And they spent much of their time blowing, glaring at each other, until the shouts and tail twistings and spear proddings of the spectators made them lumber toward each other. As sport, it was dreary enough, but to the Moros, a fight was a fight. And presently, more exciting battles were arranged in the newly cleared arena.
Two rival stallions were brought out, and at the first challenging snort, Moros poured out of the shacks where they had been chatting and spitting. Some wore tight fitting silk pants, red or yellow or green, instead of sarongs; all wore their krisses or long-bladed sundangs, and quite a few came running with their most prized possession: fighting cocks in wicker cages.
But now, the stallions had everyone’s attention, and the spectators howled and cheered as the shaggy little fellows, scarcely twelve hands high, reared and squealed, striking and biting. They wheeled, they feinted; sometimes Riley was certain that they blocked and parried. Chunks of hide flew, and the combatants dripped blood from neck and shoulder and sides.
Blood-soaked earth spattered the spectators, and flying foam from the snapping jaws splashed them. Both were blowing, and neither was steady on his feet, but they knew no more about quitting than the Moros did.
Riley turned and shuffled away from the group. He loved horses, he hated to see them baited to death. Each jaw snap and each hoof thump hurt him. But more than that, leaving a good fight proved conclusively that he did not have all of his original equipment. So he sat down in the shade of the wall, and nodded while flies buzzed about him. After all, there would be no plans to overhear as long as the fights and gambling went on.
Yet his loitering about the cotta served one purpose: no one was wondering, uneasily, whether he might be heading back to Parang with a muddled bit of gossip. And the dogs were becoming used to him. They liked the scent of deer’s blood that had dried on his dirty shirt. Later, a lot might depend on getting around quietly.
Riley avoided the cock fights, for these often ended in free for all battles so brisk that no one had time to decide who was and who was not a madman. So, after begging for a chunk of meat out of one of the big red pots, he found himself a spot inside the cotta, not far from the lantaka that guarded the right of the gate.
There he waited for night, and the end of the fiesta, and the council that should follow, when the datus met in Andug’s big house. It was larger than the others; it had a veranda, and a reception room, and the rattan walls had patterns worked into their basket weave.
Under each house, a smudge fire smoked. The fumes rose between the bamboo floor slats, and to a degree protected the natives from the malaria mosquitoes. Riley could do nothing but slap and squirm. However, the smudges finally did help him. That was when, satisfied that the village was asleep, he began to work his way toward Andug’s house; the low hanging fumes kept him from being conspicuous to any of the restless visitors who slept outside the gate.
There was just enough sky glow to make the smoke a vague, blurred gray. Each shack seemed a solid black mass, with the stilts looming up in front of him, abruptly.
Once, a Moro came clumsily down the notched trunk that led to the ground. The fellow was half asleep, and presumably going to get a drink, but this reasonable guess did not make Riley any more at ease. For moments, he crouched among the refuse that rotted under the house whose smudge concealed and choked him.
Crazy Tom, stumbling about by day was natural enough, and so was Crazy Tom, hunting by night in the jungle, but stealth in the village was something else. That Moros will not hurt a madman is a general rule, not an infallible law of nature.
But he did at last reach the datu’s house. A stallion tethered there snorted. There was a jingle of accoutrements, a dull gleam of metal. For a moment, Riley thought that the presence of the horse was Sultan Sahipa’s final touch of formality. Then he distinguished the man who crouched to one side of the ladder to the entrance. The wavering light that came through the door made several details clear enough.
The man had his sarong pulled up over his head, for added protection against mosquitoes. Across his knees, he had a drawn kris, and near him was a bugle. This was Andug’s personal attendant, waiting to escort some important caller from the conference.
Above, men were speaking, and of course, spitting. The bamboo floor creaked. Probably a slave was passing around more betel nut. The preliminary harangues were over; there were none of the usual exhortations to whip the minor datus to the desperation needed for a raid on a coast town protected by a Scout battalion. Riley edged slowly under the floor. Betel-charged saliva plopping down between the slats guided him, and the torches in the room above made thin bands on the ground.
