"I wonder what
has become of Tudor. It's two
months since
he disappeared into the bush,
and not a word of him after he
left
Binu."
Joan Lackland was sitting astride
her horse by the bank of the
Balesuna where the sweet corn
had been planted, and Sheldon,
who had come across from the
house on foot, was leaning against
her horse's shoulder.
"Yes, it is along time for
no news to have trickled down," he
answered, watching her keenly
from under his hat-brim and wondering
as to the measure of her anxiety
for the adventurous gold-hunter; "but
Tudor will come out all right.
He did a thing at the start that
I wouldn't have given him or
any other man credit for-- persuaded
Binu Charley to go along with
him. I'll wager no other Binu
nigger has ever gone so far into
the bush unless to be kai- kai'd.
As for Tudor--"
"Look! look!" Joan cried in
a low voice, pointing across
the narrow stream to a slack
eddy where a huge crocodile drifted
like a log awash. "My! I wish
I had my rifle."
The crocodile, leaving scarcely
a ripple behind, sank down and
disappeared.
"A Binu man was in early this
morning--for medicine," Sheldon
remarked. "It may have been that
very brute that was responsible.
A dozen of the Binu women were
out, and the foremost one stepped
right on a big crocodile. It
was by the edge of the water,
and he tumbled her over and got
her by the leg. All the other
women got hold of her and pulled.
And in the tug of war she lost
her leg, below the knee, he said.
I gave him a stock of antiseptics.
She'll pull through, I fancy."
"Ugh--the filthy beasts," Joan
gulped shudderingly. "I hate
them! I hate them!"
"And yet you go diving among
sharks," Sheldon chided.
"They're only
fish-sharks. And as long as
there are plenty
of fish there is no danger. It
is only when they're famished
that they're liable to take a
bite."
Sheldon shuddered inwardly
at the swift vision that arose
of the dainty flesh of her in
a shark's many-toothed maw.
"I wish you wouldn't, just
the same," he said slowly. "You
acknowledge there is a risk."
"But that's half the fun of
it," she cried.
A trite platitude about his
not caring to lose her was on
his lips, but he refrained from
uttering it. Another conclusion
he had arrived at was that she
was not to be nagged. Continual,
or even occasional, reminders
of his feeling for her would
constitute a tactical error of
no mean dimensions.
"Some for the book of verse,
some for the simple life, and
some for the shark's belly," he
laughed grimly, then added: "Just
the same, I wish I could swim
as well as you. Maybe it would
beget confidence such as you
have."
"Do you know, I think it would
be nice to be married to a man
such as you seem to be becoming," she
remarked, with one of her abrupt
changes that always astounded
him. "I should think you could
be trained into a very good husband--you
know, not one of the domineering
kind, but one who considered
his wife was just as much an
individual as himself and just
as much a free agent. Really,
you know, I think you are improving."
She laughed and rode away,
leaving him greatly cast down.
If he had thought there had been
one bit of coyness in her words,
one feminine flutter, one womanly
attempt at deliberate lure and
encouragement, he would have
been elated. But he knew absolutely
that it was the boy, and not
the woman, who had so daringly
spoken.
Joan rode on among the avenues
of young cocoanut-palms, saw
a hornbill, followed it in its
erratic flights to the high forest
on the edge of the plantation,
heard the cooing of wild pigeons
and located them in the deeper
woods, followed the fresh trail
of a wild pig for a distance,
circled back, and took the narrow
path for the bungalow that ran
through twenty acres of uncleared
cane. The grass was waist-high
and higher, and as she rode along
she remembered that Gogoomy was
one of a gang of boys that had
been detailed to the grass-cutting.
She came to where they had been
at work, but saw no signs of
them. Her unshod horse made no
sound on the soft, sandy footing,
and a little further on she heard
voices proceeding from out of
the grass. She reined in and
listened. It was Gogoomy talking,
and as she listened she gripped
her bridle- rein tightly and
a wave of anger passed over her.
