MALABANAN
Terry'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 facts--they 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 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 high-tide 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 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 Soltario! 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 half-mile 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 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 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 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? Malabanan will never face a court--I know that, sir. I
FEEL 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 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 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, 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 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. 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, Señor_," 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.
"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 everybody--everybody 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 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 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
exigency--everything 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 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 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 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!