This was a ticklish spot.
“Do not worry about the rifles, Sultan Sahipa,” a man was saying. “With your pearls and my gold dust, we can pay for them. The three prahus from Borneo will land at Tanjong Merah. The Chino has arranged all that.”
The Chino? That must be Tsang Wu.. It was now clear to Riley why the storekeeper had been so startled at seeing a masked white man so soon after Crazy Tom’s departure for Bacolod; and just about as clear why Andug had made a personal call at the tienda, instead of sending a messenger.
Delivering guns to Moros was like trying to hand steaks to a tiger. Tsang Wu and his friends from Borneo would have to be careful lest the weapons be seized before the payment was received. All this would take care, move and counter-move against trickery. Riley pondered on this as the voices blurred, submerged by a general muttering and spitting and stirring about. Then one bit came in clear: “I should have cut him down, madman or not.” That would be Sahipa, who had half drawn his kris, that morning.
Another datu protested, “Too many of our men would be worried. It was better that you did not.”
There were plans for the surprise attack on Bacolod; men rushing from the hills behind the garrison; others, hidden in Parang Barrio, coming from cover; and all this timed to accord with the landing of those who would arrive in fishing prahus and pearling boats. Altogether, it was a sound plan. With only kris and kampilan, such a concerted attack would be beaten off after heavy casualties among the Christian villagers of Bacolod and Parang; but with rifles, the swarm of Moros would have a fair chance of swamping the battalion of Scouts.
That would be bad, but the moral effect of such a victory would be worse. Riley needed no further details. He did not know exactly where Tanjong Merah was, and perhaps the charts did not designate the “red cape” by its native name, but there was a chance of breaking up the formation. If he got back to Bacolod before the guns were landed and distributed.
Slipping out of the cotta was slow work. Riley’s rope-soled alpargatas were worn thin, and while they made for silence, they did not stand up like service shoes. For a fast march to the coast, he had to have the extra pair he had left in camp, along with his reserve rations.
The council broke up before he reached the corner of the adjoining house. Sultan Sahipa and the visiting datus came to the veranda; attendants lighted their way with torches. When the man with the bugle rose from beside the steps, Riley crouched in the shadows, and for a while he forgot the mosquitoes.
The sultan had not brought his horse, so Andug and the minor datus walked with him to the house reserved for him and his women. The chatter of the dignitaries half aroused the neighbors; there were stirrings and sleepy mutterings, and awakened dogs growled and yapped a little.
Dawn was not far off when the cotta was again asleep. Riley’s face itched and burned from countless bites, and he shivered from more than the mountain chill. But finally he cleared the gate, and worked his way past the encampment outside the palisade.
At Tsang Wu’s tienda, he swung into the jungle, and his progress was all the slower for remembering the trap he had escaped on his approach to the cotta. Spear thrust ahead of him, he felt his way along the trail, for with all the dawn sounds, and the chilly mists that preceded sunrise, it
was still dark in the jungle.
Soon he heard monkeys stir about in the branches, and felt the breeze. Bit by bit, a murky light picked out tree trunks, and presently a red ray reached across the trail. The sun had come up over the distant peaks, beyond Lake Lanao.
Then, as he neared his shelter, he caught the smoky odor of men who had lain over a smudge all night. Some cogon grass stirred, and he saw a splash of red, a blot of yellow. He was within sight of his shelter when the Moros popped up, on both sides, and in front, blocking the approach to the clearing.
Riley thrust his spear head into the ground. No use explaining that possession of that weapon proved how Allah guarded him; if they did not get the point, the jig was up. They closed in, slowly, silently except for the crackle of leaves and the rustic of grass. Those coming from the clearing exchanged glances. Riley wondered if someone had been picked by lot to risk the curse.
