
"To-night he come, buy cigalet, no pay-talk 'Melican talk-tell me 'Go to Hell.' "
Terry gestured his dismissal and the nervous Celestial scurried away, relieved that the interrogation
had not been intimate.
Terry briefly recounted to Mercado what had occurred on the dock, ordered him to send out a patrol at
once to circle the town at a distance of five miles to
discover if possible upon what trail the pair had




MALABANAN


153


ridden out, emphasizing that the patrol was to return
and report to him, regardless of the hour of arrival.
"And hold the men in instant readiness. I may
need them at any moment during the night."
There was at least one supremely happy man in
the Gulf that night, for the Sergeant's joy was a living thing as he departed to put the orders into effect.
A moment later Terry heard the kitchen door open
slowly, and looking up he beheld the mottled face
and burning eyes of the Moro. It was manifest that
Matak had overheard Lan Yek. He stood in the
doorway battling for his voice.
"Master," he said huskily, "I knew you would help
me find him."
Gratitude suffused his face, then receded before the
tide of Mohammedan fanaticism and fury which
welled up from his bitter heart. Stepping backward,
he kept his eyes fastened upon Terry till he had
passed through the door into the kitchen.
Terry was deeply disturbed by this unforeseen turn
of events. He had decided against informing Matak
until he had lodged Malabanan safely behind prison
walls, then to confront him with the Moro and if
he proved to be Matak's long sought enemy, he
would add the charge of triple murder against the
desperado. The day of private vengeance must pass
in Mindanao-vengeful killings were murder, punishable as murder.
He called to Matak, then again, but there was no
answer. He hurried into the kitchen, into Matak's
room, then down into the double stable back of the
house. But Matak was gone, and so was Terry's




154


TERRY


spare pony. Realizing the futility of searching for
him in the night, he composed himself as best he
could. It added another phase to the exigencyeverything now rested with the patrols who were tirelessly combing the Gulf to discover the new rendezvous.
He strove for patience, but waiting is hard. He
picked up a volume of poems, discarded it impatiently for a magazine, threw this back on the table
and withdrew from the glare of the lamp which added
to his insistent headache. Looking out on the dark
town he saw that even the Club was unlighted, the first
time since his arrival in Davao. His jaw tightened as
he pictured the isolated planters sitting through the
night, rifles on knees, listening for hostile movements
in the jungle surrounding their hardwon acres.
Drawing up a big cane chair he sat in the shadow
looking out into the dark. The sky was like a vast
black colander perforated haphazardly with a myriad
brilliant openings which paled and glowed. The crescent of the young moon hung over the faintly outlined
mountains: he watched it slant slowly down till its
lower point was absorbed in the heavy mist which
blanketed Apo.
Malabanan loose with his ravaging band... Matak, alone, searching for him in the night... Ledesma's daughter, that gentle, big-eyed girl, at the mercy
of such beasts... would the patrols never return?
He rose and paced the floor, frantic with the enforced
inaction. Schooling himself to a semblance of patience, he sat through another long hour.
Why, he thought dully, should he have had the




MALABANANBa r ~~ 


155


presumption to expect an answer to his cable... she
was too kind to cable "no"... her letter of explanation would be a month in coming.... He watched
as the mists around Apo gathered, thickened, darkened: the banks were flashlighted into white billows,
then the soft rumble of thunder rolled down the
slopes, a vanguard of the rainstorm which rustled the
forest tops as it swept down nearer, louder, to expire as it touched the edge of the town: a few drops
splashed heavily on the tin roof of the silent house,
then the stars shone more brilliantly than before and
Apo loomed sharp against a cleared sky.
It was a long night. At last he rose wearily and
seated himself at his desk, shading his dulled eyes.
A moment of indecision, and he wrote to his sister.
Dear Sue-sister:
Sometimes your sweet letters breathe the fear that harm
might befall me. You need not worry.
I live in a lovely land, a land of sunny days and balmy
nights, a land of courteous, friendly folk.
I live in a land where pneumonia is unknown, or sunstroke: cholera perished in boiling water, and behind our
mosquito nets we laugh at malaria.
Should other dangers threaten, I have my company of
loyal Macabebes: laughing fighters, stern lovers, they
guard me while I sleep. They like me, I think.
Nothing but Old Age can befall me here; and I think the
Fountain of Youth lies not where old Ponce searchedbut here, on Apo's towering crest. I am going there to
search... some day... before I am too old.
I have but one fear: that you and the others whom I
love may some day cease to



156


TERRY


His head ached intolerably. He dropped his pen
in sudden listlessness, crossed aimlessly to the window.
Dawn wavered over Samal. The plaza was dark save
for the lights which blazed in the cuartel to show
that the Macabebes, too, had kept the long vigil.
Suddenly he saw four fagged little Macabebes
emerge from the shadowed street and enter the path
of light which streamed from the wide cuartel door.
Shoulders drooping under heavy packs after the long
night's hike, they staggered into the building.
A moment, and a fiercely glad yell rose from the
barracks, and the Sergeant bounded out of the doorway to speed toward Terry's house. Terry straightened his relaxed muscles as the Sergeant burst into
the room.
A patrol had succeeded! They had learned from
Bogobos that during the afternoon a number of unknown armed natives had gathered in the three deserted shacks near Sears' ford. Malabanan and
Sakay were riding westward toward Sears' plantation.
On the way in the patrol had encountered Matak riding hard on Malabanan's trail!




CHAPTER XI


INTO THE FORBIDDEN HILLS
T    ERRY 'S two black pistols, canteen and
packed saddle bags lay on the table. Without a word he snapped holster and canteen
into his belt holes and the Sergeant picked up the bags
and extra gun. As he blew out the light Terry first
realized that dawn had come. They hurried silently
to the cuartel, in front of which the sixteen impatient
Macabebes were drawn up, each equipped for the
field and holding saddled ponies. As he drank the
coffee that the thoughtful Mercado had prepared for
him Terry gestured questioningly toward the ponies.
"I knew you would want to travel fast, sir, so I
borrowed these ponies from planters. They are very
angry about the ladrones, sir, and were glad to
help."  He found ample reward for his foresight
in Terry's unspoken commendation.
Several brown heads appeared at windows to stare
after the little cavalcade that trotted down the side of
the plaza at daylight and took the west trail into the
brush. It was not a smart outfit, it lacked all of
the flourish and the trappings of parade, but it did
look eager to use the carbines that flapped from
pommel straps. Terry's compact gray set the pace
for the dauntless men who rode behind him, and the
157




158


TERRY R li


Sergeant brought up the rear snapping sharp-voiced
invectives that withered three over-zealous riders.
A long trail lay before them. Terry maintained a
steady trot that ate up the miles. The day grew hot,
the brush thicker. Twice he halted the column to
water the ponies at shallow fords: once he stopped to
smooth saddle blankets and resaddle.
He felt the heat intensely. His skin seemed dry
and hot, and he slanted his campaign hat low over
his eyes to dim the glare of the sun and relieve the
strain on his eyeballs, which ached fiercely. His pony,
having worked off its excess of spirit, settled down into
a tireless pace that tested the picked mounts the
planters had selected as their best, and the miles
passed in silence save for staccato pounding of hoofs
on hard packed earth and the swish of underbrush
that lined the narrow crooked trail.
At noon he drew up at Sears' plantation to freshen
men and beasts. Sears tore out to meet them, greeted
Terry enthusiastically and ran inside again to hurry
his cook while Terry superintended the care of the
ponies. When Sears' foreman bore the soldiers into
the cookshack for a hot dinner of rice and fish Terry
passed up the high stairway and into the cool house,
there to sink into a big chair, faint.
Sears was energetically speeding his boy in the
laying of his "company"' linens and silver. He lumbered over to Terry and in his enthusiasm shook hands
again. Feeling the hand hot to his touch, he glanced
keenly down into the burning eyes.
"Man, you're sick! You shouldn't be out in the
sun in this condition!"




INTO THE FORBIDDEN HILLS 159


Terry mustered a weak laugh but Sears insisted: he
poured out a stiff drink of Scotch and when Terry
refused this he half wrecked his medicine chest in
search of aspirin. He found only two tablets, and
these Terry swallowed obligingly, finding almost instant relief as the perspiration cooled his parched
skin.
Sears' anxious hospitality suffered during lunch as
despite a brave show of appetite Terry ate nothing,
but briefly outlined the situation that was taking him
into the foothills.
"So they are coming this way?" Sears exclaimed.
"I hadn't heard it yet but I knew something was
up. Last night some Bogobos-they are fine to me
since you-since I-" he floundered a moment, "I
mean they're fine to me. Well, anyway, last night
they came to tell me that two strange natives, both
armed, had ridden past here toward the foothills:
didn't know who the pair were-you may, though, as
they described one as havin' a white eye."
Terry nodded: "That is Malabanan, Sears."
Sears whistled: "Pwhew! I am      gettin' some
likely neighbors-probably the other was his sidekicker, that laughin' devil of a Sakay! Well, anyway, that's not all, Lieutenant. About two hours
ago my foreman saw your Moro boy, Matak. He
was ridin' that black pony of yours and stopped to
ask my foreman if he had seen two natives ridin' by,
describin' Malabanan. Then he beat it after 'em.'7
Terry was watching through the open window and
when he saw his men emerge from the shack he rose
apologetically, listening attentively while Sears told




160


TERRY


him the best trail to the three abandoned shacks that
Terry sought. Sears, distressed in the helpless way
of physically big men, detained him while he refilled
his canteen with fresh water and sought Terry's habits
long enough to again try to press a Scotch upon him.
" Sears, that aspirin fixed me up. I wish you would
give me a couple more of those tablets."
Further search proved fruitless, he had no more.
He turned to Terry with a sorrow out of all proportion to the situation.
"Lieutenant, I haven't got any more. But here's
some quinine-take a few grains every few hoursit may help you."
Terry thrust the vial of capsules into his shirt
pocket and after thanking Sears hastened outside to
where his men were tightening girths under the
watchful Sergeant's eye. Sears hovered over Terry,
offering advice, expostulating, as Terry mounted and
gathered rein.
"Lieutenant," he said, "you know the ford is just
above the pool they call the 'Crocodile Hole.' Cross
the ford, come back along the bank, and you'll find a
trail leadin' to the three shacks in the woods."
"I know, Sears. Thanks. Good-by."
"Adioss, Sears called. Then he stood watching the
little band trot through the gate and into the woods.
His eyes moistened, he raised his big fist against an invisible foe.
"If they get him-" he muttered through lips that
trembled unashamed, "if they get that boy-that
sick boy, I'11-I'll-we'll... and I didn't have any




INTO THE FORBIDDEN HILLS 161


medicine for him-the only thing he ever asked me
for-or ever asked anybody for!"
For the first time Terry urged the gray. Matak
over two hours ahead of him and mounted on the next
best pony in the Gulf... Malabanan hours ahead of
Matak, riding toward the Ledesma girl held for him
in one of the three shacks.... He pushed the pony
hard across the open clearings, recklessly forced him
through the underbrush that in frequent areas obliterated the trail. They were now well inland and mounting a perceptible grade toward the foothills: the sluggish stream they had paralleled all day ran swift
here. Once, where the trail twisted near the bank,
they heard the rush of rapids, and a mile farther on
they came in sight of a curiously soundless waterfull.
They had reached the Bogobo country but the afternoon quiet was unbroken by the sound of agongs.
Fear had reached the foothills.
His pony was too much for the courageous but
smaller mounts of the Macabebes and Terry gradually
drew ahead. He must overtake Malabanan before
nightfall.... Ledesma had not put his confidence
into words, but he had looked it-had trusted him...
the pony's head and neck dripped, a welt of lather
fringed the saddle blanket over the withers and down
both shoulders. The Sergeant, seeing his men fall
behind, galloped up into the lead and cursed them on
with graphic phrases culled from the English, Spanish
and Malay tongues. But it was useless: the gray pony
carried its desperately anxious rider faster than their




162


TEIRBY


jaded mounts could travel. Terry drew out of sight,
but they rode on.
All through the afternoon Terry had been dimly
conscious that the headache had returned, that his
face was flushed and hot, but the fast pumping blood
seemed to energize his faculties. Never had he felt
so keyed-up, so sinewy of nerve.
The hours flew with the miles. At five o'clock he
crashed out of the woods into an open spot where the
trail bent down toward the river to skirt a deep black
pool-the Bogobos' Crocodile Hole, which none of
them would ever approach. It was a roughly circular
depression extending from bank to bank, a hundred
feet in diameter; it lay just below the ledge of rock
that made a low-water ford but which, at high water,
was the brink of a falls which had worn a deep hole
in the soft river bottom.
Terry slowed his steaming pony as he rounded the
pool. Stories that he had overheard flashed across his
mind, ghastly stories whispered by tremulous native
lips into credulous brown ears, of the size of the
Thing which dwelt here, of its age, its incredible scaly
length and girth, its patient devilish cunning; of the
toll it had taken of three generations, tales you would
not care to hear-like that of the old blind Bogobo
who lost his way, and groping for the trail with
naked hands-no, you would not care to hear such
appalling tales.
Riding the river ledge above the pool he glanced
down into the deep, quiet waters but his thoughts
snapped back to the present as his pony balked at
the edge of the ford. The gray had never balked at




INTO    THE FORBIDDEN            HILLS      163
water, and attributing the display of vice to fatigue,
he tried to gentle him into the shallow water, then
touched him with spur-minutes were precious now.
Driven by the steel, the gray stepped gingerly into
the stream, took several steps, then snorted as he
wheeled back to the bank. Terry swung him back
sharply and sent the spur deep into the flanks of
the trembling beast: half wild with the unaccustomed
punishment he dashed into the water and splashed
across in frightened bounds that took him up the
opposite bank into the brush.
Terry brought the pony round and stroked its neck
soothingly to calm the unaccountable terror apparent
in the nervous tossing of head and distension of red
nostrils. As he guided him along the bank a sound
of disturbed water brought Terry's head up sharply:
heavy ripples circled away from a spot near the opposite shore just under the ford. As he peered keenly
he discerned the indistinct outline of something that
looked like a heavy log sink slowly into the dark
depths. The pony   fretted until they  left the
river-bank to follow an old trail that led into the
woods.
Here Terry held him to a walk, riding cautiously,
pausing at each turn of the trail to scrutinize every
inch of brush intently, ears alert to faintest sound.
He knew he was nearing the deserted huts. He advanced several hundred yards thus, searching for
the clearing, listening. Discerning well ahead a space
where the sky was open above a cleared area he dismounted, hurriedly knotted the reins to a sapling,
snatched his extra pistol from the saddle holster, then




164


T EliERY


crept forward through the early forest twilight, wary,
both pistols at full cock.
Creeping round the first bend in the trail he
searched the near thickets with penetrating keenness: he knew Malay treachery. His eyes, flashing
from side to side, focussed upon a dim, motionless
figure outlined in the shadow beneath the trunk of
a large tree that stood on the edge of the clearing.
His back was to Terry and he seemed engrossed in
some silent drama that was being enacted in the clearing out of Terry's field of vision.
Terry crept toward him soundlessly and when he
had covered half of the distance that separated them
he was overjoyed to recognize him as Matak. As
Terry's lips parted in a low call, Matak glided from
the tree like a swift shadow just as a shriek of pain
and terror rent the silence of the woods, followed by
a vowelled curse and the sound of a heavy hand on
naked flesh.
As Terry sprang forward to the edge of the clearing he heard behind him the distant sound of ponies
driven recklessly through the underbrush, and knew
that the Macabebes were coming up!
He halted at the edge of the clearing, unobserved by
the crowd of bandits who had sprung out of the
three disused huts when Matak leaped into the open:
with ready rifles and bolos they awaited the command
of their white-eyed leader, who stood in front of them,
startled, but coolly confronting the Moro. Ledesma's
daughter, who had fallen under Malabanan's heavy
blow, staggered to her feet and ran blindly into the




INTO THE FORBIDDEN HILLS 165


arms of a laughing rough whom Terry recognized
as Malabanan's companion at the dock-the sardonic
Sakay.
For a moment the tableau held. Terry could not
see Matak's face but he heard the tense fury of the
voice:
"Malabanan, you speak English?"
Malabanan looked him over insolently before answering: "Yes."
Moro met Tagalog in the Bogobo's country on the
common ground of the American-brought English
tongue!
"Malabanan, you know me?"
"No.,"
"You remember one night-nine years now-on
Basilan? You remember kill old man, old woman,
then girl on boat? You remember kill little boy, too,
and throw in sea?"
The Moro's voice dripped with the released passions
of nine years of brooding over terrible wrongs. As
he saw the light of recollection appear in the desperado's dark face, he struggled to speak the words that
had been dammed up so long:
"Malabanan, I am that boy... Now you die!"
He snatched the long knife from the scarf knotted
about his waist in Moro fashion, his knees bending under him in a tigerish crouch as he slowly circled toward
his powerful enemy. Malabanan drew his great bolo
with a contemptuous sneer at the little Moro and before Terry could have interfered had he wished, they
leaped at each other. Matak dodged down under the




166


1TERRY


first awful sweep of the gleaming bolo and as he
came up he struck at Malabanan, not with the classic
downward stroke, but UP!
As the glittering blade went home, deep, Malabanan
threw the Moro from him with a convulsive heave that
crashed him senseless against the stump of a charred
tree. His colorless left eye, lusterless in strange contrast to the baleful fire that glowed in the right,
Malabanan gathered his fast ebbing strength in a
last effort and staggered toward the unconscious Moro,
his glittering weapon upraised, heedless of the pale
American who stepped out with a rasping: "Halt!"
But he sank limp as Terry's heavy pistol roared a
message he did heed-though never heard-sagging
down to sprawl across the Moro's legs.
Terry leaped full into the clearing and covered
the ladrones, who stood paralyzed by the swiftness of
the tragedy, stunned by the dramatic appearance of
the young American whose pistols were famed
throughout the Gulf, and as they hesitated the Macabebes smashed out of the fringe of timber, threw themselves off their reeking ponies and moved to surround
the band.
Sakay, supporting the girl as a screen, drew back
toward the nearest of the huts and opened fire at
Terry with a rifle. The ladrones scattered for cover
and in a minute the woods rang with their fusillade
and with the deadly volleys sent in answer by the
Macabebes.
It was a brief combat. Though outnumbered nearly
two to one the soldiers were disciplined and highly
trained marksmen. In a moment six of the bandits




INTO THE FORBIDDEN HILLS 167


were on the ground, nine threw up their hands in surrender and the balance fled through the woods. The
Sergeant, who had been slugging away with his rifle
with a calculating attention to the details of marksmanship belied by the fierce joy in his brilliant black
eyes, ceased firing at Terry 's shouted command and
detached eight of his man, who caught up some frightened ponies and raced through the woods to head off
the fleeing brigands.
Sakay, using the fear-crazed girl as a shield from
behind which to shoot at Terry, found his aim
thwarted by her struggles. Seeing Terry advancing
straight upon him and fearful of exposing himself to
the fire of the two black pistols, he dropped his rifle
and holding the girl directly in front of him, called
out in English:
"I surrender! I surrender! I surrender, Lieutenant!'
His deep anxiety subsiding when he realized that
he would suffer no immediate harm, Sakay threw the
girl from him with a brutal force that sent her prostrate and was promptly rewarded by the husky Mercado, who had been under American tutelage long
enough to understand the virtue and the technique of
what is vulgarly known as "a good swift kick."
The Sergeant escorted Sakay into the group of
prisoners rounded up by the four soldiers and set them
to digging a grave for the six, who, with Malabanan,
would "never appear before the court." In a few
minutes the pursuit party rode into the clearing herding all but three of the criminals who had fled: those
three were carried in and placed alongside the grave.




