Terry

by Charles Goff Thomson

  CHAPTER X

  MALABANAN

  Terry's pace across the plaza taxed Mercado's shorter legs. He wassurprised that Malabanan's move came almost as a relief after theweeks of anxious waiting. Scoffing the Constabulary, they had soughtto test the strength of the new government ... "if they make abreak--Smash 'em!" He whirled, taut, as they reached his quarters, andthe battle-loving veteran thrilled with delight as he caught the hardring of voice.

  "Sergeant, I'll be ready in ten minutes--you will go with me toLedesma's plantation--have the ponies saddled. Double every patrolalong the coast. Send the launch out at once to scour the gulf forinformation about a fifty-foot lorcha--add four soldiers to theregular crew: if they sight or learn of this lorcha they are to returnat once and report the facts--they are not to engage. Retain in thepost twenty of your very best men, under full field equipment ready tomove 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 clothesand slipped into riding clothes and flannel shirt. As he buckled onhis belt and hooked in canteen and holster, he heard the Sergeantgalloping down the street with his led horse. A swift inspection ofthe mechanism of his big automatic, four extra clips added to thebelt, and he ran downstairs as the Macabebe drew up.

  Reaching the beach they turned south, riding fast through the chilldarkness, Mercado keeping his pony a length behind Terry's nervousgray. They had covered several miles before the sun rose from behindSamal, gray-pinked sky and sea for a brief bewitching moment, thenswept the low hanging mists from gulf and mountain, and smote,full-powered, upon the sandy shore down which they rode. The tirelessponies--crooked of leg but splendid of head and eye in trueindications of their heritage of coarse Chinese and fine Arabianbloods--toiled steadily over the high-tide beach, sinking coronet deepin the soaked sand, their footprints disappearing almost as theylifted hoofs. Courageous, the little animals scrambled over the coralformations that blocked their path, picked their way, delicately,through sour mangrove swamps: once, unsaddled, they swam a widetide-deepened creek that the riders crossed, bridle reins in hand, ina small dugout which they found on the bank.

  Their sharp shadows had shortened a third when they swung up from thebeach and trotted down the unkempt street of Sabaga. A chorus ofhowls, set up by bony, slinking curs of the type that infest allnative villages, announced their presence but there was no sign oflife in any of the shambling bamboo houses. The village seemeddeserted.

  They pulled up, the Sergeant pointing significantly at the carabaostied up under the high perched huts. Terry understood: fear of theladrones had paralyzed the natives. As he studied the closed windowsand doors, sensed the terror of these defenseless, harmless people, acold hatred of the spoilers narrowed his steel-gray eyes. They wereabout to press on when the quiet of the town was suddenly broken by acry sounded from a house behind them:

  "_El Soltario! El Constabulario!_"

  The exultant shout was taken up by other voices as windows werecautiously raised: in a moment the doors were thrown wide and a crowdof natives swarmed about the two riders. The men shrill-voiced, womenand children hysterical, they crowded around the pair in a confidencethat was pitiful.

  Frightened beyond a white man's conception by the midnight visitationof ladrones within a half-mile of their village, cowed, witless, theywere reassured merely by the uniforms the two riders wore--thered-piped uniform of the small, scattered force of five thousandFilipinos, who, ably officered, highly trained, intrepid, have nevertasted defeat: have wiped out every murderous band that raisedtreacherous hand and then, outlawry scotched, have turned the power oftheir discipline against the scourges of diseases, floods, cattleplagues, typhoons. Unsung, unwept, they have carried on, their mottoService and their goal Success.

  Terry, patient, reassuring, lingered till he had overcome theirimmediate fears, left them content with their faith in the protectionhe promised them. Hurrying on, Terry and his Sergeant shortly came toLedesma's well kept plantation, and Terry turned his pony over to theSergeant and approached the big bamboo house.

  Ledesma, gray-haired, distinguished looking, bearing his grief withTagalog stoicism, greeted him with the finished courtesy of theSpanish tradition and led him up the precarious slatted steps into thehouse. It was a house of desolation.

  The mother lay moaning wretchedly upon the cane bottom of the carvedmahogany bed which, with four chairs, a round table and a talkingmachine made up the furniture of the main room. Ledesma's son, a ladof eight, sat big-eyed and solemn near an open window, not fullyunderstanding the blow that had fallen but vaguely frightened by hismother's lamentations.