One of the Moros said, “Go back. You stay at the cotta.”
The horseshoe of drawn krisses contracted, and came nearer. They were not striking, but if he did not retreat, a point would sink home.
“Want to see Conchita,” he mumbled. “My woman.”
“You see Tsang Wu first,” the spokesman said. “Later, you see woman.”
He grinned, showing betel-blackened teeth, but that effort was forced. None of the others spoke. They did not like dealing with a madman, yet they had their orders. Riley was to be detained until the guns were landed, and the raid was under way. Once that was done, he was harmless, and in the meanwhile, Allah would not send a custom-built curse.
These men were shaky, nervous; a false move would crack their last restraining qualms. Tsang Wu, Riley began to suspect, had not been entirely convinced by that first meeting, and had in his Chino patois advised Andug to wait and see, to play it softly.
CHAPTER VI
The continued games and amusements in the cotta did not interest Riley. His captors neither bound nor guarded him; they gave him full liberty, except that there was no chance of slipping into the jungle. Freedom was what made the day a torment, for he did not know what to expect next. Anticipating a clash with Tsang Wu’s Mongolian wit had been bad enough, but it was worse, waiting for the Chino to appear and to settle it, one way or another.
Andug and Sahipa circulated about the cotta and the camp outside. Both had their saddled stallions; sometimes they rode, but most of the time grooms led the mounts, half a dozen paces behind their respective masters. And the datu’s bugler trailed along with the others who made up the retinues of the two dignitaries.
Tsang Wu, Riley decided, was even now arranging for the munitions to land. He might have left the day before. What worried Riley the most was the words of the Moro who had led the party which had snared him: “You see Tsang Wu first.” They must all have known that the Chino was gone. Apparently, their idea was to let hours of increasing tension crack their captive. Crazy Tom’s gin-blurred mind grasped only a few primitive notions. Nothing worried him, and he had not the slightest concept of danger, whereas an impostor, however rugged his nerves, could endure just so much anticipation. This became plain as Riley found it increasingly difficult to regard his surroundings with feigned stupidity.
Wherever he went, he was under the increasingly pointed scrutiny of Datu Andug, of Sultan Sahipa, or the minor datus who followed the leaders from carabao fight to fencing matches, from stallion fights to feasting. No one spoke, no one made threatening gestures; but those hard, bright eyes became sharper, sharper, boring into the dirty red mask. Riley could now feel their thoughts as plainly as if they had said, “You’re not Crazy Tom.”
To jerk the handkerchief from his face would really prove nothing. Tom, sensitive about his ugly scar, would hardly have explained why he kept his features so well covered. And back there at Bacolod, he had told Riley how simple it was to mingle with the Moros. Not realizing he was crazy, it never occurred to him that there was any special reason for his immunity. And now Andug had devised a third degree.
It all had a Chinese flavor; Moro cunning takes less subtle twists. That was why dread of Tsang Wu’s ultimate return became overpowering. At times Riley became light headed. He had to fight the urge to dash for the jungle. He began to tell himself, “Hell, why wouldn’t a fellow that’s loco just forget he’s under arrest and then check out?”
This was dangerous logic. He knew all too well that once he started, he would display ambition and eagerness that Crazy Tom never did. And stumbling along, casually, would not work. Whenever he tried this, early in the day, men blocked his way with drawn krisses; silent, uneasy little men who would themselves go wild if pressed too far.
And somehow, Andug and Sahipa’s wandering from point to point showed a pattern and a purpose. Riley could never get from their sight for more than a moment.
His head was beginning to hurt him. Not an ache as from a clouting or too much whiskey; rather, the pain was as if an inner pressure had scrambled his brains and now threatened to pop his skull. His pulse was hammering, hammering, hammering at a crazy rate, and the distended veins at his temples now caused a pain of their own.