168


TERRY


Terry worked over Matak, who had been merely
stunned. In a few minutes the Moro recovered fully
and went back to secure Terry's pony, which he had
abandoned near the ford.
While the Sergeant attended to the duties of identification and burial of the dead Terry led the girl
into one of the huts and quietly comforted her. She
told him of the ordeal of her forced journey through
the greater part of a day and a night, of the captors
who leered at her but remained aloof because of fear
of Malabanan, of being waked from sleep at Malabanan's arrival just before Matak appeared. Malabanan
and Sakay, worn with the night's ride, had stopped
during the noon hours to rest in the woods.
When it came time to go, Terry placed the girl on
his pony, declining another mount, as his head now
ached too fiercely to withstand jolting in the saddle.
He set off in the lead, afoot, followed by the prisoners
under escort, Mercado bringing up the rear with
the girl.
As they neared the ford Terry heard a sharp outcry from one of the guards, followed by the sharp
crack of a rifle. Whirling, he saw the brush on his
right agitated by the movements of a figure that
crashed unseen through the tangle of vegetation.
Two soldiers flung themselves off their ponies and
leaped in pursuit, pausing fruitlessly for sight of the
fleeing form and dashing on with trailed rifles. The
aggressive Mercado galloped up, shouting an explanatory "Sakay! ' as he charged straight into the brush.
Terry sped down the trail toward the river, emerging on the bank just as the lithe Sakay burst from




INTO THE FORBIDDEN HILLS 169
the brush. Laughing derisively at Terry Sakay
leaped toward the stream, reached the bank in four
great bounds and leaped far out from the low edge.
As the bandit's powerful body curved in the air
Terry's pistol barked twice before the supple form
straightened to strike the pool in a perfect dive.
Terry leaped down the bank to cover Sakay when
he should rise. Leaning over the ledge he distinguished the white-clad figure sliding gracefully
through the dark depths with the momentum of the
dive: ten feet, twenty, thirty, then it slowed, started
to rise.
But as he watched, tense.. there was a rush
of a massive armored body through the shadowed
depths, a great scaly thing swirled the limpid pool,
a flash of hideous teeth-and the white form was
gone.
Spellbound with the unutterable horror of what
he had seen, Terry watched the waters become quiet
again, but turned away, aghast, when bubbles rose like
tiny silver globes against the jet depths. When he
turned back there were no more bubbles.
He sank down on the bank, sickened. The Macabebes had come up with their meek prisoners and waited
at the ford, restless, their eyes fixed on the oily pool.
Even Mercado was anxious to be gone. Unaffected by
the terrible fate of the bandit he had hunted, he
viewed the approach of sunset with vague concern,
for this was the nearest that he had ever been to the
edge of the Hill Country.
Terry strove to rise, and at last realized that he
was ill. He sank back, dazed with the sudden force




170


TER RY


of a fever that coursed through his body achingly,
that throbbed in his head with a tumultuous roar.
lie tried again, but fell back, dizzy. He rested till
his head cleared, then sat up and called Mercado to
him. His voice came weak.
"Sergeant," he explained, "I do not feel-like going in to-night. You push on-rest at Sears' tonight. Keep the prisoners in his corral under guard.
He will look after Sefiorita Ledesma and the men.
Tell him that I request that he come here and dynamite
this pool-thoroughly. Push on to Davao next morning and send for Ledesma to get his daughter; and
if I am not there by that time, you send a brief report of this affair to Zamboanga. Understand?"
"Yes, sir, but you look sick, sir!"  A quick concern flooded the Macabebe's heavy face.
"Yes-I do not feel-very well. I am going to cut
across country to get to Doctor Merchant tonight. It
is only six miles straight through the woods."
The Macabebe led his charges across the ford, then,
worried, returned to Terry's side. Reassured somewhat by the brave smile, he mounted after receiving a
final injunction to take Matak in with him if they
overtook him. As the Macabebes herded their cowed
prisoners into the woods across from where he lay,
Terry lay prone in another of the intermittent surges
of mounting fever that robbed him of his strength and
faculties.
When the wave of fever subsided he rose weakly,
took his bearings by the low sun and crossing the ford
struck straight into the woods in the direction he knew
Dalag to lie. Entrance into the deep woods brought




INTO THE FORBIDDEN HILLS 171


instant twilight. He had covered a mile when a
resurgent tide of fever brought him down on the thick
carpet of dead leaves that covered the darkening
forest floor, and for several minutes he lay gripped in
the sickening spasm that rioted through his veins and
robbed him of all reason. When it passed he rose
dizzily to stumble on under the trees, which reached
up toward a sky glorious with the flaming reds and
deep pinks that mark the passing of a hot day over
the Celebes Sea.
He staggered on, conscious only of the necessity of
getting to the doctor and of the agonizing explosions
in his head which threatened to rend his skull asunder
at each jarring footfall. The sky grayed, darkened.
Dusk found him   a short quarter-mile further on,
where another surge of raging temperature brought
him low. Another followed swiftly. When he rose
at last, night had wrapped the thick woods in its
black mantle, and he was no longer conscious of direction, or of purpose, or of self. He stumbled along
dazedly, trying to recall the purpose that had taken
him into the woods.
The paroxysms passed. The fever had reached a
consistent high level, lending him a singular buoyancy
of body and of spirit, but his reason was gone. He
walked faster and faster, his vision keen under the
dark canopy, his mind racing with disordered ideas,
a kaleidoscope of long displaced memories. Often he
stopped short, puzzled, vainly striving to stem the
fugitive currents of conceits in his efforts to remember what purpose had brought him here. His head
throbbed. He kept step with each pulsing ache



172


T ER: Y


it seemed to help. He hurried on through the night.
The way grew steeper, always he traveled up the
ascent. Flooded with the hot energy that swept
through his arteries, each passing hour seemed to add
to the fires that fed his strength.
The gray beams of early dawn, filtering through a
now taller vault of forest, found him far up the
slope and mounting still steeper grades. He could
not quite remember what his mission was... something that the Governor wanted, he thought, something he, too, wanted to do... or was it a Christmas present for Deane....
He climbed higher, laughing, singing, talking
loudly. Stumbling over a log his burning eyes had
not seen, he turned in grotesque humor to offer curtsy
and abject apology, then hastened on upward. Later,
carroming from a huge tree he had hit head on, he
addressed it in grave good humor: "Please keep
to the right."  His flushed face purple in the green
light of the deep woods, he hurried on, again worrying
over the nature of his forgotten mission and hysterically impressed with its importance.
The sun rose high overhead but it was twilight in
the deep forest through which he clambered, over decayed logs, through rank overgrowth, past little
streams of filthy water flowing in sullen silence
through channels overgrown with moss. No sounds
of forest life challenged the vast silence of the damp
and cheerless vault of green, no song of bird or shrill
thrumming of insects that makes the tropical forest
a palpitant discordance during the hot hours of the
day.




INTO THE FORBIDDEN HILLS 173
His laughter rang mockingly through the shadowed
silence, the loud vagaries of his delirium carried far
under the overhang of tunneled foliage.
"It's all right, Sears... poor little fox, you won't.. you need not worry about me, Doctor... on
Sunday, too-snowshoes and all.... LOOK     OUT
MAJOR!... and we need you here, Dick,-Ellis
and Susan, Father Jennings, the foreigners-all of
us....
Always he kept his face turned toward the heights,
and climbed. The afternoon, waning, found him
groping slowly upward, the furious energy of his
fever wearing off. His voice was weaker but he babbled unceasingly, through dry lips parted in set fevergrin.
"I hope I did not miss, Sakay: I hope I did not
miss.... 'Imagine bristly Berkshire swine upon the
throne of Coeur de Lion!'-and if they make a
break, SMASH 'EM!... Don't wait, Deane, don't
wait. "
Unaware of the ill omened forms which, surrounding him while still the sun was high overhead, had
kept apace all afternoon with his slackening gait, he
halted under a huge tree, leaning against the trunk
in sudden weariness. His voice, weak, tremulous,
carried to an audience he could not see:
Just to know that years so fair might come again,
Awhile...
Oh! To thrill again to your dear voiceYour smile....


At the end of the song his hoarse laughter rasped




174                 TERRY
through the woods. He sank down, tried to rise,
then lay where he had fallen beneath the great tree.
He lay still while the last white rays of the dying sun
faded from the topmost leaves far overhead, heedless
of the narrowing circle of eyes which flashed in the
dusk.
Then, as he weakly pressed a hot hand against his
scalding eyes in a gesture of pain that was infinitely
pathetic, the Hill People closed in.




CHAPTER XII


THE MAJOR FOLLOWS
HE big wall fan, a new symbol of the progress of the American undertaking, oscillated
in jumpy turns that rustled the papers on
the polished desk. Major Bronner sat staring at the
maps which covered the walls of his office. His
heavily tanned face bore new lines, worry and grief
and there was a new set to the heavy jaw.
Rising with sudden determination he hurried down
the corridor into the Governor's office and faced Governor Mason with the strained aspect of a strong man
sorely beset. The Governor gravely studied the eyes
that bored beseechingly into his own, then reached
into one of his desk baskets and lifted a stiff paper.
"Major," he said slowly, "here is Lieutenant
Terry's promotion. They forwarded it immediately
after receipt of my telegraphed report of his prompt
action against Malabanan's brigands.' As the Major
did not take it but continued to regard him steadily
out of brooding eyes, the Governor returned the commission to the basket and fell to drumming his desk.
He broke the long silence: "Major, you really
think you should go?" It was hardly a question.
"Governor, I must go!"
The older man studied his inkwell: "Major, it was
over three weeks ago that Sergeant Mercado sent
175




176


T ER R Y


you his report: it seems rather-rather —" he was
loath to say it-"rather hopeless."7
He remained in contemplation of his uninspiring
inkwell for a long minute then delved into his basket
for a letter received that morning from the Lieutenant Governor of Davao, a letter he had read many
times. He scanned it again.
"Major, Terry has been missing over three weeks,
was ill when he was last seen. It seems certain that
he either succumbed to fever or else-you know he
entered the woods right at the edge of the Hill Country, and if he strayed off his course he is almost certainly-"
Bronner broke in upon him, frantically unwilling
to hear the word spoken. He was furious in his grief.
"Yes, they wait three weeks before reporting his
disappearance-the best officer in the Service-sickalone in the woods!-no rations, no-nothing, except
a canteen and a pistol! If I were governor I'd fire
the whole damned crew down there!"
The Governor regarded him with wise patience till
he choked into silence. "No, Major. There was no
fault. The Sergeant reported in Davao that Terry
had gone to Dalag to see the doctor, so it was not until
Merchant finished his work there that they learned
from him that Terry had not reached him. It was no
fault of any one, Major; just hard, hard luck. Now,
I have been thinking over your request to go in
search of Terry's-in search of Terry, and I have decided. The despatch boat is now at the wharf subject to your orders. She makes something over
twenty knots,"




THE MAJOR FOLLOWS


177
It


"Governor, I'm-I appreciate your-Governor, it
means a good deal to me! "
"I will not detain you, Major. You do as you find
best when you reach Davao. Pacify the planters
first-this report says that they are wild with grief
and rage. Of course you will take temporary command of Terry's Macabebes. The entire company is
there now and with them you could doubtless smash
your way up into the Hills. I had other hopes, hopes
of winning them peaceably-hopes in which Terry
figured.... Well, I know you are anxious-so run
along."
He rose and came around the big desk to take the
Major's hand in a fatherly farewell. After the Major
had torn out of the room the Governor closed the door
and stood at the window looking out over the busy
Straits, his face older, stripped of the optimism with
which he invariably confronted all of these young men
who were associated with him in the Moro task.
Sometimes it all seemed so hopeless, so futile.
For a long time the Governor stood at the window.
He was facing westward toward India, that mystic
ever-ever land that had been the goal of all the nations since before Columbus and was finally won by
the steady strength and genius of a meager island people. But its cost-its cost in fair-haired, ruddycheeked youth! As in other matters of government
we had learned colonization at Mother England's knee,
had sought to apply her precepts, to avoid her mistakes: but there was no avoiding that penalty, that
expenditure of young men. Quotations from the interpreter of the white man's burden came to his lips:




178


TE R EY


"'The deaths ye have died I have watched beside.' 
He whispered the line over and over again.
He was still gazing somberly over the wide waters
when Bronner rushed down the pier below him and
leaped into the cockpit of the power boat. An orderly followed on the run and dumped the Major's
luggage into the boat. A Moro cast off the restraining hauser and the snowy hull leaped forward, nose
high in the air. When it reached a point opposite
where the Governor stood its stern was buried deep by
the terrific thrash of the screw, and borne on the swift
ebb tide it streaked out of sight into the west like a
thing alive. The Major was off-the Constabulary
guards its own. When one falls, others search, and
bury, and avenge.
The Major settled on the stern seat for the long
ride. He had his thoughts, thoughts that set his jaws
till they ached. The motors roared as they coursed
through a shifting panorama of islands, little heavens
of cool verdure as seen from the power boat which
rode low, rising and falling gently in the smooth swells
which ribbed the Celebes from horizon to horizon.
From the low seaboard they looked back upon a thin
trail of white dashes which marked the wake their
speed had traced upon the tops of the oily undulations.
Adams, the mechanician, a slim, clean-cut young fellow, scarce glanced at Bronner through the passing
hours but hovered over his engines, absorbed in their
operation.
The night passed, and the day was nearly done as
they shot up to the little wooden dock at Davao with a




THE MAJOR FOLLOWS


179


grinding of gears in reverse. Adams silenced the
motors, then turned in stiff fatigue to the Major with
an expression that transfigured his greasy features.
"Major, I've broken the record for this run by
four hours. Now it's up to you!"
"You know, then, why I'm-"
"Yes, I know. And I knew Terry-in Sorsogon
Province. I was down and out, a beachcomber,booze. And he was kind to me, when I needed kindness... It's up to you, Bronner."
The Major stepped up on the dock, unsteady of
limb after the night and day, his ears roaring from
the long punishment. Stamping the length of the
dock to regain his land legs, he returned to meet
Doctor Merchant, who had hastened down to the dock.
His heavy hurry had glittered him with a profuse
perspiration that coursed down over his exposed skin
areas, and he wiped his hands and wrists with a big
bandana before shaking hands with the Major. His
entire mien bespoke anxiety.
"We expected you, Major-though not so soon.
You know all about-about it?"
The Major nodded: "The Governor showed me
Whipple's letter."
"Well, that's about all we know here. Terry was
sick when he went after Malabanan's outfit-he never
should have gone. And after doing that job-and it
was SOME job, believe me!-he started cross country
to see me-knew he was sick. It was over two weeks
later that I finished and came in-and when I arrived
without him there was a regular riot!"
He wiped his face and neck: "Major, I'll never




180


TERRY


forgive myself for exposing him to that fever-but I
couldn't do a thing till he came-they would do nothing I told them. Do you know how it was he caught
it?"  He was at once mournful and enraged. "Gave
his mosquito net to the chief's wife because she was
'soon to become a mother' as he put it: and right
after he rode away I found she had cut the net into
four big pieces and was using them for towels! Yes,
sir! For towels!"
He wiped away with the bandana, thinking that
thus he concealed his emotions.
"Major, you've got your work cut out-a bunch of
the planters are in town this afternoon, planning a
raid into the Hills. Lindsey and Sears are the wildest-the whole bunch will get wiped out if they set
foot in the Hills! You had better see them right
away-and you'll have your hands full-they're
mighty determined."
He paused, fretting, then turned his big bulk with
surprising swiftness: "Well-say something! What
are you going to do about this? Going to clean out
the Hills?  Or are you going to let-" he stormed
on and on, checking the flow at last to press his hospitality upon the Major.
"Thanks, Medico, but I'll just sling my bag in
Terry's house and sleep there to-night: and I can eat
at the Club."
The doctor accompanied him as far as Terry's old
quarters and passed on to his own house farther down
the street. Matak, gloomy and wordless, relieved the
Major of his bag at the door. The house was silent,
and darkened by drawn pearl-shell shutters. The




THE MAJOR FOLLOWS


181


Major stood a moment at the doorway, half sickened
by the unused appearance of the familiar cane chairs,
table, desk, and bookcases, then he followed Matak
into the bedroom he had used before. He cleaned up
and changed to whites, and when he came out Matak
had thrown the windows wide to the afternoon sun.
But the house was thick with the uncomfortable silence
that pervades unused, furnished habitations and unable to endure the room he hurried out and over to the
cuartel.
The fiery little Macabebes seemed subdued. Mercado blamed himself for leaving his officer under the
circumstances, was bitterly self-reproachful for not
having sent a soldier with him. He went over the
ground carefully but could add nothing but immaterial detail to what the Major already knew, but the
Major remained in the little office until dark, listening
with grim satisfaction to Mercado's account of the
swift retribution that had followed Malabanan's testing of Constabulary strength.
He excused the Sergeant and sifted through the pile
of official and personal mail which lay in the basket
marked "unfinished."  Sorting it, he came across a
cablegram addressed to Terry and dated the morning
that Terry had left in pursuit of the brigands.
"From the States, too," he muttered. Moved by
an impulse and hardly conscious of what he did, he
folded it twice and placed it in his purse.
In half an hour he had finished the few reports that
must be executed, and rose to go. Mercado was waiting for him at the door.
"Sir," he said, standing stiffly at attention and




182


TERRY


watched by a score of Macabebes who knew his intention to draw the Major out, "we Macabebes are soldiers, sir-we never question. But if the Major comes
to lead troops up-there, sir, to bury our Lieutenant,
it is a Macabebe task! We loved him, sir."
The big Major looked down at the earnest veteran,
touched by the dramatic simplicity of his appeal.
"Sergeant," he said, "if I do lead a force up there
your Macabebes will be where they belong-at the
front of the column!"
He took the grateful salute and passing out between
two rigid lines of the stalwart little men he crossed
the plaza to the Club.
Entering, he noted the unusual number of Stetsons
that hung on the hatrack, and passing inside, saw that
the steward was guarding a score of rifles and revolvers. For a moment he stood unnoticed by the
groups of determined men who occupied the round
dining tables in parties of four and five. Selecting
the table occupied by Lindsey, he went in.
He felt the tension of the room increase as he entered. All looked up with friendly word or nod, but
from the manner in which they eyed him and each
other he knew that his coming and his purpose had
been the subject of their conversations. He sat down
with Lindsey and his two companions. One of these,
O 'Rourke, had been the pioneer hemp planter and now
enjoyed a big income; the other, a nervous, hasty
young fellow named Boynton, had borne a reputation
as a squawman that had deprived him of intimacy
with his own kind, but had recently put his house in




