Two years had passed since the bichara. Prosperity and honor had come to Dato Kali Pandapatan and his people under the rule of General Beech and Governor Findy, and Piang had been raised to the post of official interpreter. Sicto, the disturber, had been seized in Zamboanga on the charge of complicity in the plot on Governor Findy’s life; he had attempted to escape, and there were varying reports as to the results. Some said that he had been killed by a crocodile, others that he had escaped and swum to Basilan; but the tribe had not heard of him since the bichara, and they were relieved to be rid of his bullying presence. Especially the little slave girl, Papita, whom Sicto had annoyed since infancy, was glad that he was gone. Sicto’s father had captured the little maid in a raid on the Bogobo country, and the boy seemed to think it his special privilege to abuse and torment her.

Along the steep mountain trail, dividing the jungle as a river might, crept a slow procession. A lumbering carabao swayed lazily forward, and on each side walked four stalwart Moros, ever heedful of the dignified figure astride the beast. Dato Kali Pandapatan rode in silence. Occasionally he gazed down into the deep valleys or off in the direction of Ganassi Peak, but the sorrowful, patient expression never left his face.

Where was Piang? For three days the boy had been missing, and Kali guessed only too easily what had taken him away in such haste. A few days before little Papita had mysteriously disappeared. It was whispered that the notorious Dato Ynoch (Ee-nock) had kidnapped her, and Kali was already preparing an expedition against the marauder. He felt the strain of civilization for the first time, for he had given his word never to assemble his warriors without the permission of the white chiefs at Zamboanga. But Piang, the impatient, the valiant, could not brook the delay, and had in all probability started after his little friend alone. Kali’s messengers should return to-day, and he had ridden far out to watch for their coming.

The procession reached the clearing that gave a full view of the sea. In the distance the eye could discern the curving coast of tiny Bongao; Kali was impervious to the summer beauty and youth of the sparkling ocean, to the charm of the dainty island so gaily chatting with the garrulous waves. He did not see the graceful, white rice-birds or the regal aigrets flitting about among the trees; he saw only the vast, restless ocean. There were no boats in sight.

Slowly the willing carabao was turned homeward, and the aged monarch sorrowfully gave up hope of sending succor to Piang that night. The recent storm had probably delayed his envoys, and he must wait the Sabah’s monthly visit, which would come the next day.

At the door of his hut Kali Pandapatan was helped from the royal beast’s back and up the steep ladder entrance into the cool dusk of the interior where industrious women squatted at their several tasks.

“I miss the child’s lively chatter,” Aioi was saying sadly.

“She was a trying pupil, I can tell you,” remarked the woman at the loom, “but a winning child.” She leaned closer to Aioi and whispered:

“Did you know that Papita had been asked in marriage?” The surprised look on Aioi’s face made an answer unnecessary.

“Our chief is said to have spurned the offer. You know he has always hoped to prove Papita’s noble birth; he wanted Piang to have her, so when the terrible Dato Ynoch’s offer came—”

“Who speaks the name of our enemy in my house?” thundered Kali, glowering at the chattering women. “Bend to your tasks and have done with idle gossip.”

What difference did it make to Piang if he was alone, if he had only the barest clue to Papita’s whereabouts? He was going to follow up that clue, and something seemed to tell him that he was on the right track. The jungle was dripping and steaming after a three days’ downpour; monkeys and birds were huddled in the trees, melancholy, but patient, knowing that their friend, the burning tropic sun, would come to them again, some day. Piang trudged on through the sticky, slippery jungle. An occasional fresh track or recent camping site made him push forward eagerly. What he should do when he did overtake the kidnappers, he had no idea, but something always happened to help Piang. He reverently touched his sacred charm.

The deluge through this lower jungle must have been terrific. Piang was glad that he had been in his mountain barrio during the tempest. Strewn everywhere were branches and enormous tree-ferns; a dead hablar-bird lay in his path. Leeches, hiding on the backs of leaves and twigs, caught at Piang as he brushed by, clinging and sucking their fill, before he could discover them. He raised one foot quickly and yelled:

“Tinick!” (“Thorn!”) While he was searching for the thorn his other foot began to ache and pain. Piang was too wise to hesitate a moment, so he swung up to a low branch and sat there nursing his feet. He was puzzled; there was no thorns in them, and he could find no cuts. Gradually the soles of the feet began to swell and take on a purplish hue. Piang gave a low whistle and bent to examine the ground.