The smoke, the dust of the clearing, and all those red and yellow and black turbans began to blend and quiver and whirl. The voices dimmed to a silky whisper, expanded to a rumble, rose to a horrible shrieking and screeching. He was fearfully tired, he was hungry, but most of all, he had waited too many hours for an uncertain threat.
They had taken his shotgun, and though he still had a sundang, he knew that he could not check the revolt by making a rush for Andug and Sahipa. He’d never live to scratch either.
Long shadows were marching across the clearing. The day was ending, and so was Riley’s endurance. The women were busy at their fires again, and the men who had been watching fights, gathered in groups to squat and chew betel. Concentration on the suspected captive was bound to lag; not much, but enough for a man who took off at a sprint to win a few yards. The idea of winning a race through the approaching darkness was, after all, no wilder than the beginning of Riley’s venture. And once the Moros had eaten, they would be handicapped. So he rose from beside the rock where he had squatted, and ambled toward a tree, near the edge of the clearing.
He could feel the eyes that watched him, even when he halted, scratched his head, and finally remembered the pack of “Five Brothers.” That, however, was one chew which did not get behind the red mask.
The man who was lumbering into the clearing toward Riley was ragged, dirty, and tired. He had neither shotgun nor jacklight, and instead of a sundang thrust into his belt, he had a weapon equally serviceable: a barong with a satinwood grip, and a leaf-shaped, eighteen-inch blade. The dull eyes that peered over the top of the new, blue mask were dull, but they lighted a little when he saw Riley.
Something had slipped. Crazy Tom had come to the hills.
The Moros were all talking at once as they closed in on Riley. This was the payoff, and he knew now that he would not run, simply because it would be useless. As he turned and half faced them, he saw the man who ran after Crazy Tom, yelling and waving his arms. It was Tsang Wu, who had seen the sunshiner, and was on his way to spread the news.
Riley was now so calm that he was able to think, “He was here all the time. That proves it was a Chino trick, keeping me here, waiting.”
Andug, Sahipa, and their retinues surrounded Tsang Wu, Riley, and Crazy Tom. The tall datu snatched the mask from Riley’s face. The newly arrived madman made a warding motion to protect his own mask, then said, “Hullo, Lieutenant. Been drunk three-four days. My squaw come and turned me loose. I beat hell out of her.”
Tsang Wu’s gestures had silenced the Moros. The sunshiner went on, “I knew you went over the hill. I come up to help you get along. Whole damn battalion coming up to get you, you got to move on.” That was the longest speech Crazy Tom had made in years. Gratitude for whiskey and friendly words had brought hi
m into the hills to keep a deserter from being arrested. Riley said, “You’re sure a real buddy, Tom.”
Tsang Wu translated the speech into Maguindanao dialect.
Andug demanded, “You believe this officer is a deserter? An outlaw among his own people? I think he’s a spy.”
They all respected the Chino’s wisdom as to the ways of the white man; and his gun-running had made him important.
The answer was sound: “If a battalion is on the way, as this madman says, it makes no difference what this officer is. Without guns, you will have a hard time facing so many Scouts.”
Sahipa said, “Datu Andug, the true madman has helped you. They come into the hills, while we go to the sea for the guns. Meanwhile—” He drew his kris. “No, he’s your man, you kill him.”
Now that they knew who was crazy and who was not, so many Moros seized Riley that he could not have struggled had he tried to. He said to Andug, “No use quarreling. Why don’t you draw straws for the honor?”
The Moros cheered. They liked a prisoner who could take it. Andug smiled appreciatively. “In the old days, when all the soldiers were Americanos instead of Visayan monkeys led by a few white men, we would cut you down and start running into the hills. But now, we have time.”
“For what, Datu Andug?” Riley knew, and wished that he did not know.
“To stake you to an ant-hill. The last act of our fiesta.”
Crazy Tom was not paying any attention. He was busy stuffing another chew into his mouth, for he could carry only one idea at a time. He had delivered his warning, and having found his one military friend in good hands and unharmed, he dismissed the matter.
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