THE MAJOR FOLLOWS                   183
order and rehabilitated himself with those who found
decency in clean living.
In an effort to relieve the atmosphere of constraint
the three planters attempted conversation, but it fell
dead, and each applied himself to his dinner. The
Major's eyes roved over the crowded room, then bored
Lindsey's.
''This is the biggest crowd I ever saw in the Club,"
he suggested, tentatively.
All understood the question in his words, but none
answered. Suddenly Boynton flushed with the hot
rush of temper to which he was subject.
"Yes," he exclaimed defiantly, "and it's a good
crowd, too! A crowd that's got guts! We're going
to have a look at those Hills!"
Lindsey had tried to stop him, but nothing could
halt the impetuous Boynton. O'Rourke snorted disgustedly: "Lave it to Bhoynton to shpill the banes!" 
With Boynton's outburst the Major tightened.
These determined men were hard to handle. He
glanced around the room into the faces turned toward him: Boynton's tense voice had carried throughout the room and all of the planters had twisted about
in their chairs to face him. They knew the showdown
was at hand, were ready to support Boynton's declaration of their purpose.
The Major turned to Boynton: "You aim to leave
forty or fifty more good Americans to rot in the
Hills? "
Boynton fully realizing that the Major was addressing the crowd through him, and feeling their support,




184


TERRY


spoke more coolly: "Well, Major, we're ready to
chance that!"
The Major continued, more slowly: "What could
fifty men-even such good men as this fifty would
be-do against the Hill People? And how would they
find their way to them? And how would they overcome enemies they could not find or see, enemies who
blow darts that just prick the skin but bring almost
instant death? And if you did reach them, and kill
a large number of them-what would it avail Terry?"
Pausing long enough for this to sink into their
minds, he continued more sternly: "And furthermore and more important, how could such a force, organized out of worthy motives but nevertheless engaged in an unlawful enterprise, hope to even reach
the Hill Country-knowing that they would have to
first fight their way through a hundred of the best
Macabebe riflemen in the Islands.. with me leading the Macabebes."
No one stirred. They knew the Major. This was
no threat, no boast, he had merely stated a fixed purpose. This was Constabulary business, would be
handled by Constabulary.
"Snap" Hoffman, a husky, keen-eyed youth who
enjoyed the unique reputation of being the best poker
player and the hardest worker in the Gulf, spoke
coldly from an adjoining table.
"Bronner, maybe your Macabebes wouldn't fight
against people going up to square things for the officer they lost-I guess you don't know what they
thought of him! But forgetting that part of it



THE MAJOR FOLLOWS


185


what we want to know is, what are you going to do
about reaching out for him, or for those who 'got'
him?"
The hissing of the acetylene burners sounded loud
in the room during the pause in which the sunburned
planters waited the Major's answer. He spoke to
Hoffman, without resentment.
"'Snap,' I had plenty of time to think it all out,
on the way down here. There is just one way to find
out about Terry: I am starting into the H-ills tomorrow at daylight."
"With the Macabebes?"    Hoffman retained the
spokesmanship.
The Major slowly shook his head. The powerful
lights glinted upon the brass buttons of his uniform
and etched the deep lines in the heavily tanned
face.
"No," he said. "The Governor has given me a
free hand in this, as it is a Constabulary job-we look
after our own. You all know, as well as I, what it
would mean to force our way in. We would get in
eventually, but in addition to leaving too many good
men in the everlasting shade of the forest, we would
defeat our own ends. For if he is still living they
would surely finish him if we undertook a punitive
expedition.
" I have laid my plans on my absolute confidence
that he is living. I know he is, somehow. So I am
starting up after him in the morning... alone."
Consternation was written upon every face excepting Lindsey's, who had understood the Major's pur



186


TERRY


pose from the moment he curbed Boynton. Amazement altered to admiration, then to uneasy forebodings. The Major watched them as they whispered to
each other and as he read their acceptance of his plans
he turned to his cold dinner.
The planters found relief in following suit. The
stewards returned to the care of the tables. Cigars,
the best from Luzon's northern fields, followed Benguet coffee and when champagne glasses appeared at
each plate in indication of some diner's birthday or
other happy occasion, the planters searched each others' faces to identify the celebrant. As the Chino
withdrew after filling the glasses Lindsey rose, glass
in hand, speaking with his characteristic sincerity and
with an easy grace that belied his rough planter's
garb.
"Gentlemen, I propose an absent friend... a
friend of all of us. One who has meant much to all
of us, has done much for many of us, has harmed
none by careless deed or word or thought: one who
knows the high places but realizes that life is lived on
level planes. Gentlemen"-he lifted his glass high"to the-HEALTH-of Lieutenant Richard       Terry,
P. C.!"
A swift scraping of feet and of chairs pushed back
and they all stood in mute acclaim of Lindsey's sentiments, subscribed with him to the Major's refusal to
believe that ill had befallen him whom they had assembled to avenge. Seated again they watched Lindsey, who remained standing while the Chino refilled
the glasses. Lindsey spoke again.
'"I ask you now to pledge the only man I know




THE MAJOR FOLLOWS


187


whose bravery, sincerity and friendship are of a quality to fit him to be the chief of him to whom it was
just now our honor to do honor.
"Gentlemen... Major John Bronner, P. C.!"
The response was a thrilling tribute to the flushed
officer who remained seated until the clamor had subsided, then bowed his embarrassed gratitude.
They crowded around him as he rose to go, each
offering advice and warnings, wringing his big hand.
Boynton drew him a little aside.
"Major," he said earnestly, "I hope you find himall right-not-not hurt. He was fine to me-I came
near making an awful mistake-about a native woman.
But he came to me and talked me out of it-spent the
night with me, talking about his mother... she died
when he was a little shaver... and he talked about
clean living, and the duty of carrying on your white
blood unpolluted. He didn't preach-just talked
sense, and was awfully-friendly. I quit the dame
cold!"
Gripping Bronner's hand, Boynton left the room.
Lindsey accompanied the Major to the door and into
the reading room, pointing to the placard tacked up
under the skin of the python.
"You remember the wording of the first sign?
'Major Bronner owes his life to the wonderful pistol
marksmanship of his friend, Lieut. Richard Terry,
P. C.' He was here the night that Malabanan broke
loose-you will hear about that night of his in the
Club-and the next day we found that he had changed
the placard. Look."'
He pulled the Major over and they read:




188


TER RY


This python, the largest but one measured since
American occupation, was killed on the plantation
of Mr. Eric Lindsey.
Length..................24 ft., 9 inches
Diameter, thickest............14 inches
"We didn't see him do it, but we knew he must
have been the one who changed it. As that's the
way he wanted it, we can't change it-now."
Grief shadowed his earnest countenance again as he
faced the Major: "Don't you think that in view of
my friendship for him-and for you-that I am entitled to go up with you? "
"No, that's all settled, Lindsey.'
The Major passed out, but pausing on the dark
walk in front of the building to relight his cigar,
he heard Lindsey outlining plans for the campaign
the planters would undertake if the Major had not returned at the end of two weeks.
In the early morning he made a light pack of
rations and the beads, matches and red calico he had
secured to use as presents in case he won through to
the Hill People. He dressed for the field in khaki,
filled an extra canteen and after breakfast mounted
Terry's big gray pony and rode off with Mercado,
whom he took to guide him to the spot where Terry
was last seen. The Macabebe took the lead and
pressed by the urgent white man lathered his pony
in the rapid pace he set through the winding trail.
They dismounted at the ford shortly before sunset.
While the Major was transferring his pack from
saddle to shoulders the Macabebe explored the pool




THE MAJOR FOLLOWS


189


with distrustful eyes. But Sears had done his work
thoroughly: two cases of dynamite had blown in the
banks and created a new channel through which the
water flowed swiftly. The pool had been narrowed
by half and shallowed to a depth of ten feet in the
series of explosions Sears had detonated until the river
gave up the rent carcass of the monstrous reptile.
The Major adjusted the pack to his liking, waved
farewell to the Macabebe and move toward the fringe
of woods with a swinging stride. The soldier watched
the receding figure with mingled admiration and awe.
The Malay stood irresolute as the white man's head
and shoulders passed from view under the low hanging branches, watched the pendulous khaki legs swing
rhythmically into the shadows of the forest and out
of vision, then cast one long look up over the dense
roof of the forest which swept far up to end at Apo's
summit, and atremble with the appalling memories of
the lonely spot he mounted the gray and led his own
exhausted pony along the edge of the pool. Once he
glanced back apprehensively as a small Bogobo agong
sounded somewhere to the north and filled the woods
with its deep and mournful tones, then hurried on
homewards.
The Major had headed due west, straight toward
the summit of the mountain. He walked on through
the last hour of the afternoon and as the woods
became denser and darker he used the slope of the
forest floor as his point, always facing in the direction of the rising ascent. He made good time, as
here the going was little obstructed by creepers or
thorned "wait-a-minute."  Alert, he studied every




190


TERRY


sound of the forest life, for though he had placed his
life on the knees of the gods he valued it too highly
to neglect any slightest precaution. Inside his shirt
there bulged a heavy 45 slung from a leather breastholster. This lone attempt of the Hills was no sudden inspiration; he had planned it logically. There
was no other way. Up there, somewhere, lay or lived
his friend. Friendship   was the call, friendship
and... The Service.
The sun, glinting fitfully through openings in the
thatching of sparkling green leaves, dropped lower
and sank from sight, and before the brief twilight
faded he selected a spot beneath a great mango tree
as his first camping place. Gathering some dry
twigs and dead boughs he built a fire at the edge
of a little stream and ate sparingly of his store of
beans, chocolate and tinned sausages. In his collapsible pan he heated water and dissolved his coffee
crystals, and the coffee finished, he boiled more water
with which he filled his canteens and hung them on
a branch after dipping the woolen jackets into the
creek to secure the coolness of evaporation.
Night fell black in the forest. He threw   more
brush on the fire to enlarge the circle of light, and
made himself a comfortable couch by patiently stripping the small branches of their most leafy twigs,
and wrapped himself in his blanket, vainly hoping
that sleep would come.
From time to time he rose to add fuel to the fire, as
he wanted the light to be visible from the Gulf, where
troubled friends would be searching the night hills
with worried eyes. And he wished the flame to be




THE MAJOR FOLLOWS  191


seen in the Hills by those who lurked in the dark
shadows so that they might know that no element of
stealth entered into the approach of this white man
who invaded a territory forbidden to strangers since
the earliest dawn of Philippine history. This ideathe thorough advertisement of fearless confidencewas the basis of his plan. He knew wild men.
Desperately he fought off the forebodings which
assailed him in the deep silence of the forest night, for
hours he tossed in the distress of apprehension over
the friend of whom he came in search. Toward dawn
he fell asleep puzzling over the problem of Terry's
reason for closing the door of his bedroom before
going to bed and then opening it for ventilation. He
waked from a dream in which he had slyly peered into
the room in time to see Terry withdrawing a hypodermic needle from his arm, and lay worrying about
the vivid nightmare until he noticed that the fire was
dimming before the coming of dawn.
IIe breakfasted, drowned the embers of his fire
with water from the stream, then reslung his pack and
started up the slope. The way grew steeper with the
hours, the forest thicker. The green roof of foliage
was now so thick that the sun seldom penetrated and
where it did strike through the sunlit spots were
dazzling in contrast with the somber shadow of the
forest. The undergrowth grew denser, so that he
climbed with greater toil through the maze of thorned
bush and snaky creepers that twined in enormous
lengths across the forest floor.
The never-ending gloom of the weird twilight grew
on his nerves. He tried to whistle to cheer himself




192


TERRY~~


but forebore when the uncanny echoes rocketed in
the dismal cathedral of towering trunks.
It was rough and cheerless going. There were no
trails. Once, toward noon, while he was munching
chocolate to appease his empty stomach, he suddenly
came upon a sort of runway, a beaten trail. He
stepped into this easier path but had taken but a
few steps when he was startled by the vicious rush of
a swift object that whizzed up through the air and
tore through a fold of his loose riding breeches, then
swung back before his eyes to vibrate into stillness.
It was a bamboo dagger, sharpened to a keen edge
and point, hardened by charring in a slow fire.
Fastened to a young sapling, it had been bent down
over the trail and secured by a trigger his foot had
released in passing. Level with his thigh, it had been
designed to pierce the abdomen of the Hillmen's
natural foes. He bent to examine the glutinous material with which the dagger was poisoned, and paled
as he considered his close escape. Such a death-in
such a place....
After assuring himself that his skin had not been
broken by the batltak, he stepped gingerly off the
trail and made his way upward, carefully avoiding
every inch of ground that appeared suspicious. With
each mile of ascent the way grew steeper, the forest
deeper and darker, the green ceiling reared higher
on more massive trunks.
In mid afternoon he noticed that he was passing
through a zone of utter forest silence. There were
no relieving sounds of voice or wing or padded foot.




THE MAJOR FOLLOWS


193


It was appalling. Nothing in his vivid experiences
had approached the menace of these silent trees.
Pausing to rest in an area where an unusual amount
of indirect light filtered down through the lofty screen
of leaves he looked about him, found no tree he could
identify, and felt the hostility that strange growths
radiate. His thoughts flew back to the security and
friendliness of the elms and maples of his boyhood
haunts. As he peered through the endless avenues of
trunks that rose from the dark slope, he learned
what fear is. But he went on, faster.
An hour later, clambering over the trunk of a huge
windfall that blocked his path, he jumped down upon
something that half pierced the heel of his heavy
shoe. Leaning back upon the big log he tugged till
the foot was released. He had landed upon a carpet
of leaves which concealed a number of sharpened
bamboo stakes bedded deep in the ground, point upward. Raking out the leaves with a stick, he uncovered a nest of sixteen spearheads smeared with the
brown venom.
Forced to study his every footfall, he made slower
progress. He was far up the great slope when he
noticed that the tangled underbrush had given way
to a smooth carpet of leaves. Night was near, so he
halted when he came to an open spot, a place where
volcanic rock precluded vegetable growth. Water,
steaming hot, poured from a fissure.
It was the first time he had sighted the sky since
morning, and here he saw the only sign of life the
day had afforded. Two gray pigeons flew side by




194


TERRY


side across the opening in the trees, winging toward
the crest of the mountain.
Sleep did not come to him. All through the night
he sat by the fire, staring out into the ruddy circle of
vision illumined by the blaze, peering into the shadows
cast by the great trunks. Once a dead limb fell
from a towering tree that stood just at the edge of
the circle of light: he started violently, his hand
darting into his shirt front to his gun. He relaxed,
slowly. Big drops of moisture dripped from the invisible treetops. Thinking it nearly dawn he consulted his watch. It was eleven o'clock.
Suddenly he sensed that he was no longer alone, felt
the presence of stealthy forms in the surrounding
darkness, heard a twig snap in the still forest behind
him. He waited, tense, the hair at the back of his
neck stiffening as he thought of blowpipes and of
darts poisoned by steeping in the putrid entrails
of wild hogs.
He felt the scrutiny of hostile eyes. Certain that
he detected the movement of an indistinct figure on the
rim of the firelight, he threw on a handful of dry
twigs hoping to uncover the prowlers, but the flareup
revealed only an enlarged circle of great trees and
emphasized their shadows. He sat motionless, his
eyes focussed sharply upon the spot, and as the fire
died down he saw the flicker of a dark form as it
darted from the shadow of the tree and dissolved into
the bordering gloom.
He gritted his teeth in an agony of suspense and
enforced inaction. As the long minutes crawled by
he writhed inwardly in the horror of waiting for




THE MAJOR FOLLOWS


1.95


the stinging impact of the feathered messengers of
death, marshalled every resource of his will in his
effort to appear casual, unafraid, confident of friendly
reception.
Suddenly the silence of the night hills was broken by
a weird sound that rolled down from the heights. He
listened, rigid, and realized that some one was striking a small agong. It came from the crest. Three
times the faint resonance was carried down, the last
note humming long in the tunnel of forest and fading
out in slow-dying vibrations.
Listening, he noted a change in the forest about
him. Minutes passed, and at last he realized that he
was alone, the lurking figures had been recalled. In
the reaction fatigue came, and he wrapped himself in
the blanket and fell asleep.
At sunrise he was off again, climbing the mountain
side, confident that the recall of his midnight visitors
had ended all dangers. The night would see him at
the summit.... APO!
But with the sense of personal security there came
a deep apprehension of what he would find at the end
of his strange quest. His worry over the fate of the
friend for whom he had made this venture increased
with every hour. As the day wore on he fell into a
panic of foreboding, scarce noting that the forest
had lost its sinister aspects, had opened into a lovely
wood of sun-splashed vistas broken here and there by
great rugs of thick grass which tempered the beat
of the afternoon sun striking through the openings
above the frequent clearings.
Suddenly he stopped, sniffing to identify the odor




196                TERRY
that had rapped at his heedless nostrils for an hour.
Disbelieving the testimony of his sense of smell he
scanned the woods for visual evidence, for the first
time taking in the quiet beauty of the scene. Finding
the objects for which he searched he exclaimed aloud
in his wonder.
"Pines! Pines! Sus-marie-hosep!"
He drank in the bracing spice of the rare atmosphere, glorying in the clear coolness of the altitude
after the months of oppressive heat in the lowlands.
"Real, honest-to-heaven pines-that puts me a clean
mile above sea level!"
Worry came again, and he turned to continue his
ascent, but halted in midstride as he discovered a form
that stood, motionless, upon a grassy plot a few rods
above him. A Hillman confronted him!
Evidently a young fighting man, of small stature
but wonderfully developed of shoulder and limb, full
chested and round of barrel, his brown skin covered
only with a red G-string, spear in hand, he returned
the Major's stare with a steady gaze of appraisal.
For a long minute he remained poised, then beckoned
to the Major to follow him and whirling with a flirt
of his long black hair he led the way up the acclivity, bearing to the right of the course the Major
had taken.
The Major turned his back to the savage while he
reached into his shirt to put his pistol at full cock
and safe, then followed him. The ascent stiffened
abruptly, then ended, so that they came out on a
wooded plateau a half-mile square in the center of
which the crest of the mountain reared in a last up



THE MAJOR FOLLOWS


197


heave of perfect cone several hundred feet high.
Skirting the edge of the cone they emerged from
the woods and came to the border of a village.
The Major paused at the edge of the clearing, congratulating himself upon the wonderful good fortune that had brought him safely among the Hill
People, and studying the village. A large number
of crude thatched huts had been erected scatteringly at the bases of the trees surrounding the level
clearing. Not a soul was in sight except the young
warrior who had acted as his guide, who stood in
front of a shack somewhat larger and better built
than its neighbors.
As the Major stepped into the clearing he saw a
figure appear at the door, and his sturdy heart lodged
in his throat as he leaped forward.
It was Terry.
They met in the center of the clearing near the
smoldering cooking fire, their hands gripping hard.
Their eyes were moist with the relief each found in
the other's safety. Both struggled for apt expression
of their pentup emotions.
The Major found his tongue first.
"Well, it's fine air up here," he offered.
"Ayeh."   Terry's grin   was uncertain. "And
there's so much of it!"
And they shook hands on it, complacently.