  The Tagalog, dignified in his suffering, answered Terry's briefinterrogations intelligently but as he had been out on the gulf withhis fishermen during the raid he had little to offer. Terry turned tothe sobbing mother and in a few minutes she had quieted sufficientlyto tell her story. He grew paler and grimmer as she dramatized theterror of the midnight entrance of the ominous shadows, the noiselessgliding of bare feet, the vicious whispered threats, the cries of thegirl as they bore her away into the night and the long wait forLedesma's return. Finishing her story, she sank back upon the greatbed, moaning and muttering incoherently.

  Ledesma elaborated her story with details she had told him. She hadrecognized neither shadowed forms nor whispering voices of any of thefour who had entered the house while the others herded the stolencarabaos toward the waterfront. One of them had warned her that thiswas what would happen to all of the natives who made too good friendswith the Americanos: and the biggest of the four had bent over her towhisper in the dark: "And the pale Constabulario won't be able to helpyou with his celebrated pistol--soon we will visit him!"

  Terry soon realized that he was wasting valuable time here--and timewas the big factor. He conferred with Mercado, who had beenquestioning the scared laborers, but equally without result: no onecould identify any of the band, there was no evidence that would leadto Malabanan's conviction, though all were certain that the biggestfigure had been his. Bidding Ledesma a hurried adieu he rode away.Time was pressing ... Ledesma's daughter must be rescued ... soon. Hefollowed the trail of the stolen carabaos, the renewed lamentations ofthe distracted mother ringing in his ears.

  Fifteen minutes along the plain trail torn through the brush by thedriven carabaos brought them out on the beach. There the trail ended:it was for this that Malabanan had brought the big lorcha that thesecreto had mentioned. A moment of thought and he swung northwardtoward Davao, again following the glistening beach. At noon, and lowtide, they forded the creek and swung up off the beach to breathe thesweating ponies in the deep shade of a mango tree that spread highabove the surrounding brush. Dismounting, they stood as in a hugegreen bowl: its bottom the smooth waters of the gulf, iridescent undera zenith sun and framed as far as the eye could reach with a slant ofparched beach; the sides of the vast concavity were formed by theverdant mat of jungled slopes that rose with ever increasingabruptness to the far, somber-edged mountains.

  The doughty Macabebe gave not a glance at the great panorama, busyinghimself in refolding the reeking saddle blankets and tighteninggirths, then lighted a casual cigarette. Terry, impatient of thenecessary halt, paced the shadowed space restlessly after his firstappreciation of the sun-drenched Gulf. He turned to the Macabebe withthe 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 fromhis uncommunicative chief. He was positive.

  "Yes, sir. Malabanan."

  "Of course--it could be no other. But--what would you do if you werein my place--we have no legal proof."

  "I would take a platoon of our best men, sir, and visit hishacienda--and then there would be no Malabanan, sir--unless dead menlive!"

  "But the courts, Sergeant: we could not convict him on the
evidence wehave. And what you suggest would be mere murder."

  "Courts, sir? Malabanan will never face a court--I know that, sir. IFEEL that, sir!"

  Terry studied the hard face of the little fighting man: "Sergeant,you don't seem to fear man or devil."

  Mercado's white teeth flashed as he shrugged pleased denial of claimto such courage, then his roving gaze focussed upon a distant objectand the confident expression altered swiftly to uneasiness, awe,superstitious terror. Terry, startled at the transformation, followedthe direction of his dread stare and saw that his eyes were fixed uponthe distant, mist-wreathed crest of Apo. He understood. Even thissturdy little soldier cowered before the obscure menace of the hiddenHill People. Terry resented, vaguely, that others did not respond tothe spell of the Hills as he did.

  The five minutes had freshened the wonderful little steeds, so theymounted and pushed on through the heat with eyes half shut against theglare of sand and water. At four o'clock they pulled up in front ofTerry's quarters.

  A note from the secreto lay on his table. He opened it and read thatMalabanan had not returned, that the place was deserted. He hadanticipated this, knowing that the band would now operate from somesecret rendezvous in the maze of the forests. His problem now was tolocate their meeting place: his patrols must search them out.Information would be passed quickly to them by the inhabitants of thegulf--every planter, laborer, trader and native now knew that theladrones were rampant: and now the Bogobos would be most valuable tohim, as in their wanderings they covered every inch of the woods tothe edge of the Hill Country, and news of strangers would be broughtto him by swift Bogobo runners.

  A quick shower to rid himself of the intolerable stickiness of thelong hot ride, a change to fresh shirt and breeches, and he hastenedto the _cuartel_. Two patrols had come in during the afternoon,reporting no intelligence of the bandits but bearing tidings of anaroused American and frightened native population. The launch returnedan hour later after a fruitless search of the west coast for signs ofthe lorcha. He manned it with fresh crew and detail and hurried it outto 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 andsent them to guard the heedless doctor who labored with his sick atDalag. The four warriors marched off cursing picturesquely at the luckwhich took them away from the combat group.