"Dog he stop 'm along house,
night-time he walk about," Gogoomy
was saying, perforce in beche-de-mer
English, because he was talking
to others beside his own tribesmen. "You
fella boy catch 'm one fella
pig, put 'm kai-kai belong him
along big fella fish-hook. S'pose
dog he walk about catch 'm kai-kai,
you fella boy catch 'm dog allee
same one shark. Dog he finish
close up. Big fella marster sleep
along big fella house. White
Mary sleep along pickaninny house.
One fella Adamu he stop along
outside pickaninny house. You
fella boy finish 'm dog, finish
'm Adamu, finish 'm big fella
marster, finish 'm White Mary,
finish 'em altogether. Plenty
musket he stop, plenty powder,
plenty tomahawk, plenty knife-fee,
plenty porpoise teeth, plenty
tobacco, plenty calico--my word,
too much plenty everything we
take 'm along whale-boat, washee
{5} like hell, sun he come up
we long way too much."
"Me catch 'm pig sun he go
down," spoke up one whose thin
falsetto voice Joan recognized
as belonging to Cosse, one of
Gogoomy's tribesmen.
"Me catch 'm dog," said
another.
"And me catch 'm white fella
Mary," Gogoomy cried triumphantly. "Me
catch 'm Kwaque he die along
him damn quick."
This much Joan heard of the
plan to murder, and then her
rising wrath proved too much
for her discretion. She spurred
her horse into the grass, crying,
-
"What name
you fella boy, eh? What name?"
They arose, scrambling and
scattering, and to her surprise
she saw there were a dozen of
them. As she looked in their
glowering faces and noted the
heavy, two-foot, hacking cane-knives
in their hands, she became suddenly
aware of the rashness of her
act. If only she had had her
revolver or a rifle, all would
have been well. But she had carelessly
ventured out unarmed, and she
followed the glance of Gogoomy
to her waist and saw the pleased
flash in his eyes as he perceived
the absence of the dreadful man-killing
revolver.
The first article in the Solomon
Islands code for white men was
never to show fear before a native,
and Joan tried to carry off the
situation in cavalier fashion.
"Too much talk along you fella
boy," she said severely. "Too
much talk, too little work. Savvee?"
Gogoomy made no reply, but,
apparently shifting weight, he
slid one foot forward. The other
boys, spread fan-wise about her,
were also sliding forward, the
cruel cane-knives in their hands
advertising their intention.
"You cut 'm grass!" she
commanded imperatively.
But Gogoomy slid his other
foot forward. She measured the
distance with her eye. It would
be impossible to whirl her horse
around and get away. She would
be chopped down from behind.
And in that tense moment the
faces of all of them were imprinted
on her mind in an unforgettable
picture--one of them, an old
man, with torn and distended
ear-lobes that fell to his chest;
another, with the broad flattened
nose of Africa, and with withered
eyes so buried under frowning
brows that nothing but the sickly,
yellowish- looking whites could
be seen; a third, thick-lipped
and bearded with kinky whiskers;
and Gogoomy--she had never realized
before how handsome Gogoomy was
in his mutinous and obstinate
wild-animal way. There was a
primitive aristocraticness about
him that his fellows lacked.
The lines of his figure were
more rounded than theirs, the
skin smooth, well oiled, and
free from disease. On his chest,
suspended from a single string
of porpoise-teeth around his
throat, hung a big crescent carved
out of opalescent pearl-shell.
A row of pure white cowrie shells
banded his brow. From his hair
drooped a long, lone feather.
Above the swelling calf of one
leg he wore, as a garter, a single
string of white beads. The effect
was dandyish in the extreme.
A narrow gee-string completed
his costume. Another man she
saw, old and shrivelled, with
puckered forehead and a puckered
face that trembled and worked
with animal passion as in the
past she had noticed the faces
of monkeys tremble and work.
"Gogoomy," she said sharply, "you
no cut 'm grass, my word, I bang
'm head belong you."
His expression became a trifle
more disdainful, but he did not
answer. Instead, he stole a glance
to right and left to mark how
his fellows were closing about
her. At the same moment he casually
slipped his foot forward through
the grass for a matter of several
inches.