CHAPTER XIII


THE HILL PEOPLE
CCASIONALLY         one passes a stranger on
the street whose face bears the unmistakable imprint of recent pain, a patient line
of mouth and haunting glow of eyes that have looked
close into the eternal shadows. Terry bore this look.
He unbuckled the Major's pack straps and relieving
him of the load led him into the shack he occupied.
It was a small hut, roofed and sided with grass woven
into a bamboo lattice work; stilted six feet above the
ground it trembled under the Major's heavy tread.
A woven bamboo partition divided it into two small
halves, and each room was bare save for a slatted cot
that served as chair by day and couch by night. The
breeze blew up through the strips of bamboo flooring.
Exhausted the Major sank down upon the hard cot
but rose to sitting posture to study Terry with bloodshot eyes.
"Terry," he said, "you're looking a little-what
the folks back home call 'peaked'."
Terry's face was a little haggard, his body a little
slimmer, the steady gray eyes were deeper set.
"Oh, I'm all right."  He seated himself on the
ledge of the window near the Major. "You had a
tight go of it last night. Did you hear the little
agong ring?"
198




THE    HILL PEOPLE               199
"Yes."7
"The young Hillmen wanted to wipe you out.
I had to work pretty hard with Ohto-the old chief
-to persuade him to let you come in unharmed."
His face clouded. "I have been worried ever since
you started into the Hills."
"How did you know that I was coming?"
"Major, that's why I have been so worried about
not being able to start back-I knew that you would
come as soon as you heard."
The Major flushed in quick pleasure at the unconscious tribute to his friendship and his courage. He
filled his pipe and smoked contentedly. It was the
biggest hour that he had ever known. Terry unharmed, well; his own hazards surmounted; and the
Hill Country penetrated at last-the impossible again
achieved by the Constabulary. He settled back comfortably, using his pack as a pillow.
"Tell me all about it," he said.
"There is not much to tell, Major. You must already know all about the way in which the Macabebes
finished what Malabanan started, and of Sakay's
leap into the pool-did Sears dynamite that pool?'
Horror shadowed the steady eyes till the Major assured him that the pool and its dweller were of
the past.
"Major, that Sakay affair was pretty-bad: I keep
wondering if I missed him-I would hate to think
that.... Well, I had not felt well all day. I must
have been exposed to that fever at Dalag and-"
"Yes, I guess you had! Merchant told me about
that!"




200


TER RY


Terry flushed and went on. "I started through the
brush to get to the doctor, but I must have been
sicker than I thought, for I don't remember anything
after entering the woods. It's all a dream to me.
Something pulled me up this way-I've always hoped
to be the one to open up the Hills-and I kept coming. I remember lying down at dusk and being picked
up and carried through the night. I must have been
delirious for about ten days, but had conscious periods
every day. Every time I had a clear spell I swallowed
several tablets of the quinine Sears gave me. I guess
that quinine saved me-I would like to have Sears
know about it.
" Those ten days are rather confused, of course, but
I remember the care the women gave me and some
of their rough remedies. I came out of the delirium
two weeks ago but was pretty weak, so did not try
to get up, but lay there listening to their talk. Their
dialect is quite like the Bogobo-I think they're just
a tribe of Bogobos separated from the others by those
infernal woods. I soon learned that they had spared
me and cared for me because they thought that I was
daft. You know that these primitive tribes never
molest lunatics-they think that they are possessed of
devils which, if disturbed, will enter the heads of
whoever harms their present host. Probably I raved
a good bit on the way up, when they were following
me.
"When they realized that I was sane the tribe
spit into two factions-one wanted to finish me but
the other insisted that my coming was a good augury.
It was rather queer to lie here and listen to the argu



THE HILL PEOPLE


201


ments pro and con-I pulled pretty hard for the negative contenders! The question was finally decided by
the old chief, Ohto, who announced that my fate would
be determined when next the limogons sang. That
settled the immediate question.
"The limogon is a big species of pigeon that nests in
the Hills. It seldom sings, and then only at nightfall. It is reverenced by these people, who believe
that it sings prophecies of good or evil, the character
of the omen being determined by the point of the
compass in which it lights to offer its rare evening
song. Direction is gauged from where the Tribal
Agong hangs-I will show you that after supper.
It is a queer superstition, Major: they think that a
song in the west means greatest harm-death by
famine or disease or intra-tribal wars, from the north
the omen is ill but to a lesser degree, south is good,
but a song from the east augurs greatest happiness to
their people."
The Major was pulling on a dead pipe, absorbed in
Terry's story but building into it all of the suffering and loneliness and suspense which the lad ignored
in the telling.
"They say that the limolon has sung in the east
but once since it heralded the birth of Ohto, who is
the greatest chief they ever had. But it has sung
in the west eight times-and each time it was followed
by the death of one of Ohto's family. Now the old
man is the last of his line. These things may have
been mere coincidences but you can see why they believe implicitly in their feathered oracles.
"A week ago, while I was still kept prisoned in this




202


TERRY


hut, the bird sang in the south, an omen of sufficient
favor to cause my release. Since then I have been
free to wander about-and if it had not sung, my influence would have amounted to nothing when I pled
for you. And I might not have been here to plead.
"That's about all, Major, except as to what manner of folk these Hillmen are, and that you will
learn better for yourself."
The Major rose and stepped to the door where they
could survey the village, unseen by the brown people who now swarmed the hard-packed clearing. They
were a squat race. The men, G-stringed, displayed
the same powerful physique that had marked the
warrior who had conducted the Major, the women
were clad in a single width of homespun cotton which
draped from waist to knee and passed up over breast
and back to knot at the right shoulder. Men, women
and children were all long haired, and marked alike
with broad, high cheek-boned faces flattened across
the bridge of the nose. Their slightly thickened lips
and widened nostrils were offset by large, intelligent
eyes. They were grouped about the fires which
burned in the center of the village, the women tending
the pots which steamed over the coals. The fresh hide
of a buck lay in the center of the ring of fires amid
heaps of yams and unthreshed rice.
"Community cooking," explained Terry. "The
young men hunt, the older ones farm, the girls weave
and the old women cook. The scheme works out well
in such a simple manner of living. Such government as they have is a blending of a little democracy
with strong patriarchism. The old chief, Ohto, lets




THE HILL PEOPLE


203


them have their own way about the little things,
but when he speaks it is the law."
"How numerous are they?"
"Six or eight thousand. This is the largest of
nine villages scattered around the crown of the mountain. Ohto rules them all."
He pointed to a wide lane leading through the
fringe of woods into another and smaller clearing
a few hundred feet south.
"That is where Ohto lives. No one approaches his
house unless sent for. You-we-are to have an
audience with him to-night. He set the time at moonrise. '
"A husky lot," commented the Major. "They're
bigger than the Bogobos, and lighter skinned-but
they sure don't get much chance to tan in these
woods!'
"They're a wild lot, Major, but you'll like them."
They saw a woman leave the circle of fires and approach their hut bearing two crude dishes. She hesitated near the door, nervously searching the newcomer with timid black eyes, but reassured by Terry's
low word she climbed the bamboo steps and laid before them a supper of venison, yams and boiled rice,
then scampered out with a twinkle of brown legs.
While they ate the Major outlined the news of
Davao. Terry, tired of the monotonous fare, finished quickly and sat on the threshold, looking out
upon the savages who squatted at supper about the
fires.
"Major," he said, "we arrived here at a strange
time. These people are all worked up over the




204


TERRY


question as to who shall succeed Ohto as chief of the
tribe. You remember I told you that he has no relatives, that they have all died off. His last grandson
died three years ago. He was to have married —"
He broke off and turned to face the Major. "You
may remember my reporting a Bogobo tale to the effect that a Spanish baby had been abducted?"
"Yes, we looked it up, Terry. It was true."
"It's true all right. She is here! A wonderful
girl, Major, beautiful, wildly reared but-well, you
may see her to-night for yourself. She was stolen by
these people when she was an infant and Ohto's
grandson was three years old, stolen to become his
bride when both came of age. That is the way they
keep their chieftain strain fresh-by stealing children
from outside tribes and mating them when they
grow up. Ahma-that is her name-is the only
white child they ever abducted.
"But Ohto's grandson died a year before the marrying age. She has grown up in Ohto's household, has
been taught their beliefs, dresses like them except that
as his adopted daughter she is entitled to finer things.
She is one of them except for the whiteness of her
skin. One of them, yet... different.7"
His voice trailed off into a silence in which the subdued murmurings of the Hill People sounded loud.
The Major stirred where he lay stretched on the
hard couch: "Who will succeed this Ohto, then?"
Terry roused himself. "The tribe is wrought up
over this problem, as well as the problem  of our
presence here. They gather every night and discuss
the matter. Some want to select a new chief among




THE HILL PEOPLE


205


the young men and train him so that he will be
ready when Ohto dies, others insist that Ahma-this
girl-shall select a husband from among them and
thus raise him automatically to chieftainship. But
she laughs at them all, though there are plenty of
aspirants for the honor. The old chief has said nothing-he just sits and thinks.
"He loves Ahma with all of the wild love of a
savage for the young he has cared for since infancy.
He seems to consider her happiness even above the
wishes and welfare of the tribe."
"Terry, you said this girl is 'different.' How different?"
Terry shrugged his shoulders, rose and secured their
hats before answering.
You will probably see her to-night, Major. Come,
I want to show you the Tribal Agong."
Leaving the shack they threaded through the tiers
of huts land crossed through the fringe of trees that
surrounded the village, coming out at the foot of the
cone. The huge monolith rose some eight hundred
feet above the tableland on which the village was built.
Its symmetrical slopes were smooth and steep. A
goat could not have found footing anywhere upon its
precipitous sides.
A winding shelf had been cut out of the rock to
serve as a trail. It wound round the cone a dozen
times in an ascent of several hundred feet where it
terminated, high above where they stood, in a niche
twenty feet square. Niche and trail had been chipped
out of solid rock and were worn smooth by the rains
of many years. Here and there the smooth surface




206


TERRY


was checkered with fissures, marks of erosion and
earthquake.
The Major, head bent far back, breathed deeply:
"Sus-marie-hosep!" he exclaimed.
High above the spot where they stood a granite
arm had been carved over the rock platform in which
the winding trail ended, and from this arm a mammoth bronze agong hung suspended over them.
"Why, I always thought those stories of the Giant
Agong were just-why, how in thunder did they get
it up there? And how did they cast it? WhySus-marie-hosep!"
The Major gazed up till the muscles at the back of
his neck ached: "Why, it must be fifteen feet in
diameter-that striking knob is-why, the thing must
weigh six or seven tons!"
With this last thought the Major moved uneasily to
one side. Terry grinned at him.
"I felt that same way when I first stood under it,
but I've been up there. That flimsy-looking arm on
which it hangs is two feet thick and chiseled out of
solid granite to form a bracket. I think you are right
about its size-the striking knob in the center is about
six inches wide."
The Major shook his head, still bewildered:
"Terry, I feel as if this is all a dream-being up here
on Apo, this cold air, the smell of the pines, and now
this thing here-Sus-marie-hosep!"
"The old Bogobo woman who told me of hearing
the Agong insisted that she would live to hear it rung
again. It is never rung except at the marriage of a
chieftain or the birth of his heir. These Hillmen




THE HILL PEOPLE


207


fairly worship it. They have the most absurd legends
as to how it was cast and hung up there, and of the
reasons for the wonderful tone they say it sounds.
They believe that the souls of all the dead limogons live
on in it forever and that when it is sounded they all
burst forth in song. "
The sun exhausted its last white rays and sank below the low hills beneath them. Terry moved forward
into the narrow trail and indicated to the Major that
he should follow. They ascended slowly, the shelf
narrowing so that by the time they had mounted twice
about the base of the crag they were forced to advance by careful side steps, their backs against the
cliff. Terry stopped at the fourth spiral, his hands
gripping the jagged projections, his back tight against
the cliff, and when the Major reached his side he
nodded significantly toward the horizon.
The Major slowly withdrew his eyes from the dizzying abruptness of the fall beneath them, and followed
Terry's rapt gaze. The great panorama of the Gulf
lay unfolded beneath their eerie.
The sun, glowing pink against the crag, cast its
huge shadow over the now tiny huts beneath them.
Dusk was already falling over the great sloping
forest that stretched from beneath their feet far into
the Mindanao fastnesses and ended in a dim horizon
where pink-blue of sky melted into the misted billows
of distant hills. Far southward the Celebes was
faintly outlined, a frosted mirror framed by primeval
verdure, and to the east the slopes extended down
mile upon mile, flattened, then leveled to edge the
great sweep of the gulf.




208


TERlRY


They stood tight against the clear crest while the
swift shadows gathered the Gulf into its fold. The
little valleys faded, and blackened, and the lower
hills disappeared. The gulf narrowed, shortened, and
dissolved into the night. The dark crept swiftly up
the slopes as if envious of the ruby crown set on
Apo's forehead by the abdicating sun.
A steady wind, cool and fragrant with the odorous
pines, streamed against them, forced their bodies hard
against the crag. The Major, enraptured of the vast
grandeur, voiced his exultation.
"Jiminy!" he said. "The top of the world! An
empire!-an empire of hemp! And our flag covers
it all!"
Receiving no answer, he carefully pivoted his head
so as to face Terry, and was humbled by what he
saw. Terry's face, white in the fast fading light, was
exalted, glowed like that of an esthetic of the Middle
Ages, his eyes shone with a vision wider than that disclosed from the mountain top.
"Terry, what do you see-in all this?" the Major
asked.
The wind whipped his words into space. He repeated, louder.
Terry stirred slightly, answered vaguely, his gaze
still fixed upon the tremendous shadowed expanse below them: "I was thinking of a... dozen words... spoken upon another mountain, words that seem
very real... and make one feel very small... in
such a place as this."
The Major puzzled, gave it up. He was on the
point of asking explanation when Terry spoke.




THE HILL PEOPLE


209


"We had best get down from here, Major. It is
getting darker."
It took them but a few minutes to work their way
down, but the crag reared black against ten thousand
stars when they reached the base. In the regions
near the equator the sun courses in hot hurry.
Returned to the hut, the Major sat on the window
ledge and Terry at the threshold. The night was
chill with the clear crispness of altitude. The Major
sniffed the pine-laden breeze gratefully.
"We have found a new Baguio," he said.
Terry assented, absentmindedly.
The Major nursed his empty pipe, studying the
savages who grouped around the fires to warm their
almost naked bodies. Occasionally one or two would
detach themselves from the groups and approach near
where the two white men sat illumined by the flames,
staring at these strangers in frank curiosity, silent, inscrutable, unafraid. Noticing the! glint of fire upon
a nearby row of long-shafted spears which reared their
vicious barbs eight feet above the ground into which
they had been thrust, the Major spoke to Terry.
"Your pistol?"
Terry motioned toward his room: "In there.
They never bothered me about it-probably don't
know what a pistol is."
The Major, thinking of the sensation the opening
of the Hill Country would create, of the Governor's
joy when he should hear the news, of the added prestige for his Service, turned to Terry to express something of his thoughts. But he desisted when he saw
by Terry's flame-illumined countenance that he had




210                T E RRY
forgotten his presence, for there was something about
the lean wistful face that made his detachment inviolable.
Soon the moon rose above the level of the plateau
and flooded the village with a filtered glow. Terry
rose.
"Ohto ordered me to bring you at moonrise."
He waited until the Major had secured the gifts he
had packed up, then led the way through the lane into
the smaller clearing.




CHAPTER XIV


AHMA
IN the center of the moonlit clearing there stood
a larger house than any in the village. The
soft beams of light reflected from the bamboo
sides of the structure and the heavy dew on the
thatched roof glistened like a myriad of fireflies. A
wide path led to the porch, and near this there was set
a tripod, fashioned of saplings, from which was suspended the little agong the Major had heard during
the night.
As they neared the foot of the ladder that served
as stairway the Major started violently as two brown
forms appeared at their elbows; at a word from Terry
they stepped aside to let the two white men pass, one
calling softly to a guard stationed at the top of the
ladder. The door was thrown open and they mounted
the bamboo rungs and entered the house of Ohto.
Pine torches illuminated the room, which was some
twenty feet square, roughly sided and floored with
bamboo slats; there was no ceiling, so that a quarter
of the high-pitched thatching of the house showed
overhead. A dozen middle-aged Hillmen stood along
the wall, evidently the influential men of the village.
Across from them an aged Hillman sat in a roughhewed, high-backed chair.
Terry advanced and addressed the old man, his
211




212


TERRY


whole manner bespeaking a sincere regard and respect; then he beckoned to the Major.
"This is Ohto," he said. "I will interpret for you
if he does not understand your dialect. "
The Major faced the fine, austere old patriarch.
The brown face had been wrinkled bewilderingly by
the heavy-handed years, but his eyes still glowed with
something of the pride and spirit of his youth.
Wrapped in a thick blanket of hand woven kapok, he
confronted them with that air of dignity and distinction common to those who from early life have dominated the councils of a community.
The Major silently tendered his gifts. Ohto motioned to one of his retainers and in a few monosyllables ordered their distribution among the people, the
red cloth to the women, the beads to the children and
the matches to be divided among the young men. As
he retained nothing for himself the Major produced
a new pocket knife he carried, and bade Terry make
Ohto understand that it was for himself. The savage
bent his hoary locks over the treasure, examining the
mysterious blades that opened and closed at his will,
and accepted it as his own.
The Major attempted to address the chief in his
scanty Bogobo, stumbled, and turned to Terry beseechingly.
"You tell him, Terry. You know what we've got
to say better than I do!"
So Terry spoke, and though the Major did not know
it, he continually referred to him as his chief, put all
of the fine phrases in his name. The warriors along
the wall weighed every word.