“Badjanji!” (“Bees!”) he exclaimed. The ground was yellow with the little bedraggled, stupified creatures. They had been beaten down by the storm and would remain there until the sun came to coax them into industry again. Swinging lightly from one tree to another, Piang reached one of the numberless brooks that ramble aimlessly about through the jungle, and, dropping to its banks, buried his feet in the healing clay. After a short time the pain grew better, and he continued his journey.

He was nearing Dato Ynoch’s domain on the banks of Lake Liguasan. The outlaw had chosen his lair well, for it was one of the most inaccessible spots in Mindanao. On all sides treacherous marsh lands reached out from the lake, and it was almost impossible to tell when one might step from the solid jungle into a dangerous morass. A few hidden trails led to the barrio, and by great good luck Piang discovered one. Quietly he crept along into the ever-increasing twilight, for the trail led deep into the jungle’s very heart where daylight and sunshine never penetrate. Sounds came faintly from the barrio; tom-toms and many drums beat a monotonous serenade. A fiesta must be in progress. A fiesta? Piang’s face grew hot, and his black eyes flamed. Could it be that the fiesta was poor Papita’s wedding? He broke into a run and, panting and sweating, pushed farther into the darkening jungle; but the trail was evidently an abandoned one, for it brought up suddenly against a wall of thorns and closely woven vines. Throwing himself on the ground, Piang wriggled through the offensive marsh weeds, and finally found himself almost on the edge of Lake Liguasan. From his retreat he could plainly see the village streets. The barrio was certainly preparing for a fiesta and no ordinary one, either, for elaborate and barbaric decorations shrouded huts and street. Raised on two posts at the entrance of the village, was a carcass of a mammoth crocodile, in its opened jaws a human skull. Piang shuddered. He had heard that Dato Ynoch’s followers were gathered from among the renegade Dyak pirate head-hunters, who fled to Mindanao from Borneo justice. The human skull confirmed the rumor, for there are no cannibal tribes among the Moros.

It was certainly a marriage feast that the women were preparing. A raised platform in the middle of the campong (common), tastefully decorated with skulls small, skulls large, and skulls medium, formed the altar, and a large black bullock was already tied to the sapoendoes (sacrifice post). Piang flushed with excitement at an unusually loud beating of tom-toms; the chief was coming. Piang had long wished to see this terrible Ynoch. Weird stories of his terrible personality, his disfigured countenance were widespread. That so powerful a dato could have sprung up so suddenly puzzled the Moros, and Ynoch’s identity still remained a mystery.

Down the center of the street advanced a gaudy procession headed by a barbaric priestess. From her head protruded massive horns decorated with flaming red flowers. Around her loins was strapped a crimson sarong; her body swayed and twisted to the savage rhythm of the tom-toms. A tall, amazingly fat man stepped to the platform. His back seemed oddly familiar to Piang, as well as the slinking gait, the shambling step. Straining his eyes, Piang waited. Dato Ynoch raised his hand for silence and turned toward the waiting populace. Piang nearly cried out as he caught sight of the face.

Oily of hair, oily of eye was this Dato out-law. His shifting glance wandered restlessly over the heads of the people, meeting no man’s eye. Beneath the pomp of his trappings, the fat, overfed body protruded grotesquely, and his movements were slow and clumsy. One almond-shaped eye had been partly torn from its socket, leaving a hideous, red scar. An ear, which appeared to have slipped from the side of the oily head and lodged on a fold of the fat neck, had in reality been neatly carved from its proper place by an enraged slave and poorly replaced by a crude surgeon. A bamboo tube had been inserted in the original ear-drum.

“Sicto!” gasped Piang. The mysterious Dato Ynoch, was Sicto, the mestizo.

That Papita had been dragged to the barrio, Piang now had no doubt, and his nimble wits began to look about for a way of escape. He was near the banks of a creek that led to the Cotabato River and thinking that the most likely escape, he wormed his way toward it. Along the bank were canoes of every description. The swift ones seemed to be all four-oared, and he knew that he must have a fleet, light vinta to elude the Dyaks. He spied a tiny white boat tied to a gilded post, and his heart nearly stopped beating when he read the name “Papita” on the bow.

“Papita!” Piang scornfully whispered. “Papita, indeed!” His lip curled, and he glared through the rushes at the hideous Sicto.

“Well, it shall be Papita’s after all!” Piang said and he smiled. He crept toward the little craft to see if there were paddles in it. There were two, and Piang suddenly remembered that part of the Dyak betrothal ceremony takes place upon the water.