Joan was keenly aware of the
desperateness of the situation.
The only way out was through.
She lifted her riding-whip threateningly,
and at the same moment drove
in both spurs with her heels,
rushing the startled horse straight
at Gogoomy. It all happened in
an instant. Every cane-knife
was lifted, and every boy save
Gogoomy leaped for her. He swerved
aside to avoid the horse, at
the same time swinging his cane-knife
in a slicing blow that would
have cut her in twain. She leaned
forward under the flying steel,
which cut through her riding-skirt,
through the edge of the saddle,
through the saddle cloth, and
even slightly into the horse
itself. Her right hand, still
raised, came down, the thin whip
whishing through the air. She
saw the white, cooked mark of
the weal clear across the sullen,
handsome face, and still what
was practically in the same instant
she saw the man with the puckered
face, overridden, go down before
her, and she heard his snarling
and grimacing chatter-for all
the world like an angry monkey.
Then she was free and away, heading
the horse at top speed for the
house.
Out of her sea-training she
was able to appreciate Sheldon's
executiveness when she burst
in on him with her news. Springing
from the steamer-chair in which
he had been lounging while waiting
for breakfast, he clapped his
hands for the house-boys; and,
while listening to her, he was
buckling on his cartridge-belt
and running the mechanism of
his automatic pistol.
"Ornfiri," he snapped out his
orders, "you fella ring big fella
bell strong fella plenty. You
finish 'm bell, you put 'm saddle
on horse. Viaburi, you go quick
house belong Seelee he stop,
tell 'm plenty black fella run
away--ten fella two fella black
fella boy." He scribbled a note
and handed it to Lalaperu. "Lalaperu,
you go quick house belong white
fella Marster Boucher."
"That will head them back from
the coast on both sides," he
explained to Joan. "And old Seelee
will turn his whole village loose
on their track as well."
In response to the summons
of the big bell, Joan's Tahitians
were the first to arrive, by
their glistening bodies and panting
chests showing that they had
run all the way. Some of the
farthest-placed gangs would be
nearly an hour in arriving.
Sheldon proceeded to arm Joan's
sailors and deal out ammunition
and handcuffs. Adamu Adam, with
loaded rifle, he placed on guard
over the whale-boats. Noa Noah,
aided by Matapuu, were instructed
to take charge of the working-gangs
as fast as they came in, to keep
them amused, and to guard against
their being stampeded into making
a break themselves. The five
other Tahitians were to follow
Joan and Sheldon on foot.
"I'm glad we unearthed that
arsenal the other day," Sheldon
remarked as they rode out of
the compound gate.
A hundred yards away they encountered
one of the clearing gangs coming
in. It was Kwaque's gang, but
Sheldon looked in vain for him.
"What name that fella Kwaque
he no stop along you?" he demanded.
A babel of excited voices attempted
an answer.
"Shut 'm mouth belong you altogether," Sheldon
commanded.
He spoke roughly, living up
to the role of the white man
who must always be strong and
dominant.
"Here, you
fella Babatani, you talk 'm
mouth belong you."
Babatani stepped forward in
all the pride of one singled
out from among his fellows.
"Gogoomy he finish along Kwaque
altogether," was Babatani's explanation. "He
take 'm head b'long him run like
hell."
In brief words, and with paucity
of imagination, he described
the murder, and Sheldon and Joan
rode on. In the grass, where
Joan had been attacked, they
found the little shrivelled man,
still chattering and grimacing,
whom Joan had ridden down. The
mare had plunged on his ankle,
completely crushing it, and a
hundred yards' crawl had convinced
him of the futility of escape.
To the last clearing-gang, from
the farthest edge of the plantation,
was given the task of carrying
him in to the house.
A mile farther on, where the
runaways' trail led straight
toward the bush, they encountered
the body of Kwaque. The head
had been hacked off and was missing,
and Sheldon took it on faith
that the body was Kwaque's. He
had evidently put up a fight,
for a bloody trail led away from
the body.
Once they were well into the
thick bush the horses had to
be abandoned. Papehara was left
in charge of them, while Joan
and Sheldon and the remaining
Tahitians pushed ahead on foot.