AHMA


213


Terry told Ohto of their great pleasure in having
entered the Hills, and of their appreciation of their
reception. He extended the greetings of the White
Chief across the waters at Zamboanga, tried to impress
him with the interest the White Chief took in the Hill
People and of his good will toward them: told of the
advantages that would follow intercourse with the
lowlands, of the good that would come to his people
from contact with others. Finally he dwelt upon the
folly of isolation, of the benefits of commerce and
schools and other elements of civilization.
The flare of the pitch torches brought out the sincerity of his face. The old chief listened, inscrutably,
his unwavering gaze fixed upon the earnest speaker.
Before the aged infirmity of Ohto Terry stood in apt
symbol of lithe youth.
It was apparent that Ohto did not grasp much of
what Terry strove to impart, for the primitive imagination was powerless to understand institutions he
could not conceive. IHe listened gravely but gave no
inkling of what went on behind the mask of his wise
old eyes.
Terry finished, awaited expression of his decision.
For a long time the patriarch remained silent, idly
opening and closing the blades of his knife. The
Hillmen ranged along the wall, who had listened attentively to Terry's arguments for opening up their
country to the outlanders, waited their chief's pronouncement with set faces and gleaming eyes, their
brown bodies still as bronze figures.
At last the patriarch raised his head high, so that
the snow white hair fell back across his blanketed




214


TERRY


shoulders. He spoke so slowly that Terry was able
to follow him with whispered interpretations into the
anxious Major's ear.
"Many rainy seasons have washed my hair white.
I live to see strange things-I never thought to see a
white man's face within my walls-except, perhaps,
upon a spear, grinning.
"When I was born-and no other man or woman of
my tribe lives who saw the sun of that far day-they
said, the wise men, that much good would come to my
people before I died.
"They read it in the stars, they said. No great ill
has come, except to my own blood. All gone-wife,
sons, grandsons. Never again will the Agong ring for
one of Ohto's blood! "
They felt the greater pity because the proud old
chieftain demanded no sympathy, but merely stated
the pathetic fact with a simple dignity.
He was silent for a time, lost in an old man's memories. Then he turned to one of the four retainers
who flanked his chair.
"I am lonely," he said. "I would that Ahma
would sit by me. "
As the swart Hillman crossed the springy floor and
rapped gently upon a closed door, the Major saw that
every black eye focussed upon it with eager expectancy. For a moment the room was palpitant with suspense. He looked to Terry for explanation, but
turned back at the grinding crunch of the hingeless
door which opened to frame a fairer vision than the
Major had ever dreamed, asleep or awake.




AHMA


215


A white girl had stepped out of the other room and
paused a moment against the dark background of the
door to sweep the room with big black eyes.
A single piece of white cloth, fringed with bat fur,
was draped about her waist and fell below her knee,
the ends passing up in front and back of her round
body to fasten loosely at the right shoulder. This,
with a little sleeveless garment fashioned, bolero-like,
out of the delicate bat skins, and a pair of sandals
contrived in such a way as to bring the hair of the
deer skin against the little feet, was all she wore.
Bronner scarcely realized the symmetry of the
slender form, so lost was he in the spell of the dark
eyes that plumbed his for one long second, leaving
him tingling with a curious conviction that his soul
had been bared. Vivid of white skin, of jet eyes, of
a mass of midnight hair that hung loose to her waist,
she radiated the fire and spirit of vibrant youth.
" God! Such a girl-up here-all these years!" he
breathed.
She left the doorway and crossing the room with
the light grace of slender, untrammeled limbs, sank
down on a bench drawn up at Ohto's side. He set his
withered hand contentedly upon the mass of her hair,
and in a moment he spoke again.
"If the prophecies of the wise men are to be fulfilled, it must be soon. The good fortune of which
they spoke has not come to my people-and Ohto
cannot tarry long in wait... Death calls an old
man.
"It may be that the prophecy had to do with the




216


TERR Y


coming of these white men. It may be that it would
be better to no longer guard the Hills with balatak
and stake and spear and poisoned dart. It may be
that our people would be stronger-happier." 
Again he halted his slow monosyllables, searching
the faces of the Hillmen who waited upon his words:
utter devotion and loyalty were apparent in every
brown face. Proudly conscious of their fidelity, he
regarded them kindly, then his thoughts reverted to
the girl at his side, and he gently stroked the lustrous
black hair. She sat quiet under the caress, her head
bent down in an attitude that revealed the white line
from shoulder to throat, her eyes sheltered behind
long lashes. At last Ohto raised his head again and
when he spoke he gazed straight at Terry.
"Ever since we... found... her, this lovely
flower has flourished. She now blooms in full blossom in my house-a white orchid on a gnarled old
root.
"Before Ohto leaves the Hills he would like to see
Ahma safe,-guarded and cherished by one who loves... and knows. Though not of Ohto's blood, she is
of Ohto's heart. I will that when she finds a stronger
tree upon which to fasten-the Tribal Agong shall be
rung for her."
Astonished out of their racial imperturbability, the
Hillmen eyed each other at this departure from the
ancient custom of ringing the Giant Agong only for
those of chieftain blood. The girl's wide eyes raised
to Terry, shifted momentarily to the Major, and lowered.
The old man concluded: "You both speak fair,




AHMA


217


but I do not know what is best for my people. I do
not know.
"We must await a sign to guide us. The Spirit
will speak to us through limogon or nature, will solve
the problem that you have brought to us.. and will
decide your fate.
"Until the Spirit speaks, you are safe with us, white
men.
'I am weary now."
The venerable savage gathered the blanket more
closely about his thin shoulders and closed his eyes as
if exhausted. One of the four who stood behind him
pointed to the door to indicate that their audience was
at an end. As they passed out, the Major"turned for
a last look at Ahma, who was leading the old man into
his room.            J
In the middle of the clearing he stopped short.
"Say, you forgot to translate what Ohto said after
she came into the room!"
Terry smiled whimsically up into the chagrined
face: "That's right, I did! But you seemed to lose
interest in his words!"
As they made their way through the village Terry
explained Ohto's decision, concluding with: "And
so he awaits one of their 'signs,' the appearance of
the limogons, or some freak of weather or natural phenomenon like an earthquake-they read prophecies in
everything. "
The Major sat down heavily upon the bench. He
was genuinely disturbed at this new phase, as he had
thought their hazards passed.




218


TERRY


"Why," he exclaimed, "that puts us square in the
Lap o' Luck! Think of just waiting around for an
earthquake or something-or for some darned bird to
sing! With the opening up of this country as the
stake-yes and our own hides. Sus-marie-hosep!"
Terry had taken his usual seat on the threshold,
chin in hand, his face bathed in the light of the moon
that now hung high overhead and flooded the mountain top with a friendly glow. The cool night breezes
came in strong gusts which rustled the foliage about
them.
Calmed by Terry's attitude of quiet confidence and
strength, the Major faced their problem coolly, sought
a way out. For a while his mind raced with plans,
but each died in the minute of inception. He could
not influence winds, or induce wild birds to sing in
given quarters of the compass, or devise earthquakes.
He fell to thinking of Ahma.
Later, observing Terry closely, he asked: "And
what are you dreaming about now?"
Terry stirred as though awakened: "Oh, home
mostly."
The Major wanted to talk, but the patient distress
in the voice deterred him from what seemed intrusion.
Later he suggested sleep. Terry lighted a torch
and stuck it into the doorway, so that while lighting
both rooms its fumes carried into the open. The
Major discarded shoes and leggings, and wrapping
himself in his blanket lay down with his pack as pillow. Terry waited till the Major had disposed himself as comfortably as possible, then extinguished the




AHMA


219


torch and went into his own room, closing the door
behind him.
The Major stared through the dark at the closed
door, wondering, as usual, what was going on behind
it. Then as a gust of cold wind blew in through the
window he snugged down into his blanket.
Another and stronger gust, and he heard the door
into Terry's room creak as it swung to the breeze.
Looking up, he learned at last.
In the rectangular patch of moonlight which entered Terry's room through a raised window he saw
him by the side of the rough slatted cot, kneeling in
that most ancient of attitudes, in which the children of
all the ages have bowed to supplicate and render
homage to the Keeper of the Great Secret.
The Major's eyes moistened. As the last clear
phrase reached him he again stood flattened against
the swind swept crag-"on the top of the world," and
he now understood the "dozen words spoken on another mountain." They came from Terry's lips low,
simple, majestic:
"-is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the
Glory.... Forever...   "




CHAPTER XV


THE SIGN
HE sun striking on his face through the open
window waked the Major to the cool clear
morning. Sitting up, he saw Terry sunning himself on the threshold, wrapped in a scant
blanket such as Ohto had worn, his hair wet from his
bath in the creek which emptied the big spring at
the foot of the crag. Even in the stupor in which he
woke from his heavy sleep the Major noted the ruddy
glow of the skin which covered Terry's bare arm and
leg, was surprised at the development of the muscles
which played into being at each slight movement.
His face was as evenly pallid as ever.
The Major stopped yawning. "Terry, I always
thought of you as being-sort of skinny, but you're
as hard as nails."
He wrapped closer in the cotton cloth. "I've always taken good care of myself, Major. From the
time when I was a boy I have thought a good deal
about-all sorts of things-and I realized early that
one thing was certain-that this is the only body
I'm ever going to have."
Learning from Terry where he could wash up, the
Major made his way to the creek and after disrobing
waded into the deepest spot and soaped himself liberally. For a moment he enjoyed the bath, but as the
220




THIE SIGNF ~


221


spring was the source of water supply for the village
and as the young women were allotted the task of
carrying it, his exhilaration was short lived. The
water came but to his knees, so most of the half hour
he spent in the pool he lay submerged to his chin,
his agonized bachelor face exposed to the maidens
who observed him from the spring three rods away.
He would have taken no comfort from the thoughtif it had come to him-that to them comparative
nakedness was the normal state.
Mountain springs are usually clear and chill, and
this was no exception. He was numb with cold when,
hearing a snort of irrepressible joy behind him, he
twisted his head about to discover Terry enjoying
his discomfiture. After Terry drove the girls away
the Major jumped out of the creek and hurried into
his clothes, blue lipped, shivering.
"T-Terry, you'd better q-q-quit laughing! M-Millions have been m-m-murdered on less p-p-provocation!"
After breakfast Terry, intent upon discovery of
some way out of their predicament, left for a long
walk. Alone in the little house, the Major brooded
half the morning over the plight in which the old
chief's dictum had placed them, then dismissed the
profitless forebodings and went out to the village to
study the natives.
The clearing was empty of men. A score of the
older women were fetching wood to the fires, another
group were washing camotes and threshing rice with
hand flails. Upward of a hundred naked children,
pot-bellied, straightbacked, stared at the big white




222


TER Y


stranger as he passed, then ceased their pathetically
futile efforts at play and trooped along behind him,
their eyes as old as Ohto's. He looked in at the young
women weaving kapok thread into cloth for blankets
and the garments the women wore, but recognizing
in the third house he entered three of the girls who
had watched him in the creek, he fled in confusion.
He ate dinner alone, as Terry had not returned.
In the afternoon he continued his study of tribal
customs. He had known the Luzon head hunters intimately, so had a basis of comparison. He went
among the older women freely and sat with them about
the fires, practicing his Bogobo, questioning, enlarging his vocabulary, winning their friendliness.
As the afternoon waned he left the clearing, feeling
in need of exercise. He strode rapidly about the
circumference of the plateau and as he threaded
the fringe of woods that separated the main clearing
from Ohto's reservation, he halted suddenly as he
saw Ahma tripping toward him on her way to Ohto's
house.
His first wild impulse was to dodge among the
trees and avoid her, but as she had seen him he stood
still until she should pass. But she swerved toward
him and approaching with light, swift tread of free
limbs she stopped a few feet before him, smiling.
Embarrassed by the creamy curves of shoulder
and limbs, he sought diversion in the treetops. She
spoke, and at the sound of the clear little voice he
looked at her, and in looking forgot the eccentricity
of her frank costume. Her dark eyes held him:
he knew that he was gazing at the only wholly in



THE SIGN


2c23


genuous being he had ever seen. He swallowed convulsively.
"Hello," he said.
Bronner was subtle to a fault!
Puzzled at the word, she wrinkled her nose in delicious groping for understanding, then laughed up at
him. And with the laugh something popped within
his sturdy chest.
He hastily substituted the Hillmen's word of greeting, which he had learned during the morning, and
joined loudly in her merriment. Elated with this
success, he marshalled his resources of dialect to further impress her but with a last bewildering glance
from her dark eyes she flitted homeward.
He watched the white figure out of sight in the
woods, vaguely aware that some new emotion had come
to him. He stood among the trees some minutes after
she had disappeared, then turned toward the village.
"Sus-marie-hosep!" he exploded.
At supper time the clearing was again crowded
with the entire population of the village, the men having returned from their pursuits of hunting, gardening and patrolling the great slope. Terry and Bronner talked little, each taking his usual seat at window
and door to idly watch the crowd outside.
Most of the Iillmen ignored their presence, but
one, a squat, powerful fellow, swaggered by the door
where Terry sat. Twice he passed, and each time he
leered derisively at the white man.
"Who's your friend, Terry?"' queried the Major.
"Oh, that's Pud-Pud. He's the town bully-and




224


TERRY


never has liked me. He led the crowd that opposed
my-staying. He has bothered Ahma a good deal,
too: wants to marry her. She laughs at him, of
course. What have you been doing all day, Major?"
The Major told him of everything but the meeting
with Ahma, spoke enthusiastically of the tribe.
"They're straight Malay, Terry," he wound up.
"A pure strain, something you seldom see in the
lowlands where the Spanish and Chinese have addled
the blood. They ought to develop rapidly under
proper guidance-they are a single-minded, sincere,
fearless people."
Terry nodded agreement: "'Nor are they the terrible people that the Bogobos think them. Their fear
of them must have been based on dread of that sinister belt of forest. A good road will end all that."
They waited till Pud-Pud made a third mocking
trip past their hut, gay in a G-string contrived of
a length of the cloth the Major had brought up: it
flamed against the naked brownness of back and legs.
"'He's a lady-killer all right!" Terry said. "Ahma
told me that he had coaxed the calico away from one
of the girls."
The Major stirred. "You saw Ahma to-day?"
But he had hesitated so long over the question that
Terry, sunk in deep thought, did not hear him, and
somehow he did not feel like repeating. He turned
in on the hard bed with new things on his mind.
Measles is not the only affection that "takes harder"
near maturity.
Several days passed without incident. Each morning the clearing emptied after breakfast as all but




THE SIGN:~


225


the cooks left for the day's work. Usually Terry
wandered out alone, returning at evening to sit in
the doorway, lost in study.
Daily the Major loitered about the village till late
afternoon, then took up his stand in the woods near
Ohto's domicile, waiting: and Ahma never failed him.
Bashfully distressed at first in the close proximity to
the wealth of charm revealed by her scant costume,
he soon became unconscious of it, her garb was so entirely congruous to her free, unschooled nature. He
practiced his sketchy dialect upon her, delighted in
each successful transmission of thought, more delighted in the naive bewilderment that many of his
linguistic efforts wrought in her frank features.
The fifth day she failed to appear. He waited
long, restless, till certain that she would not come
and then set off through the woods, his big heart
yearning for an unattainable something he could not
define or classify.
Regardless of where he went the Major crossed the
tableland and started down the incline of the slope.
A mile, and he came across some young hunters beating deer into a fenced runway that converged to a
narrow  opening where two warriors stood ready,
armed with great spears. He turned to the left, crossing a little burnt clearing which still bore the stubble
of the season's harvest. Another half-mile and he
suddenly came upon a grass lean-to behind which
two old Hillmen grimly stirred a simmering pot from
which arose an overpowering stench: he fled the spot,
knowing the sinister character of the venomous brew.
The sun was low when he returned to the hut, still




226


TERRY~Z


unhappy over Ahma's failure to appear. In a few
minutes Terry entered the shack. He had come from
tie direction of Ohto's house, and his face was cleared
of the perplexity of the last few days.
During supper Terry studied the moody face of his
friend, but forebore comment. At the hour of sunset
-the hour when the superstitious Hillmen looked for
their "signs "-the savages thronged the clearing in
mute expectancy. It was apparent that Ohto's injunction had been communicated throughout the Hills,
as each night the crowd who waited the sign was augmented by contingents from other villages. The hundreds stood, silent, as the sun sank slowly into a
horizon of white clouds which flushed pink, brightened into shades of rose and crimson. For a brief
moment the upturned faces of the brown host were
ruddied; they stood motionless, mute, while dusk settled. Then night fell almost at a stroke.
Again there had been no revelation. As the heaped
fires illuminated the clearing, five mature Hillmen
stalked past the white men's hut and into the forest.
Terry identified them to the Major as the sub-chiefs
who ruled the five adjacent villages.
The Major sat in the window a while, watching
the Hillmen, who squatted around the fires smoking
their ridiculously tiny pipes and conversing in low
gutturals. He fidgeted, then left Terry unceremoniously and skirting the village through the woods unseen by the crowd, he waited an hour near Ohto's
house in the hope of seeing Ahma. Disappointed, he
returned and threw himself on the cot.




THE SIGN


227


Terry sat in his accustomed place in the doorway,
watching the fleecy clouds that ia high wind drove
across the sky, vast sliding shutters which opened and
closed over the cool glow of the moon. The cold
breeze chilled the Major, and he drew his blanket
tight about him. Terry's voice roused him from
his dejected reverie.
"Major, I notice that you didn't carry your gun today. Don't go without it again."
The Major half rose: "Why-you don't thinkI haven't seen any indication of-"
"I guess you've forgotten that we are in the Hill
Country. If they find a 'sign' that is unfavorable
to us-there won't be any delay. And we don't want
to sell out cheaply."
The grave judicial tones startled the Major. In his
absorption in the white girl he had lost sight of their
precarious situation.
Terry went on: " The tide of sentiment is turning
against us. They seem more antagonistic, more sullen.
So please be careful."
Terry lapsed silent and sat in the door, chin in
hand. Soon the increasing wind drove the Major
under his blanket again, and overcome by a curious
feeling of comfort and security in the mere presence
of the slight figure huddled at the door, he soon fell
asleep.
Terry, unmindful of the chill breeze, remained in
the doorway, deep in thought. Suddenly he brought
his hand to his knee in quick decision, and after tiptoeing over to the Major to be sure that he slept, he




228


TERRY


silently departed the hut and skirting the edge of the
moonlit clearing, disappeared into the lane that led to
the house where Ahma lived.
Toward morning the Major woke with a start, bewildered by an unearthly sound that smote his ears.
The wind had risen to a gale, tearing the fleece from
the sky, so that the moon peered down upon a sea of
treetops turbulent with the buffets of rushing air.
He sat up straight to relieve the thunderous humming in his head, then comprehending that the amazing sound was a reality, he strove to solve the source
of the bewildering tones. A deep, low murmuring
filled the air, swelling in volume with each heavier
gust which drove over the mountain: the sound deepened and strengthened, mounting to a sustained musical rumble that almost stupefied him.
" Ooooommmmmm-ah-oooommmmmmmm-ah-ooooooommmmmmm."      The muffled volume diminished, increased again with fresh burst of fleeting wind, and
as the wind subsided suddenly, the vibrant note fluttered, died away.
The Major had lived too long and too much to believe in the supernatural but in the dark he found relief in the sound of his own voice.
"Sus-marie-hosep!" he breathed. "Some ghost!
No wonder they believe in signs up here!"
He saw that the wind had blown shut the door into
Terry's room. Knowing his habit of ventilation he
rose to open it, and as it swung ajar he saw that Terry
was not there.
He stood in the dim room a moment, staring out of




THE SIGN


229


the window at the triple rows of huts which the moonlight had transformed into elfin playhouses. Perplexity as to Terry's whereabouts gave way to deep
anxiety. Then his eyes caught the flicker of something white in the shadowy grove that fronted Ohto's
house. Looking closely, he watched it flutter away
among the trees, then a darker figure emerged from
the spot.
It was Terry.
The Major's big hands closed hard upon the bamboo
sill. Ahma! Terry! For the first time in his passionless life he felt the fangs of the green-eyed monster.
An impulse to deceive, unusual with him, hurried
the Major into the folds of his blanket before Terry
entered, but by the time Terry had thrown himself
upon his couch the Major was ashamed of the duplicity
and spoke to uncover the deceit.
"Terry, what was that infernal sound that waked
me up a while ago?'"
"The gale playing on the Agong, Major."
The Major said no more but tossed on the hard
couch until daylight shot through the trees. He rose
at once and in a few minutes Terry joined him, a little
hollow-eyed with fatigue. The Major pointed at his
soiled shirt and breeches, then at the soaked leggings
and shoes.
"Man, you're a sight! Fall in the creek?"
Terry grinned contentedly. "No. This waiting
was getting monotonous-so I fixed up a sign for
them!"
"That infernal noise, you mean?"