  An air of expectancy hung over the _cuartel_. Terry, grave, smoothlyefficient, sat in the orderly room studying maps and keeping theSergeant and the clerk busy as he wove a net of patrols of gulf andcoast and foothills which would cover every inch of terrain within thenight. In the big squad room the fierce little Macabebes joked witheach other as they repolished stainless rifles and repacked fieldequipment under a zealous corporal's eye. Outside, a knot offrightened natives occluded each window facing the plaza, peering inat the laughing soldiers, dully wondering at the makeup of these menwho 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, henoted that for once all of the phonographs were silenced, the plazadeserted; and already the town's doors and windows were closed againstthe coming night. The impact of Malabanan's first blow, struck thirtymiles south, had been felt in native Davao. His face hardened.

  He strove hard, under Matak's urgings, to do justice to the perfectdinner. But a dull headache had fastened across his forehead, asymptom he attributed to his long ride over the scorching beach and toloss of sleep.

  He had spread his net, the quarry could not escape capture, he had butto wait as patiently as possible for information as to theirwhereabouts: some time during the night word must come from launch orpatrol, from planter or Bogobo.

  Another thought had pressed all day--the answer to his cable. He sentMatak to the postoffice, hopeful, nervous. But nothing had come.Rising, he found the room stifling, and he reached for his hat to goout. Matak noticed that he had forgotten his sidearm and delayed himlong enough to lift it off the wallhook and fasten the belt about hiswaist.

  The sun had set. As he walked aimlessly across the town he noticedthat all of the little stores, whose main trade came during theevening hours, were boarded tight. He wandered down to the little dockand out to its end, looking over the rippled waters with eyes thatached strangely. The light faded swiftly, taking with it the pall ofoppressive humidity and freeing the Gulf to the coolness ofapproaching night. None of the fishing craft which usually dotted thegulf at this hour had ventured out. Malabanan had indeed made himselffelt.

  Terry stood near an upended pile, numb with disappointment over theexpected cablegram. The dusk yielded in the distance to a darknesswhich crept toward him over the ever diminishing circle of water.

  Suddenly his dulled faculties registered an insistent warning ofdanger, he caught the slight creaking of a board behind him. Aroused,he whirled to face two figures which had halted ten feet from him inattitudes expressive of the stealth of their approach. In the dusk hedistinguished two unusually large natives dressed in coarse unstarchedcrash, and wearing shoes. Each carried a bolo thrust in braided hempbelts.

  For a tense moment they maintained the pose in which he had surprisedthem, then the shorter of the two, who was a pace in front, took aslow step backward, uneasy in being the closer to the young Americanwhose eyes drilled him through the gloom.

  Terry, idly fingering his pistol belt with his left hand, shifted hisgaze to the larger of the pair, then unconsciously took a step forwardto better see that queer face. In the shock of surprise he stoppedshort and his right arm jerked back into a curious position thatbrought the hand below and behind his holster. The left eye of thebig Tagalog glittered white in the night!

  His impetuous, fearless step toward the pair had broken the spellwhich held them motionless. The white-eyed native hesitated, glanceduneasily at Terry's holster, then spoke in brief gutturals to hiscompanion. Lifting his hat in salutation he bade Terry a suave"_Buenas Noches, Senor_," and turning, walked off the dock, hisconsort close behind him.

  Through the soft darkness Terry saw them mount two ponies which weretethered 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 theygalloped away into the night.

  As he made his way rapidly across the poorly lighted town he gave nothought to the fact that the pair had evidently meant him harm,speculating upon the peculiar birthmark in the eye of the largerTagalog and wondering if he could be the man for whom Matak had soughtso many years.

  He found Matak sitting crosslegged upon the floor fastening brassbuttons 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 ithappened, it didn't do any harm."

  Stepping to the window he blew a blast upon his whistle, an unusualsummons that brought Mercado running across the plaza in mostunsoldierly fashion. Entering, he cracked his heels in salute, his eyeagleam with hope that the break had come. Terry dismissed Matak fromthe room before addressing him.

  "Sergeant, do you know anybody in this Gulf who has an albino lefteye--an eye that is all white but the pupil?"

  "No, sir."

  "Who might know?"

  "The Chino Lan Yek, sir. He knows everybody--everybody owes him money,sir!"

  "Fetch him here."

  In a few minutes Lan Yek stood before Terry, his Mongolianimperturbability shaken by this night summons from an officer of thelaw. With the natives' love of ragging a Chinamen, Mercado had beenvery stern and mysterious concerning his mission--and Lan Yek knew athing or two about opium smuggling that bothered him as he faced theAmerican.