Long Piang pondered as he watched the preparations for Papita’s betrothal. He examined the cotta, counted the praus, and his keen eyes followed the creek to its sharp turn. He crawled past the bend to make sure that the stream was navigable. Satisfied that he could escape through its waters, Piang began to cut rushes, and, squatting in the protecting undergrowth, busily worked while he indignantly listened to the loquacious Sicto telling his followers that Papita was no slave, but a maiden of royal Bogobo birth. He and his father had kept it secret because they intended her for his wife, and at last he had captured the girl from Kali Pandapatan. Faster and faster flew Piang’s fingers, and finally a basket began to shape itself out of the rushes. Soon Piang had two perfect baskets, and he slung them over his shoulder. While Sicto and his villains were celebrating the coming wedding, Piang quietly slipped back through the jungle, back to the brook where the medicinal clay had cured the bee stings. When he returned later, he handled the baskets with great care and chuckled softly to himself.

A second beating of tom-toms thundered through the barrio. The bride was coming. Down an avenue made for her by hostile looking women, crept a tiny, terrified figure. It was draped in the softest Eastern stuffs; jeweled anklets and bangles tinkled merrily. A gauzy veil of wondrous workmanship swathed the figure, but through it all Piang recognized his beloved Papita. Slowly she approached the altar; fearfully she raised her eyes to the man who awaited her there. Her little feet faltered, and the priestess supported her. Papita leaned heavily against the woman. Three soft notes of a mina-bird floated over the barrio, and Papita became suddenly alive. Again the notes stole through the jungle. The bride threw back her veil.

“The unwilling maid seems to have forgot her woe,” said one scornful woman to another. “Now that she is about to become our chief’s first wife, she does not weep and cry to be taken home.”

The priestess commenced the ceremony that was to last all night. Chants, prayers, admonitions, all, Papita responded to with renewed vigor, and her eyes furtively glanced toward a spot near the curve of the creek where a slender reed swayed unceasingly. After many hours the priestess led the way to the water and Ynoch placed Papita in her gala vinta and pushed her out into the stream. He got into another, and the two boats nosed each other while the crowd showered them with oils and perfumes. When the command came to part, each boat shot off in an opposite direction. A maiden and a bridegroom are each supposed to meditate for the last time on the advisability of the union before the final ceremony; so reads the Dyak marriage laws.

As indifferently as a queen, Papita plied her paddle, paying no heed to the unfriendly eyes and mutterings of the Dyaks; she seemed in no haste and managed her vinta with amazing skill for one so small. Only once she seemed to lose control; her vinta cut deep into the tall rushes near the bend of the creek. Had the Dyaks been less intent on exhibiting their scorn, they might have noticed that when the boat drew back from the rushes it rode deeper in the water, and the little figure labored harder at the paddle as the vinta turned the bend and passed from sight.

“Piang! is it you?”

As Papita spoke, the form lying in the bottom of the vinta slowly unfolded like a huge jack-knife. The merry eyes twinkled, the youthful, firm mouth curved at the corners, and Piang, the adventurer, smiled up at the astonished girl.

“But yes, Chiquita, did you think that Piang would suffer the outcast Sicto to kidnap his little playmate?” Piang took up the paddle and the vinta shot forward. Silently the two bent to the task, every moment increasing the distance between them and their enemies.

“Will they catch us, Piang?”

“Of course not, my Papita. Piang, the charm boy comes to rescue you.” The proud head went up with arrogant superiority.

“But there are many hidden cut-offs and creeks between us and the river, Piang; Sicto will surely trap us.” The terrified expression in the girl’s soft eyes touched Piang’s heart.

“Have no fear, Papita. Let Sicto overtake us and he will be sorry. Put your ear to the baskets.”

As the girl bent over the two baskets, lying in the bottom of the vinta, a frown puckered her brow. A dull hum, like a caged wind protesting in faint whispers, rose from them. Gradually a smile broke over her face, and she laughed softly.

“Yes; Sicto will be sorry if he overtakes us,” she whispered.

Through the deepening night, a roar came to the fugitives. A deep, cruel howl; tom-toms beat a ragged and violent alarm; savage war-cries rent the air, bounding back from one echo to another. Papita’s hand wavered at her paddle. Piang’s stroke grew swifter, surer. The outraged bridegroom had returned from his meditations to find himself brideless.

“How will they come, Piang?” Papita’s voice trembled.