230


TERRY


"No. The wind always does that."
"Well, what did you do?"
Terry's grin broadened. "I'm not going to spoil
it for you by telling, but if you stick around you'll
see a sizeable 'natural' phenomenon within a day or
so. In the east, too, the most favorable quarter!"
The Major could extract nothing further from him,
so desisted after an irate: "Well, you let me in on
these stunts after this. You're all in-and here I
lay sleeping all night!"
Terry sobered. "Major, we did not need you-we
got along all right."
"We?"    Heartsick, the Major sought to plunge
the iron deeper. But Terry had slipped out to clean
up at the creek before the girls should come.
That morning they noted that for the first time a
number of warriors hung around the village, watching the hut where the white men lived with a studied
insolence that proved their hostility. Pud-Pud was
of them, and loudest in his talk. At noon a large
crowd had gathered, composed of those most inimical
to the strangers.
While the two stood near the entrance to their
shack watching the eddying currents of almost naked
humanity they saw Pud-Pud detach himself from his
companions and swagger toward them, spear in hand.
The crowd watched him eagerly as he advanced to
test the mettle of the pale outlanders: Pud-Pud had
boasted that he would end this suspense.
The insolent savage advanced, stopped ten feet
from them and brandished his weapon, his attitude
one of utter contempt. He spat at them.




T TT 'V1, A, T 1N- 


9.R1


Rage suffused the Major's face and his hand crept
into his shirt front, but before he could withdraw
the gun Terry whispered a restraining caution.
"I know him, Major,-a grandstander."
Terry stepped in front of the Major and returned
the savage's stare. A moment they battled, then the
Hillman saw something in the white face that disconcerted him, so that his offensive black eyes lost their
hint of insult, wavered, fell. As Terry moved toward him slowly, Pud-Pud hesitated, then gave way
before the stern visage of the approaching American.
Terry, boring him with cold gray eyes, came faster:
retreating rapidly to maintain his distance from the
white man, Pud-Pud hurried his backward pace toward the ring of silent Hillmen who watched them.
Heedless of his steps, conscious only of an overwhelming desire to maintain a safe distance from this purposeful white man whom he had affronted, Pud-Pud
backed away, eyes fastened upon the pale avenger.
Moving suddenly to the right, Terry forced him
to alter the direction of his hurrying footsteps. The
rapid heels hit a bowlder and Pud-Pud fell backward
into one of the cooking places, his spear flying aimlessly into the air as the sitting portions of his
anatomy came into contact with the red hot stones.
One howl and one swift contortion of outraged flesh
lifted him from the spot and he escaped through the
crowd, followed by the mocking laughter of the Hillmen. Terry picked up the spear and crossed the
circle of savages to hand it to the largest and loudest
savage in the group to which the braggart had belonged. He looked him full in the eye with a sig



232


TERRY


nificance fully understood by the onlookers, then
turned his back upon him and returned to the Major.
The Major was convulsed: "I saw what you-had
in mind-when you circled him     toward it," he
laughed. "It must have been hot with nothing but a
red G-string between his rump and those coals!"
But the incident was significant of the attitude of
many of the Hillmen. Inside the hut they examined
their pistols carefully, Terry insisting that the Major
take two of his extra magazines.
The Major, in grim mood, left for a long walk.
In crossing the clearing he purposely cut straight
toward a group of warriors who at the last moment
stepped sullenly aside to let him pass. Surlily pleased
with his little victory, he crossed the broad plateau
and struck down the slope, unconscious of his direction in the worried fumbling of his problems and his
hurt. He started down the first great incline, distrait, sorely troubled. He crossed a green expanse
where grass had sprung up over the site of an
abandoned clearing, and as he reached the trees
which marked its edge he was startled by the sudden
appearance of two Hillmen who stepped out to confront him, pointing their spears toward the village
in unmistakable gesture.
As he angrily struck another course he realized
for the first time how complete his absorption in
Ahma had become. He had forgotten that he and
Terry were prisoners, had lost sight of the mission
that had brought him into the Hills.
Chastened, he slowly retraced his way to the edge
of the woods and sat down upon a windfall to think it




T HE R SNT 


222


all out. He blamed only himself. Her interest in
him, he thought dully, had been but a friendship
natural toward the friend of the one for whom she
cared. Little things came back to him: her expression when she watched Terry approach, the sympathy
that existed between them, little understandings
which he had attributed to nothing more than longer
acquaintance. It suddenly occurred to him that she
had helped nurse him when he was ill. And it came
to him that he had given little thought to the days
when Terry had fought off death, had been heedless
of what those days must have been when Terry looked
from the mountain deep into the valley of the shadow,
he groaned aloud.
He shook his head, miserably: "Here I've been,
mooning around like a-like a-and left him to do all
the worrying-all the planning! Last night I slept
while he-"   He cursed himself for a fatuous fool.
When he rose, the bitterness of spirit had left him,
and his sacrifice had been made, but his lips were
white with suffering.
As he neared the village his course took him about
the base of the crag, and as he rounded the western
side he heard the murmur of subdued voices. He
slowed and approached cautiously. A jutting buttress of rock masked the talkers until he was almost
upon them, and as he turned this corner he halted in
a wretched pang of the jealousy he thought he had
subdued.
Terry and Ahma sat on a bench of rock, their backs
to him, unaware of his presence. Terry's trim head
was bent forward as if he studied the western horizon;




234


TERRY


she leaned against him in gentle contact of firm white
shoulder.
For a moment the Major's heart thumped painfully,
then the confusion of the unwitting eavesdropper compelled him to make his presence known. He did so
with that fine discrimination and artful delicacy he
summoned in times of emotional stress.
"Hello," he said.
Both turned, and rose, unembarrassed. Terry's
welcome shone in his face, and Ahma was radiant with
a quick emotion which, true to the traditions of those
among whom she had been reared, she made no effort
to dissemble or restrain. The Major dropped his eyes
before the gaze, noting, dully, how wind and sun had
faintly tanned the neck and shoulders and limbs.
Sun and wind were patent, too, in the vigor and elasticity of the slim, loose clad form.
"I'm teaching her English, Major," Terry said.
For a moment she maintained her searching of the
Major's averted eyes, then spoke a word to Terry
and turned to go. A few steps took her to the buttress, where she stopped and turned her eyes full upon
the Major, and spoke in English, teasingly:
( Hello, sir."
The Major answered in a voice that sounded harsh
in his own ears and watched her disappear around the
corner. Then he spoke to Terry without facing him.
"She DOES speak English!"
"Not much, yet. She really meant 'good-by.'"
They started toward the village slowly, each
wrapped in his own meditations. Passing round the
eastern side of the cone, Terry halted to gaze earch



THE SIGN


235


ingly at the Great Agong hung over the stone platform far overhead. Anxiety was evident in his manner as he hastened to catch up with the Major, who
had walked on.
The throng had gathered earlier than usual, the
clearing was packed more densely than upon any previous afternoon. The two Americans avoided the
clearing, passing to their shack directly through the
woods.
The Major dropped down on his bench and pillowed
his head on what remained of his pack, staring up at
the grass roofing. Shortly the serving woman appeared with their suppers, but neither moved, so she
placed the two bowls on the floor mat near where
Terry sat and withdrew noiselessly.
As the sun sank below the trees, the Major stirred
out of his melancholy and twisting over on the hard
cot sought the reason for Terry's long silence. Terry
sat, as always, at the top of the crude steps, gazing
over the trees. The Major was shocked at the utter
dejection of the slumped figure, the pain that showed
in the set muscles of the thin face.
The Major sat up. "What is the matter, Terry?
You aren't sick?"
"No, Major. I'm all right."  His tone was weary.
"What is the matter? Is this suspense —"
Terry shook his head. "No, Major. It's something else-something home. I expected-I hoped
for some news before I came up-news I did not
receive. 
A flash of memory, and the Major asked: "A
cable?"




236


TERRY


At the bare nod of head he jumped upright and
reaching into his hip pocket brought out his purse to
extract the cablegram he had brought up but forgotten. Crossing the little room, he dropped it on
Terry's knees.
Terry ripped open the envelope, hesitated, then unfolded the message. And as the Major looked on,
every vestige of care and patient suffering left the
white face, the wistful line was ironed from the corner of his mouth and Terry stood up a joyous, vibrant
youth.
He had read:
Lieut. Richard Terry, P.C.
Davao, Mindanao, P. I.
At last the perfect Christmas gift. Am sailing immediately to claim it. Arriving Zamboanga January twentysixth with Susan and Ellis.
DEANE.
He carefully refolded the sheet and placed it in his
shirt pocket, then turned to the Major, his eyes darkened with such a joy as the Major had never seen.
"This message will cost you a wedding present,
Major!"
"What now?" asked the Major. Things were moving too fast since he reached the Hills.
"It is from... a girl. I left home-oh, foolishly.
But she is on her way over here, with my sister and
brother-in-law. That's where the present comes in!" 
"But-but-what about Ahma?"
"Ahma?" Terry asked, in his turn astounded. In
Terry's bewilderment the Major understood that his




THE SIGN


237


own unhappiness had been unfounded. At his shout
of delight the Hillmen all turned toward the white
men's hut, wondering at the joyous antics of the
strange pair.
In a few minutes the Major had calmed sufficiently
to discuss their affairs.
"But, Major," Terry asked him, "why did you
think that we-Ahma and I-that we-you know?"
"Why, everything. I saw you leave her early this
morning over there in the woods. Then, this afternoon-the way you sat together, and-and everything!"
"Last night-why, she helped me fix up that 'sign'
I told you about: and to-day we were talking about
you-she has asked me a million questions about youand about white girls. She has a jealous streak in
her-as you will learn!"
More explanations, and Terry suddenly reverted to
their plight.
"Now everything depends upon that sign I fabricated. If it fails-or if an unfavorable natural sign
comes first... You know I must be in Zamboanga
on the twenty-sixth, some way."
He lapsed into reverie. The Major fidgeted,
reached for his hat and stepped to the door, a bit
shamefaced.
"Terry," he said, awkwardly, "if you don't mind
I think I'll run over toward Ahma's house. There
is a lot to talk over with her now and I guess I-"
His words were drowned in a resounding crash that
blotted out all other sounds. The village shook with
the jarring impact of some vast missile striking near,




238                TERRY
the air filled with the roar of shattering rock and
heavy rumble of sliding earth.
The Hillmen bounded upright at the first terrific
crash and stood transfixed, witless, superstitious fear
written upon every brown face.
A dead silence followed the dying out of the last
thunderous echoes, then a child whimpered, another,
and the women took up the whining note. A warrior,
one of the sub-chiefs from  a neighboring village,
raised a braceleted arm in astounded gesture toward
the crag.
"The SIGN! The SIGN!" he shouted.
The thousand heads raised as one, and taking up the
cry, surged toward the great cone, sifting through the
timber like brown seeds through a screen.




CHAPTER XVI


CIVILIZATION DAWNS IN THE HILLS
HEN the tumult had subsided, the amazed
Major wheeled to face Terry's quizzical
grin.
"Well, Major," he said, "there is their merry little 'sign'! The darn thing worked!"
The Major pulled him toward the door. "Come
on," he exclaimed. "Let's see what happened."
He hurried down the short ladder ahead of Terry
and raced through the strip of woods to where the
mob was packed about the base of the cone. The Major smashed an unceremonious pathway through the
brown jam and in a moment they stood at the foot of
the crest.
A large segment of the huge pillar of rock had
broken off and in falling had carried thousands of
tons of shale and eroded stone. The immense rock,
whose fracture and fall had precipitated the slide,
lay directly under the Tribal Agong, at which the
Hillmen were staring up, dumfounded.
Following their upward gaze the Major saw that
the fallen stone had formed the platform beneath the
Agong, which now pivoted on its granite bracket over
a cliff which fell sheer for hundreds of feet before
curving into the stiff slope where crag fused into tableland. The great black gong hung directly over them.
239




240


TERRY


Looking closely, Bronner saw that it swung slowly in
the evening breeze, and moved by the same impulse
that had impelled him the first time he stood beneath
it, he shouldered their way through the crowd to a
safer position.
"You need not worry about its falling, Major. It
will hang there for a thousand years."
"I know it, but it gets me just the-what's that
they're yelling?" he exclaimed, as a swelling chorus
of guttural shouts rose from the excited throng.
"They are saying that the Tribal Agong can never
be sounded again-without the platform they can't
reach it." As a new phrase was caught up and repeated by hundreds of voices he added: "And now
they are calling for Ohto to interpret the sign!"
Several of the older savages tore out of the densely
packed throng and sped toward Ohto's house. In a
few moments one of them returned and announced
that the chieftain would arrive shortly. The two
white men, absorbed in the drama, did not notice that
four of the warriors who had summoned Ohto had
returned by another path and taken up their position
behind the captives, spears in hand, grim.
Ohto advanced slowly through    the trees and
emerged into the open space about the crag. The
IIillmen gave way respectfully and he walked to the
base of the cone through a wide lane opened up for
his passage. Age slowed his steps but he walked
erect, his head held high in simple dignity and gratitude for the silent homage his people offered.
Pausing near the base he surveyed the evidences of
cleavage of the ancient rock, the tribe's historic rally



CIVILIZATION DAWNS


241


ing point. Then he raised his eyes to the Agong.
The dense circle of Hillmen bated their breath while
the beloved patriarch communed with the spirits of
the long line who had heard the happy song of the
bronze-lipped gong. A deep hush pervaded the plateau, now lighted with the last white rays of the
dipping sun.
The sage turned to his people, his furrowed face
burdened with an added melancholy. His voice came
low and weak, so that the assemblage bent forward
in strained silence to hear his fateful words. Terry
gripped the Major's arm, whispering the translation.
"Listen, my children. We asked for guidance, and
a sign is sent to the east of Ohto's lodge-a happy
omen.
"The breaking of this age-old stone betokens the
breaking of our ancient custom... no longer will
we bar the stranger from the Hills... and those
who are with us now may go in peace, or stay in
peace. "
He paused, and a great sigh of relieved suspense
rose from the throng. The four armed men left their
position behind the two white men and melted into
the dense circle.
Terry gave the Major's arm a last ecstatic squeeze.
"It's working out just as we planned! I'll be back
soon. "
He raced through the trees toward Ohto's house,
returning in a couple of minutes to find Ohto still
standing with bowed head before his people.
A rustle of whispers roused him, and he raised his




242


TERRY


silvered head to behold the loveliness of his stolen
foster-child. Summoned by Terry, Ahma had' come
out of the shadows of the trees and stood at the forest
end of the lane made for Ohto's passage through the
crowd.
The old man extended his hand toward her in
compelling gesture and she went to him with the
agile swiftness of a half-wild thing. A moment he
lightly stroked the rippling mass of hair, then he
turned to his people again.
"Ohto said that the Tribal Agong would ring for
the marriage of this white daughter of our tribe-but
now-"- 
They followed his sadly expressive gaze to where
the gong hung far out over the cliff, inaccessible to
human touch.
"Daughter, it will be rung for you.. somehow...Ohto has said it. I hope to live to hear it rung.. when you have found him who is to share your
house-and after that, I do not care."
He paused again-lost in a patriarch's vague memories of other years. Retrieving his vagrant thoughts,
he caught the frank message of the upturned face, a
message which startled as it pleased him.
"Ah! You have found him, then? Let him step
forth."
Ohto searched every brown face in the hushed
circle, but none stepped forward.
Ahma slowly turned her head toward where the
two white men stood apart, her eyes fastened upon
Major Bronner. Terry gently pushed him forward.




CIVILIZATION DAWNS


243


Trembling, his tanned face bloodless, the Major advanced and took her outstretched hand.
Ohto studied the Major, then turned to Terry.
For a long moment he searched the lad's strong face,
a deep disappointment in his own, before he again
faced the two before him.
"I had not thought of this. But it will do. It is
as it should be-white will be happier with white.
But... will she stay until Ohto joins his fathers?"
The Major hesitated, then answered the sadly
anxious question with a nod. He had no voice.
"Then she is yours... after you have found a
way to ring the Tribal Agong for her marriage.
Ohto never spoke in vain. Ring the Agong first."
The Major's glance swept from Ahma to the lofty
gong. His triumphant joy gave way to deepest dejection. He saw no way to fulfil the chief's requirement, and he turned despairingly to Terry, who had
shouldered through the crowd and stood beside
him.
The Hillmen had accepted Ohto's interpretation unquestioningly. Their chief had spoken. The unexpectedness of the new phase, the avowal of love by
the tribe's adopted daughter for one of the outlanders, had appealed to the keen sense of the
dramatic that is shared by all primitive peoples.
Their brown skins coppered by the rosy glow of the
setting sun, they stood in strained suspense awaiting
the climax.
All but Pud-Pud. He jostled an avenue through
the innermost ring of Hillmen and leaped out in




244


TERRY


front of Terry, brandishing a short blow tube he carried and laughing in shrill derision.
"Ya, white men! Now ring the Agong! Ring the
Agong and get your woman! I saw! I watched!
And I laughed because I knew the Agong would never
ring again! Yeah! Now ring it!"
The Major was in no mood for finesse: with a
vicious shove he sent the vindictive Pud-Pud sprawling, then turned to Terry, worriedly.
"What are we going to do?" 
Terry shook his head, at a loss. This was a contingency he had not foreseen. He glanced penitently
at the melancholy girl, at the old man who waited,
swept the circle of tense faces, then resumed his hopeless contemplation of the gong overhead.
Swiftly Ahma broke the tableau. Dropping the
Major's hand she darted forward to where Pud-Pud
had risen to his knees, her white foot flashing up to
dash from his lips the blow tube he leveled at Terry.
The venomous dart sped aimlessly into the air and
fell outside the ring of Hillmen.
Pud-Pud's violation of the sanctity of council
roused Ohto to a wrath terrible to see. All of the
savagery, all of the unbridled fury of a primitive,
passionate nature mounted to his wrinkled face as
he pointed to the culprit with a majestic gesture that
summoned the four armed men. At a word they
hustled the terror-stricken savage away to await Ohto's
judgment.
Ahma calmly returned to the Major's side and together they resumed their hopeless contemplation of
the Agong. He peered up till his neck ached.