The way led down through a swampy
hollow, which was overflowed
by the Berande River on occasion,
and where the red trail of the
murderers was crossed by a crocodile's
trail. They had apparently caught
the creature asleep in the sun
and desisted long enough from
their flight to hack him to pieces.
Here the wounded man had sat
down and waited until they were
ready to go on.
An hour later, following along
a wild-pig trail, Sheldon suddenly
halted. The bloody tracks had
ceased. The Tahitians cast out
in the bush on either side, and
a cry from Utami apprised them
of a find. Joan waited till Sheldon
came back.
"It's Mauko," he said. "Kwaque
did for him, and he crawled in
there and died. That's two accounted
for. There are ten more. Don't
you think you've got enough of
it?"
She nodded.
"It isn't nice," she said. "I'll
go back and wait for you with
the horses."
"But you can't
go alone. Take two of the men."
"Then I'll go on," she said. "It
would be foolish to weaken the
pursuit, and I am certainly not
tired."
The trail bent to the right
as though the runaways had changed
their mind and headed for the
Balesuna. But the trail still
continued to bend to the right
till it promised to make a loop,
and the point of intersection
seemed to be the edge of the
plantation where the horses had
been left. Crossing one of the
quiet jungle spaces, where naught
moved but a velvety, twelve-inch
butterfly, they heard the sound
of shots.
"Eight," Joan counted. "It
was only one gun. It must be
Papehara."
They hurried on, but when they
reached the spot they were in
doubt. The two horses stood quietly
tethered, and Papehara, squatted
on his hams, was having a peaceful
smoke. Advancing toward him,
Sheldon tripped on a body that
lay in the grass, and as he saved
himself from falling his eyes
lighted on a second. Joan recognized
this one. It was Cosse, one of
Gogoomy's tribesmen, the one
who had promised to catch at
sunset the pig that was to have
baited the hook for Satan.
"No luck, Missie," was Papehara's
greeting, accompanied by a disconsolate
shake of the head. "Catch only
two boy. I have good shot at
Gogoomy, only I miss."
"But you killed them," Joan
chided. "You must catch them
alive."
The Tahitian smiled.
"How?" he queried. "I
am have a smoke. I think about
Tahiti,
and breadfruit, and jolly good
time at Bora Bora. Quick, just
like that, ten boy he run out
of bush for me. Each boy have
long knife. Gogoomy have long
knife one hand, and Kwaque's
head in other hand. I no stop
to catch 'm alive. I shoot like
hell. How you catch 'm alive,
ten boy, ten long knife, and
Kwaque's head?"
The scattered paths of the
different boys, where they broke
back after the disastrous attempt
to rush the Tahitian, soon led
together. They traced it to the
Berande, which the runaways had
crossed with the clear intention
of burying themselves in the
huge mangrove swamp that lay
beyond.
"There is no use our going
any farther," Sheldon said. "Seelee
will turn out his village and
hunt them out of that. They'll
never get past him. All we can
do is to guard the coast and
keep them from breaking back
on the plantation and running
amuck. Ah, I thought so."
Against the jungle gloom of
the farther shore, coming from
down stream, a small canoe glided.
So silently did it move that
it was more like an apparition.
Three naked blacks dipped with
noiseless paddles. Long-hafted,
slender, bone-barbed throwing-spears
lay along the gunwale of the
canoe, while a quiverful of arrows
hung on each man's back. The
eyes of the man-hunters missed
nothing. They had seen Sheldon
and Joan first, but they gave
no sign. Where Gogoomy and his
followers had emerged from the
river, the canoe abruptly stopped,
then turned and disappeared into
the deeper mangrove gloom. A
second and a third canoe came
around the bend from below, glided
ghostlike to the crossing of
the runaways, and vanished in
the mangroves.
"I hope there won't be any
more killing," Joan said, as
they turned their horses homeward.
"I don't think so," Sheldon
assured her. "My understanding
with old Seelee is that he is
paid only for live boys; so he
is very careful."
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