  Terry repeated his inquiry regarding the identity of the white-eyednative, and Lan Yek's response was startlingly illuminating.

  "Yes, me know him. Me know white-eyed fellah. His name Malabanan!"

  Malabanan! Th
is had been the "visit" they had told Ledesma's wife theywould 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 adistance of five miles to discover if possible upon what trail thepair had ridden out, emphasizing that the patrol was to return andreport to him, regardless of the hour of arrival.

  "And hold the men in instant readiness. I may need them at any momentduring the night."

  There was at least one supremely happy man in the Gulf that night, forthe Sergeant's joy was a living thing as he departed to put the ordersinto effect.

  A moment later Terry heard the kitchen door open slowly, and lookingup he beheld the mottled face and burning eyes of the Moro. It wasmanifest that Matak had overheard Lan Yek. He stood in the doorwaybattling for his voice.

  "Master," he said huskily, "I knew you would help me find him."

  Gratitude suffused his face, then receded before the tide ofMohammedan fanaticism and fury which welled up from his bitter heart.Stepping backward, he kept his eyes fastened upon Terry till he hadpassed through the door into the kitchen.

  Terry was deeply disturbed by this unforeseen turn of events. He haddecided against informing Matak until he had lodged Malabanan safelybehind prison walls, then to confront him with the Moro and if heproved to be Matak's long sought enemy, he would add the charge oftriple murder against the desperado. The day of private vengeance mustpass in Mindanao--vengeful killings were murder, punishable as murder.

  He called to Matak, then again, but there was no answer. He hurriedinto the kitchen, into Matak's room, then down into the double stableback of the house. But Matak was gone, and so was Terry's spare pony.Realizing the futility of searching for him in the night, he composedhimself as best he could. It added another phase to theexigency--everything now rested with the patrols who were tirelesslycombing the Gulf to discover the new rendezvous.

  He strove for patience, but waiting is hard. He picked up a volume ofpoems, discarded it impatiently for a magazine, threw this back on thetable and withdrew from the glare of the lamp which added to hisinsistent headache. Looking out on the dark town he saw that even theClub was unlighted, the first time since his arrival in Davao. His jawtightened as he pictured the isolated planters sitting through thenight, rifles on knees, listening for hostile movements in the junglesurrounding their hardwon acres.

  Drawing up a big cane chair he sat in the shadow looking out into thedark. The sky was like a vast black colander perforated haphazardlywith a myriad brilliant openings which paled and glowed. The crescentof the young moon hung over the faintly outlined mountains: he watchedit slant slowly down till its lower point was absorbed in the heavymist which blanketed Apo.

  Malabanan loose with his ravaging band ... Matak, alone, searching forhim in the night ... Ledesma's daughter, that gentle, big-eyed girl,at the mercy of such beasts ... would the patrols never return? Herose and paced the floor, frantic with the enforced inaction.Schooling himself to a semblance of patience, he sat through anotherlong hour.

  Why, he thought dully, should he have had the presumption to expectan answer to his cable ... she was too kind to cable "no" ... herletter of explanation would be a month in coming.... He watched as themists around Apo gathered, thickened, darkened: the banks wereflashlighted into white billows, then the soft rumble of thunderrolled down the slopes, a vanguard of the rainstorm which rustled theforest tops as it swept down nearer, louder, to expire as it touchedthe edge of the town: a few drops splashed heavily on the tin roof ofthe silent house, then the stars shone more brilliantly than beforeand Apo loomed sharp against a cleared sky.

  It was a long night. At last he rose wearily and seated himself at hisdesk, shading his dulled eyes. A moment of indecision, and he wrote tohis 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 searched--but 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--

  His head ached intolerably. He dropped his pen in sudden listlessness,crossed aimlessly to the window. Dawn wavered over Samal. The plazawas dark save for the lights which blazed in the cuartel to show thatthe Macabebes, too, had kept the long vigil.

  Suddenly he saw four fagged little Macabebes emerge from the shadowedstreet and enter the path of light which streamed from the widecuartel door. Shoulders drooping under heavy packs after the longnight's hike, they staggered into the building.

  A moment, and a fiercely glad yell rose from the barracks, and theSergeant bounded out of the doorway to speed toward Terry's house.Terry straightened his relaxed muscles as the Sergeant burst into theroom.

  A patrol had succeeded! They had learned from Bogobos that during theafternoon a number of unknown armed natives had gathered in the threedeserted shacks near Sears' ford. Malabanan and Sakay were ridingwestward toward Sears' plantation. On the way in the patrol hadencountered Matak riding hard on Malabanan's trail!