CIVILIZATION          DAWNS          245
"Terry," he whispered, "to ring it you have to
strike that little knob in the center, don't you?"
"Yes."
Then inspiration shone in the Major's face. He
eyed Terry covertly.
"Wish we had a rifle," he suggested.
Terry caught his meaning. He fingered his holster
but shook his head. "It can't be done, Major."
"Sure it can-sure you can! I've seen you shoot!"
Terry shook his head but the excited Major insisted: "Try it. Rest your gun on my head. Sure
you can do it-and think what it will mean-the Hills
opened up for all time-think what it will mean to
the Governor-and to the Service!"
The hushed crowd stiffened as they saw the two
white men draw back a hundred feet, wondered as
to the character of the strange black thing the smaller
drew from his leather pocket. They watched intently,
thinking to see sorcery wrought before their eyes.
Terry cocked the weapon and resting his wrist upon
the tall Major's head, sighted carefully. A thousand
pairs of eyes focussed upon him. Could the slim white
man ring the gong by pointing a magic finger?
The Major, braced for the shock of explosion, felt
the iron wrist tremble, grow limp and lift away. He
wheeled around to find Terry shaking his head,
uncertain,  faltering. He  slowly  holstered  the
gun.
"Major, I keep thinking how I have deceivedthis fine old man," he said.
The Major stared at him, then exploded: "By
making this 'sign' that saved your life-and mine?




246


TERRY


Sus-marie-hosep! I've heard of those New England
consciences but-Sus-marie-hosep!"
Disgust, dismay, affection swept in succession across
the Major's countenance: affection held. He laid his
hand upon Terry's shoulder as he played his ace:
"Terry, I thought you had a date in Zamboanga on
the twenty-sixth!"
The crowd then saw the white youth stiffen with
swift decision, saw him whirl to face the crag. For
a moment he stood with eyes riveted upon the Agong
till the little knob swung toward him, then he bent
slightly at the knees and his hand swept back with a
swiftness that seemed to bring the pistol leaping to
meet the extended arm. It raised to the darkening
sky, and the Hills awoke to the resounding crash of
white man's weapons. Six times Terry shot, but only
the first two reports were heard, for the others were
swallowed in the booming of the Agong.
The sound beat down deafeningly, seemed to enfold
them bodily in its mighty volume, blotting out all
else. From the sounding board of cliff it smote upon
their ears in thunderous, sustained, musical tone.
Slowly, the note lessened in volume, deepened, and
tumbled down in vibrant waves that rolled on and
on. The sonorous reverberations died out, then
surged again and again in ever fainter, ever deeper
tones.
At last the air quieted, and nothing but the roaring
in his ears remained to convince the Major that the
vast sound had been reality. " Jiminy!" he exploded.
"What a noise-and what shooting!"
A whisper of awe rustled through the surrounding




CIVILIZATION DAWNS


247


ranks. Ignorant of firearms, they thought the young
American wielded some uncanny power with his black
weapon. Already distinguished as the first white
man to set his foot upon Apo, he was now regarded
with a feeling akin to worship.
Ohto was silent, lost in a protracted, inscrutable
study of Terry's face. At last the old man turned
on his heels to sweep the circle of his people for confirmation of his surmise. Satisfied, he raised his hand
for silence.
"There has been worry... doubt... among
you-who should take up Ohto's burden when he lets
it fall... soon. You are entering new times, will
meet new and strange things. To Ohto it seems best
that he leave his people under the guidance of a
young and strong and kind chief who knows all these
strange things... one who can lead you safely into
the new life. What say you, my people? Who shall
sit in Ohto's chair when he is gone?"
For a moment the multitude was silent as the significance of Ohto's query sank into their slow minds,
then a murmur of approval rose among them, swelled
into a deafening shout of acclamation.
"The pale white man! The pale white man!"
Terry understood. Uncertain, he turned to the
Major, but Ohto interrupted by addressing him directly.
"You have heard. When Ohto leaves-and it can
not be long-he leaves his people in your hands.
You will be patient, kindly, gentle, with them. That
Ohto knows... it is written in your face."
As Terry slowly bowed his head slightly in accept



248


TEERY


ance of the trust, the delighted Hillmen stirred, whispered to each other. The hum of voices grew louder
but was instantly hushed by the dramatic gesture with
which Ohto extended his arm toward a low cotton tree
that stood at the edge of the woods. The thousand
eager heads turned almost as one.
Upon a slender leafless branch which extended at
right angles from the trunk of a kapok tree two large
gray wood pigeons had perched side by side in the
close communion of mated birds, heedless of the host
below them. Unafraid, tired, content with what the
day had brought them in the lowlands, they were
happy in safe return together to their mountain home.
In the hush which followed recognition by the
throng, the limogons moved closer to each other,
wing brushed wing, sleepy lids lowered over soft
eyes to shut out the crimson glory of the dying sun.
Then the little throats throbbed as they voiced gratitude to their Creator in gentle, low pitched notes, lilting with the joy of life, plaintive with the brevity of
its span.
The sweet song died with the day, and as dusk
reached down in brief embrace of tropic earth, the
birds winged side by side into the darkening forest.
Peace settled upon the face of the old man who
had made decision vitally affecting the welfare of
the people over whom he had ruled for two generations. The limogons had sung in the East. His fathers were pleased with him.
A shout of fierce joy burst from  the Hillmen.
Then the women surrounded the dainty white girl and




CIVILIZATION         DAWNS          249
bore her off to prepare for the long ceremony with
which the Hill People give in marriage. And the
two friends walked through the woods, arm in arm,
silent, profoundly humble.




CHAPTER XVII


STJS-MARIE-HOSEP!" 
TEEERRY was happily engaged in remaking the
Major's old pack for his own use when the
Major entered the torchlit shack. It lacked
an hour till dawn. Outside, the main clearing was
dark, but the big fires which illuminated the surrounding trees revealed the excited natives still celebrating Ahma's nuptials in the clearing around Ohto's
house.
Terry straightened up from his task and studied the
face of his friend: fatigue and happiness had softened
the serious lines that had given the Major an appearance of age beyond his years.
"Major, isn't the ceremony finished yet?"
"No, it takes forty-eight hours to get married up
here-and only two hours to get buried! But a
month ago I would have said that it was about the
correct ratio, at that."
Terry grinned as he finished the pack and threw
it on the floor near the door, then sat beside the Major
on the cot.
"Major, I want to send up a gift for Ahma by the
first runner the postoffice people send through. It's
hard to decide what to give her, because she is entirely different from other girls, and the usual bridal
gifts would hardly do. Can't you help me out?"
For a minute the Major pondered heavily: "How
250




' SUS-MARIE-HOSEP!                  "  251
about a mirror? She is twenty years old and has
never seen her own reflection."
"Just the thing! Enter the civilizing influence
of vanity in the Hill Country!"
Terry drew a notebook from his shirt pocket.
"Major, I have jotted down a list of things we are
going to need for this work up here. I thought it
would be better if I had a definite program to submit to the Governor, with estimate of appropriations
necessary, and so on. First I listed those things you
will need in order to build and furnish your house:
cook stoves, lamps, dishes, window glass, and so
on. I think I have included everything, so just run
over those things you will need to begin this work."
For an hour earnestly they discussed the problems
the Major would confront pending Terry's return to
take up the work. They listed a wide variety of needs
-pigs, chickens, medicines, books, tools, seeds: contingent upon the Governor's approval, they outlined
several months of planting, trail making, establishment of regular communication with the lowlands,
selection of school teachers, of a health officer-all
of the varied instruments needed for the initial work
of elevating the tribesmen out of their barbarism.
Dawn had dimmed their torches when they finished.
For a while they sat silent, Terry happy in the outcome of this strange adventure in the Hills, the Major
thrilling with the joy that had come to him.
The Major broke the silence: "Terry, I AM   a
chump! All this time I've forgotten to tell you that
a captain's commission is waiting your acceptance in
Zamboanga!"




252


TERRY


He went on, slowly: "Are you sure that you can
come back here for a year-after your honeymoon?
Maybe she-your wife-won't wish to come."
"Yes, she will."  Terry was confident. "It will
be for only one year, and then-"
"And then what?" the Major demanded after a
while.
"Then-back home, among my own people. I left
home foolishly, Major. I was restless-looking for a
dragon to slay. But I have had a year in which to
think-and I see things differently. During the time
I was sick up here I-I... well, I know now that
a man need not cross the world to find service: he
can be just as useful in preventing bunions as in-as
in such lucky ventures as this."
"Preventing bunions?"  The Major was puzzled.
But Terry did not answer. He had risen to finish
his preparations for the journey down.
"Just one more thing, Terry. You promised to
tell me how you started that little avalanche-the
'sign.' '
Something of the serenity faded from Terry's face
as he turned to explain: "I had been up there several times, and had noticed a deep crevice that split
the platform from the parent rock. It would have
fallen within a few months. I carried up some softwood wedges, drove them into the fault, poured in a
lot of water and expansion did the rest."
The Major visualized the toil and peril of lugging
heavy logs up the spiral trail at night. "Why didn't
you let me help?" he demanded.
"Well, Ahma kept guard for me, and that was




' SUS-MARIE-HOSEP!' '             253
enough. If I had been caught I could probably have
talked myself out of the scrape, but it might have
gone harder with you. Luckily the timbers I used
for wedges were buried in the slide."
The Major's face clouded swiftly: "Say, Terry!
That scoundrel Pud-Pud said that he saw you that
night-he can ruin the thing yet if he talks!"
Terry shook his head, a little sorrowfully: "No,
Pud-Pud will never talk to anybody about anything
again. I got to Ohto too late: they had already executed sentence."
"What did they do with him?"
"Shot him full of darts and turned him loose in
the Dark Forest. So I confessed to Ohto that I contrived the 'sign.' Of course I made him understand
that you had nothing to do with the-trickery.."
"What did he say-what is he going to do about
it?"  The Major was anxious.
"He had known about it all the time-his men have
trailed every step we have taken, watched everything
we have done."
A slow blush mounted the Major's rugged features
as he thought of the possibility that secret onlookers
had witnessed his meeting with Ahma just before
the wedding ceremony when he had sought to teach
her the White Man's customs of caress. The flush
persisted as he turned to Terry.
"There's one thing I forgot to ask you to buy for
me. I want a good talking machine, with plenty of
records."  He paused, then continued abstractedly:
"She can keep it in her house."
Terry looked up in astonishment. "In her house?




254


TERRY


Aren't you both going to live in the same house?"
"No. Not till-you send a missionary up here to
marry us. I don't figure that two days of savage rites
constitutes a marriage-but I'm going to have a deuce
of a time trying to explain it to Ahma!7"
Terry nodded sympathetically and walked the
springy floor a dozen times, nonplussed by the Major's
dilemma. Pausing in his preoccupation before the
open window he noted vaguely that the nuptial fires
were yellowing before the approach of dawn: a moment and he started violently as the solution struck
him and he whirled upon the dejected groom with
beaming countenance.
"Say! " he shouted, "I'm certainly not going down
with you two only half-married-she a bride and you
not a groom! You forget that as Senior Inspector of
Constabulary I am an ex-officio Justice of the Peace!
Come on!"
He lifted the Major by the arm  and shot him
through the doorway with an exuberant shove that
left him no alternative save a jarring leap to the
ground. Terry landed beside him as light as a cat,
and catching him by the elbow he hurried him on
through the woods and into the fading light of the big
fires that burned before Ohto's house.
Terry, his eyes dancing joyously, broke up the
dance with which a hundred Hill People were keeping
the ceremonial pot boiling, and despatched two women
to fetch the bride, who had sought a brief respite
from  the interminable ritual. Shortly Ahma appeared before them, her dark eyes shadowed with
fatigue, but radiant with exaltation.




' SUS-MARIE-HOSEP"! '


255


Understanding from Terry's few words that the
Major desired that they be united also in accordance
with the rites of his own people, she stepped quietly
before Terry and took the Major's outstretched hand.
The crowd of natives, who had crowded about them,
waited the alien ritual curiously.
Ahma was clad in the white costume in which the
Major had first seen her. A scarlet hibiscus blossom, the Hillmen's nuptial flower, was thrust in her
black hair, but there was no other addition to her
scant covering.
Possessed of a sudden spirit of banter Terry turned
to the Major: "Before I begin, Major, I wish to congratulate you upon having won to the bliss of matrimony without violating that bachelor formula which
you so often boasted."
"What formula?"
Terry's voice deepened in mimicry: " 'No petticoats for mine!' "
A moment he enjoyed the Major's embarrassment,
then composed himself to the business in hand, happy,
confident.
But-the competent Terry fumbled. Swept away
in the exuberance of having found a way out for the
Major, he had forgotten that, never having exercised
his legal privilege of joining in marriage in a province
where all of the natives were either Catholic or Mohammedan, he was wanting in the phraseology the
ceremony demanded.
Vainly he sought inspiration in a sky chill with the
pale lights of daybreak. He shuffled his feet nervously, scowled at the ring of brown-skinned specta



256


T E R R Y


tors, looked at his watch. As the sweat of worry
appeared upon his white forehead he drew his handkerchief and wiped his face vigorously, then blew his
nose resoundingly. This last device seemed to serve.
He turned to the serene couple who waited patiently: "Do you, John Bronner, take this woman,
Ahma-Ahma of the Hills, to be your lawful wedded
wife, to love and cherish and to-er-provide for?"
"I do," said the Major. He was proud of Terry
-trust the Constabulary to see a thing through!
Terry was triumphant in his success. He unconsciously drew up his slim, muscular figure as he
turned to the bride, focussing his gaze upon the blossom in the waves of jet locks that tumbled smoothly
about the downcast head.
"And do you, Ahma of the Hills, take this man,
John Bronner, to be your wedded lawful husband,
to love and to-er-care for when he-er-is sick?"
She caught the groom's whispered instructions and
grasped the wonderful import of the unknown words
that Terry had spoken. Twice her silent lips formed
the two words of response in soundless practice, then
she looked up squarely into Terry's eyes and pronounced them.
"I do."
Either the clear voice was too rich with gladness, or
else she should not have turned the starry eyes so
suddenly upon him. Lost for a long moment in the
splendor of the vision opened up to him, he forced
himself back to the duty of the minute. But he was
off the track again.
He floundered for an opening. Bits of biblical and




''SUS-MARIE-HOSEP!'  257


legal phrases raced through his tortured brain, but
none seemed appropriate to this situation. The haunt
of the dark eyes obscured his vision, the limpid "I
do," filled his ears. "I do."  The significance of
the words brought him back to the point of interruption, and he turned to them, desperate, vague.
"You do? You do, eh-you both do... well,...join hands! I do say and declare this twentythird day of January that you are man and wife in
accord with the law of this land, and now-"
He glared at the grinning beneficiary of the service,
and finished: "And now-and now what I-what
God and I have joined let no man put asunder...
till death do us part... so help me God, Amen!"
In an agony of torment he ripped through the
crowd and raced to the shack, where the Major joined
him after taking Ahma into Ohto;'s house. It was
now broad daylight, and the huts were emptying of
the crowd waking to take up the burden of fiesta.
Terry buckled up his pack, joining in the Major's
mirth.
"But you are married all right. I will send you
up a certificate as soon as I reach Zamboanga, all
signed and sealed and everything."
They became serious in thought of imminent separation. Now that the time had come Terry dreaded
leaving his friend alone in the Hills.
"I will relieve you in three months, Major," he
said.
"You needn't hurry-don't forget I'm on a honeymoon, too!"'
Terry hesitated, then risked the question that had




258


TERRY


been bothering him: "After we come-what are you
going to do? Will Ahma be ready to go below?"
"No, she will not. I am figuring on leaving her
here a few months-your wife can teach her to-to
dress, and all that. And I can't take her away so
long as Ohto lives. After that, I want to take her
to the States. She learns fast, Terry,-and I want
her to see Europe-she will learn a lot there, too!"
The old woman brought them their breakfast. The
Major hurried through the meal and left to secure
a guide to take Terry down, explaining that he would
join him in the woods. Terry ate under the sorrowing eyes of the faithful woman, and when he finished
he presented her with the only gaud that remained to
him, the gold medallion from his fob. She scurried
out to display it, the proudest woman, save one, in
all the Hills.
Slinging the pack across his shoulders he turned
for a last look at the little hut that had sheltered him.
Within its cramped walls he had suffered, had known
grave peril, and great joy. A hint of the old wistfulness flickered about the corner of his mouth, then
he left the hut and strode through the clearing into
the woods, halting to wave cheerfully at the Hillmen
who somberly watched the departure of their future
chief.
He dipped over the edge of the plateau and found
the Major awaiting him with Ahma and the young
warrior who was to guide him down. From where
they stood at the edge of a wide glade they could see
far down over the tops of the trees that matted the
slope. In the clear morning air the mists which




"SUS-MARIE-HOSEP!'  259


gleamed over the distant Gulf shone white as billowed
snow. There lay Davao! Davao, then Zamboanga,
then-! A fiercely glad light blazed in Terry's gray
eyes, then darkened in anticipation of leaving the
Major alone and with that melancholy with which all
men face the knowledge that even as Life turns the
pages of existence into its happiest chapter, she closes
each finished page forever.
The Major spoke first. "This guide knows the
shortest route. He will take you safe past all the
man traps-you should sleep but one night on the
trail. Give my regards to Lindsey, Sears,-everybody."
Ahma looked from one to the other, not quite understanding what they said, but understanding fully what
they did not say. That showed in the face of each.
"Major, I have never said anything about your
-how I feel about your risking the Hills to search
for me, when it meant almost certain death."
Death!... For an instant the Major again stood
helpless in the dark woods behind Lindsey's plantation embraced in coils of steel that quivered, and
heard the crash of delivering shots.... He searched
the white face, in which the lines of suffering from a
chivalrously  contracted  fever still lingered. An
extraordinary warm cataract suddenly obscured his
vision.
" Sus-marie-hosep!" he spluttered. "Good-by."
Their hands gripped hard in an abiding friendship,
then Terry turned to Ahma doubtfully, at a loss as
to how to bid adieu to this creature of the Hills who
knew so few of the white man's words or usages. He




260


TERRY


found, too, a source of embarrassment in her new
capacity of wife. As she gazed up at him he looked
away in boyish confusion.
The Major grasped the situation and addressed her
very slowly in English: "Ahma, say good-by to
him."
As she nodded brightly, understanding, the Major
turned to Terry as proud as Punch: "'You seeshe is learning fast! Can't you imagine her, all
dressed up and everything, in Europe?"
Terry focussed his eyes safely upon the white line
that marked the part in her hair, and carefully pronounced each English word.
"Ahma, I am leaving for a while. Understand?"
She bobbed the dark head: "I do," she said.
The memories wrought by the limpid "I do" were
a bit unsettling. He addressed the jet locks again:
"Good-by. "
She looked at the capable hand he extended toward
her, puzzled at the gesture, then looked at the Major.
He said a single word in dialect and her small white
teeth glistened in a smile of comprehension. She approached close to Terry.
"I know. You say-good-night. I know howto good-night."
Her concentration upon the unaccustomed pronunciations was bewitching. To relieve the strain of embarrassment he felt in her closeness to him, he turned
to the grinning Major.
"As you say-she does learn quickly," he offered,
rather vaguely.




