Terry

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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."

"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, ruddy-cheeked 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: "'_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 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 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 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 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
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, 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--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 Hills to-morrow 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 purpose 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 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 him--all 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:

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 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 moved 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 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
breast-holster. 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 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
idea--the thorough advertisement of fearless confidence--was 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.

He 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 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
_balatak_, 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. 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.

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