C' SUS-MARIE-HOSEP! '              261
She came closer still. "Yes, I know-how togood-night!" she trilled: "Good-night is kiss!"
She called it "Keez" but Terry understood. If he
did not then he did an instant later when he felt
the clasp of warm round arms, the molding pressure
of a soft form and the swift impress of full sensitive lips.
Loosed, he straightened up. His blush was explosive. Bewildered, he shrugged the light pack
higher on his shoulders and gestured his readiness to
the warrior who had stood watching the inexplicable
ways of these strange white folk.
Following the Hillman, Terry set off across the
glade. Midway down the green sward he wheeled.
" I should say she DOES learn fast!" he called.
"You won't need to take HER to Europe!"
The two stood watching him as he followed the
powerful little savage. As the forest swallowed up
the slim form the Major blinked rapidly, and gripped
the little hand he held.
"Sus-marie-hosep!" he exclaimed huskily. "But
won't they be glad to see him in Davao! And in Zamboanga!"




CHAPTER XVIII


THE FOX SKIaN
TE      ERRY pushed the hardy Hillman to his limit,
so that when night fell they were far down
among the foothills, the Dark Forest behind
them. At daylight the Hillman was proudly mounting homeward, Terry's belt tightly buckled about his
naked trunk. The white man's last dispensable
possession had gone as a reward for the service.
Terry's joyous urge carried him swiftly, so that in
an hour he dropped out of the foothills and into the
heat of the jungled lowlands. At noon he climbed
Sears' steps and dropped into a porch chair, his clothes
wet with perspiration and torn by contact with brush
and thorn, for he had cut straight through the woods.
He had nearly emptied Sears' water bottle when
he saw the big planter coming out of a wonderful
growth of hemp. Sears advanced slowly, deep in
thought, not looking up till he had mounted the last
step. At sight of Terry's grinning features he recoiled violently, then as the lad rose, he jumped forward to wring his hand furiously. Incapable of coherent speech for several minutes, he at last mastered
his vocal cords.
"Man! I thought you were a ghost!" he cried.
Terry sketched his journey into the Hills, and added
a brief account of the experiences he and the Major
262




THE FOX SKIN


263


had undergone. Learning that the Major was also
safe, Sears called a Bogobo boy and issued instructions
that sent him scurrying into one of the BIogobo huts.
In a few minutes he returned bearing a small agong
and striker.
Under Sears' directions he hung it upon a pole in
front of the house and struck it sharply, again and
again. As the deep notes carried out through the
still, hot woods Sears motioned to him to desist and
turned to Terry.
"Listen!' he exclaimed, intent, his hand on Terry's
shoulder.
In a moment another agong, somewhere close to the
south, sounded several times, then another further
away, then another, another. Soon the noon stillness
of the brush pulsed with the mystic multi-tones of
scores of far agongs rung from plantations. Slowly
the murmur grew as hundreds of agongs rung by
Bogobos in the foothills took up the signal, flooding
the hemplands with a glad, bronze chorus.
Sears gripped Terry's shoulder hard, his eyes brimming.
"That's the signal we fixed up," he said. "Welcome home!"
He hovered over Terry, questioning, commenting,
incredulous over the Major's marriage, overjoyed that
the quinine he had given Terry had been a factor in
his recovery. After lunch Terry borrowed Sears'
best pony and rode away with the planter's profane
benedictions in his ears.
He rode hard, but each familiar landmark, each
twist in trail, each sight of river, each expanse of




264


TERRY


glistening hemp plants, thrilled him with a sense of
homecoming. Once, drawing up to cool and water
his pony, he caught the sparkle of the sunny Gulf, his
nostrils sensed its tang, and with the surge of thanksgiving for the wonderful good fortune that had attended him, he first realized the strain of the past
weeks.
Great as was his hurry to reach Davao-an hour's
tardiness might mean the loss of the weekly steamer
-he spent a half-hour with Lindsey, who had ridden out to the trail in the hope of intercepting him.
From Lindsey he learned more of the suspense that
had hung over the Gulf since his disappearance, the
deep anxiety that had spread among the Bogobos and
silenced every agong in the foothills.
"And Terry-the night the Giant Agong rang up
there-we most went crazy!"
"We wondered if you heard it, Lindsey."
"Heard it! Heard it? It reached clear over on
the East Coast. Boynton heard it over there."
Terry pressed on. Three miles below he found
Casey was out to meet him, and further on, Burns.
At four o'clock he dismounted to greet some Bogobos
whom he overtook on the trail. Pushing Sears' little
brown hard, he rode into Davao at five o'clock.
The plaza was crowded. Warned of his coming by
the agong chorus, the whole town had turned out,
Americans, Filipinos, Chinese, several Spaniards and
Moros. The sleepy, dusty square waked to their
noisy welcome.
"El Solitario!! El Conquistador del Malabanan!"
Laughing, misty eyed with the warmth of their




THE FOX XSKIN


265


greeting, he stood in the center of the jostling crowd,
shaking hands, calling each white, native and Mongolian by name. Then the Macabebes claimed him
and swept him into the privacy of the cuartel.
The jealous Matak had waited till Terry entered
the house that his welcome might be unshared.
"Master, I know you come back. All time I know,"
he assured him gravely, then looked him over and
sent out for the barber. Solemn and efficient as ever,
he hustled his master under the shower, helped him
into the first starched clothes he had known in five
weeks, then went into the kitchen to frighten the cook
into greater haste in preparation of dinner.
Barber shears, soap and clean linens restored Terry
to his usual nattiness, and he delighted the cook with
the zest with which he approached a good dinner after
the weeks of the crude and undiversified fare of the
Hillmen. Halfway through dinner he beckoned to
Matak who stood with folded arms near the kitchen
door as matter of fact as though the routine of the
household had never been disturbed.
"Matak, when is the mail boat due?"
"She come this morning, go noontime."
And this was the twenty-fourth. Terry's keen disappointment was apparent to the watchful Moro.
"Master, you want go to Zamboanga?" he said.
"Yes. I must go as soon as possible, Matak."
"Take little boat Major come in. She still here."
Terry jumped up from the dinner table and hurried to the dock and found the speedboat tied up
alongside. After a hurried conference with Adams
he raced back to the house, where the forehanded




266


TERRY


Matak was already packing his bags. Terry added a
steamer trunk which held his civilian clothes, and as
dusk fell master and man stepped aboard the frail
craft. Adams was ready. A sharp thrust of foot
quickened the engine into life, and they swung in a
short circle. Straightening, motors roaring, the
stern sucked deep as they sped in swift flight into
the south.
From his seat in the stern Terry watched the light
fade out of the western sky. The stars invaded the
deserted field and dimly outlined the rim  of the
mountains, a smooth line save where Apo reared high
in the west. For a moment the dark peak seemed
lonely to him, but he knew that the Major was happy
on the pine clad height.... After Ohto's passing, his
own responsibility, the guidance of a child-tribe, would
be a heavy one.. a year of that, perhaps, and then
-but first... his heart throbbed in vivid realization
of all that awaited him in Zamboanga.
Adams hovered about his engines, happy in Terry's
return and in this opportunity to render him service.
Matak stretched out on a cross seat, unhappy in the
deafening roar of the motors and the rhythmic rise
and fall of the speeding craft in the smooth landswells.
As they rounded Sarangani in the middle of the
calm  moonlit night Adams left the cockpit long
enough to cover Terry with a thick blanket, for he
had succumbed to the monotonous chorus of the motors
and the lull of the bewitching night at sea.
As the calm weather held, Adams steered straight
for Zamboanga, putting out to sea in the little motor



THE FOX SKIN


267


boat. When Terry woke Basilan was in sight, and
at five o'clock they rushed down the tidal current of
the Straits and eased into the slip alongside the
dock.
Adams, grimy, worn with his long vigil, grinned contentedly under Terry's warm thanks. Leaving Matak to secure a bullcart to transport his luggage to
the Major's house Terry hurried down the dock and
entered the Government Building. The clerks had
left for the day but at Terry's knock the Governor
himself threw wide the door.
Profound thankfulness lit Mason's intellectual face.
Grasping Terry's hand he led him into the office.
"And the Major?" he questioned.
"Well-and very happy, sir!"
Keen-eyed, observant, in the moment of welcome the
Governor had sensed the new Terry, read the new
contentment and confidence manifest in his face and
bearing.
In a few minutes Terry had sketched his experiences
to his eager auditor. The Governor contented himself
with a bare outline, though his eyes glistened. The
Hills opened!
"Captain Terry," he said, "come in to-morrow and
tell me the details-I will give you the entire morning. To-morrow I will try to tell you how happy I
am in your safe return, and in the service you have
rendered this Government."
He rose, beaming with the news it was his privilege
to impart.
"You had best run along now, Captain. You will
find three anxious-friends-awaiting you at the




268


TERRY


Major's house. They expected to arrive to-morrow
but caught the transport and docked yesterday. They
will be relieved to see you, for I had to tell them something of the uncertainty we felt regarding yourwhereabouts. Take my car, and run along!"
And Terry ran along! He flew down the steps and
into the automobile and in three minutes was leaping up the stairway into the Major's house.
Ellis, fatter, somehow absurd in tropic whites, met
him at the entrance. Meeting halfway around the
world from where they had parted, choking with the
end of the dread suspense into which the Governor's
guarded references to Terry's disappearance had
plunged him, Ellis' big heart thumped in glad relief,
but true to the traditions of his lifetime environment
he strove to repress it, to appear as casual as though
they had been in daily association. Pumping Terry's
hand spasmodically, he measured the ecstatic lad
with extravagant care, studied him from crown to
heel.
"Dick, how do you do it?" he asked.
"Do what, Ellis?" Terry's voice was unsteady,
too.
"Keep so fit in this oven of a country-you're as
hard as nails!"
Terry's unsteady laugh rang through the big bungalow: "Go on, you fakir-you're crying right now!"
Ellis was. He turned away as Susan rushed out
of an adjoining room. Laughing, sobbing, she threw
herself upon her brother, held him away to study his
appearance, hugged him tighter, pouring out a volume
of questions she offered him no opportunity to answer.




THE FOX SKIN


269


Five minutes, and she recovered sufficient reason
to catch the significance of Ellis' vehement gestures
toward the second of the row of four bedrooms that
opened off the sala. Understanding, she left Terry
and followed Ellis into their room, closing the door
with a bang intended as a signal to another who
listened.
Terry waited, idly stroking the long frond of an air
plant that hung in the wide window near where he
stood. He wondered, vaguely, that he should be so
collected, almost unconcerned, in the face of what
awaited him. He saw the door open slowly, wider,
then arrest as if the hand on the knob had faltered,
and in the instant his self-possession deserted him.
His heart skipped a beat, then accelerated into a
heavy thumping that seemed to fill the room with
pulsing muffled roar. He moistened his lips as the
door moved again, opened wide.
Deane stepped into the room, pale, her wide blue
eyes fixed upon him. Slender, rounded, white of arm
and throat, she had fulfilled gloriously all of the
fair promise of her youth. The rich heritage of
womanhood had stamped the softly curved form and
the sweetly pensive face. Virginal, she was a mother
of men.
He faced her from the window, powerless to move,
to speak, but there was that in his eyes that made
words unnecessary. Scarce breathing, atremble, she
saw the steady gray eyes blaze with a light no other
had ever seen, ever would see.
To him she suddenly became unreal, and his mind
reverted to another hour when they had stood facing




270


TERRY


each other. Again she stood before him in the dimlit
hall, sobbing, and with the memory came a surging
realization of what he might have lost. Unconsciously
his last words to her, spoken that Christmas night,
sprang brokenly to his lips as he held out his arms:
"Don't wait, Deane-girl, don't wait."
With the sudden deepening of the wistful lines of
his mouth she felt a burning rush of tears, and at
his words she crossed to him, starry eyed, full red lips
aquiver.
There never was a merrier party of four than theirs
that night. The questions flew back and forth, answers clipped short by new and more pressing queries.
Ellis and Susan were full of the newcomers' interest
in the country, its peoples and customs. Deane,
quieter, was interested most in Terry's work, in
Davao, in the story of the Hills. Terry learned of
the home friends. Father Jennings, Doctor Mather,
Mr. Hunter, a score of others, had sent messages to
him. Deane had brought special greetings from his
friends on the Southside, and a garish picture of little
Richard Terry Ricorro. Half of her larger trunk
was filled with silver and linens which had poured
in when news of the purpose of her journey had sifted
through Crampville.
They were seated on the cool veranda at coffee
when the Governor's car drew up outside the gate,
and the chauffeur entered with a note.
Dear Captain Terry:
This car is yours throughout the stay of your-will not
the word "family" soon properly cover all three of them?




THE FOX SKIN


271


Please use it freely. I have another entirely suited for
my present needs.
I am very happy to-night, happy in your safe return and
in the achievement you have wrought in the name of the
Government it is my unmerited privilege to head. And this
happiness will be the greater for knowing that you are
driving through this glorious evening by the side of her
who came so far to join her life with yours.
MASON.
After Terry had read the note aloud Deane added
her pleas to his that Susan and Ellis should share the
car with them. But they would have none of it.
When Susan wavered, Ellis became emphatic.
So the two rode through the tropic night alone,
that night and during the glorious evenings that followed for a week. They came to know every village
along the ribboned roads, each grove of tall palms,
each stretch of beach where smooth highways ran
along the coast. She loved the island empire.
They talked as such do talk. The third night, as
they rolled through the moonlight down the San
Ramon road, he found courage to broach the one subject he had hesitated to mention.
"The Governor wants me to stay a year," he faltered. "A year up in the Hills."
She had expected it, was ready. She looked full
up at him, and in the soft light her lovely face shone
with a strange beauty that humbled him.
"Dick, 'and thy people shall be my people.'"
They planned their house in the Hills, bought and
stored picturesque odds and ends of furniture and fit



272


TERY R


tings; brasses, embroideries, carved teak: and he outlined their honeymoon, which was to be a threemonths' ramble through Japan, the magic lover's land.
They arranged no exact itinerary, just a wandering
through Miajima, Kyoto, Nikko,-a score of out of
the way places.
The mornings he spent with the enthusiastic Governor, planning, discussing. Two tons of supplies
went out to the Major the fourth day.
"I put in an assortment of presents for him to
give to the Hillmen," the Governor told him. "And
plenty of matches-you say they went wild over those
he packed up. They will be rich!"
"Governor, the Hillmen are the richest people I
have ever seen."
The Governor was puzzled: "How?"
"They have everything they want. Land for the
clearing, a spear, cotton growing wild on trees for
such clothes as they wear, meat in the forest, bamboo
to cut for shelter against wind and rain, upland
rice springing up from barely scratched soils. No
social striving, no politics, no taxes. All their wants
are satisfied-was Croesus as ric h?"
"Then you do not believe in civilizing them-it
means introducing new wants-some of which they
never will satisfy!"
"Yes, I do, Governor. Civilization means doctors,
less suffering, longer life: schools and books: agriculture and better diet: commerce and clothes: churches,
and morality-and soap!"
The day came when Terry and Deane drove down
the San Ramon road where the Governor had preceded




THE FOX SKIN


273


them with Ellis and Susan and a score of the new
friends they had made in Zamboanga. Wade had insisted that his spacious bungalow be the scene of
their wedding.
Even before he had wrought the house into a fairyland of palm and cadena and hibiscus the great flowered sweeps of lawn and grove set by the sea had
been an ideal setting. Ellis, given his choice of functions, had elected to officiate as best man, so the Governor was happy in giving the bride away. Susan
cried, as matrons of honor always do, as she stood
with them in the fret-work of shadows under the palms
which stirred gently in the off-sea breeze.
None of those most concerned remembered many of
the details of the evening, excepting Matak, who met
there a young Moro maid and found her fair.
They returned to Zamboanga under enchanting
stars, and at nine o'clock they saw Ellis and Susan
leave, for they were returning home at once through
the Suez, taking steamer first for Borneo and Java.
Their own boat left an hour later for Manila, Hong
Kong and Nagasaki.
Bidding Ellis good-by, Terry woke from the dream
in which he had moved through the afternoon.
"Ellis, do not sell the shoe store. We may be
home in a year, and I'll want to pitch into something."
"But you'd never fool with that after-after all this
over here!"
Terry laughed happily: "You never can tell, Ellis.
I am learning lessons every day!"
Later, Ellis sought to dry Susan's tears. "Dick,




274


TERRY


you're a fine lover! After all these years of search for
things for Deane you failed to give her a wedding
gift!"
Terry flushed miserably, for it was true. But
Deane thrilled the more happily for the utter absorption in her that had expelled all other things
from his mind: she knew that Susan had prompted
him to both engagement and wedding rings.
From the pier they watched Ellis and Susan at the
rail till the altering course of the brilliantly lighted
steamer swept them from sight.
An hour later their own liner carried them northward through the dark Straits.
The deck was deserted, dark. They sat close, in
long steamer chairs, watching the mysterious coastline of Mindanao, the shadowy masses of distant
mountains that seemed less substance than opaque
obstruction of the warm, starry sky. Neither spoke.
It was the hour of fullest gratitude, of mutual dedication. The night about them was filled with that humming heard only on a big ship plowing through a
calm sea after sundown, the drone of light winds
through lofty rigging, the heavy slipping of displaced
water, the muffled roar of great engines throbbing in
the deep hold.
Eight bells rang the midnight hour. Deane rose,
whispering that she had a few things to unpack, bidding him come in ten minutes. Leaning over him,
she smoothed his hair lightly with her two hands,
curling about her fingers the obstinate scalp lock
that always would stand forth from his crown.
Reaching up, he took her cool hands and held them




THE FOX SKIN


275


tightly against his cheeks. Releasing her, he watched
the progress of the buoyant form down the long deck,
his soul lit with the flame that warms all mankind.
The moon, in its last quarter, peered over the dark
rim of the mountains. When its lower tip cleared, he
rose.
When he joined her in their stateroom, her eyes
filled happily as she watched the fine, white face.
The fox skin lay on the cabin floor before her berth.


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