“Some by water, some by land. Work, Papita.”

And so the deadly tropic night closed about them. The little nut-shell sped down the river, past snags, skulking crocodiles, and many unseen dangers. The jungle came far out over the water, dangling her treacherous plant-life above them, ready to drag them from the vinta: it crept beneath them, shooting up in massive trees that obstructed their passage—trees loaded down with parasites, intertwined, interlaced in hopeless confusion, each trying to crush and climb over the other in the fight for supremacy.

Where the creek empties into the Cotabato River, Piang paused; there were suspicious-looking shadows close to the bank, and he reached for his precious baskets.

“Work slowly, Papita,” he whispered, and the trembling girl kept the vinta just moving. From its ominous silence, the jungle crashed into chaos.

“LÈ lÈ lÈ lÈ iiiiiio!” shrieked the echoes.

Piang was ready.

“LÈ lÈ lÈ lÈ iiiiiio!” he tauntingly replied.

Kneeling in the bow of the vinta, he hastily lighted a green resinous torch and stuck it upright. It gave forth the pungent, heavy perfume of the jungle pitch. Waiting until his enemies were almost upon him, Piang raised one basket above his head and opened the trap. A sudden buzz and whirl filled the air; Piang reached for the second basket and held it in the smoke of the torch, ready to open. For a few moments, nothing happened, but the enemy slackened their pace, and the war cries were silenced. Finally yells of rage and pain broke from them:

“Badjanji!” they screamed. The little insects, infuriated at the treatment they had received, fairly pounced upon the defenseless Dyaks. No jungle pest is so dreaded as the enraged honey-bee. Its envenomed stings are poisonous, deadly, and often cause more painful wounds than bolos. The men fought desperately. Tauntingly Piang laughed, swiftly he and Papita paddled, and the smoke from the torch enveloped them in its protecting waves. Coming abreast of the war-prau, Piang loosed the other basket of bees.

On sped the vinta, and ever nearer came the great estuary that gave upon the Celebes Sea. The sounds of the sufferers grew fainter, and finally Papita and Piang were again alone in the great night.

“They will return and assemble the war fleet, Papita; they will pursue us into the ocean. If the water is rough, we cannot cross the bay to Parang-Parang in this vinta. We must hide near the coast and make our way homeward on foot.”

Morning fairly burst upon them. Twilight in the tropics is a name only, for the sun rises and disappears abruptly, and it is day or night in a few moments. The early light showed the ocean in the distance, and at the same moment sounds behind made Piang listen anxiously.

“They are coming, Papita; we must hide.”

As Piang headed for the bank, he noticed a thin stream of smoke trembling above Bongao. He paused and trained his eye on the blur. Suddenly he dug his paddle into the water.

“Papita, quick! The Sabah is coming!”

Again the vinta shot forward, down through the shifting, treacherous delta, out into the ocean. Louder grew the beating of paddles against the Dyak war-praus, and Piang could hear the war chant. He knew that Sicto cared little for ships; he had evaded too many of them. Only the Sabah, Sicto feared, but he would probably take a chance on this being the Chino mail boat or a Spanish tramp. That the Dyaks would take the chance and follow, Piang was sure.

The sea was choppy and fretful. The little bride boat danced and careened about recklessly. Between the Sabah and Piang lay Bongao, and straight for Bongao he headed, skilfully keeping the vinta steady. A white mist rose, as if to hide the vinta from the pursuers, but when the fleet reached the river’s mouth a yell announced that they had been discovered. The race was for life, for more than life, and the boy seemed possessed of a supernatural strength. Nearer came the smoke, and finally around the point of Bongao, burst the little gunboat. At first the Dyaks did not heed the stranger, so used were they to hurling contempt at island visitors, but when in answer to Papita’s signal, as she stood up waving her disheveled wedding veil, there came a shrill whistle, they paused in dismay.

In a very short time Papita and Piang were raised over the side of the Sabah, and General Beech and Governor Findy were questioning them.

“You say that Dato Ynoch is pursuing you?”

“Yes, yes, that is him in the first prau,” excitedly replied Piang.

“Well, Piang, it is Ynoch that brings the Sabah here to-day. We thank you, my boy, for tempting him into the open.”

When the Moro boy disclosed Ynoch’s identity, a grim smile settled over Governor Findy’s face.

“Man the guns, Captain!” commanded General Beech in his dignified, quiet way.

The Dyaks were scattering in the wildest confusion, making their way back to the river with all speed, but the Sabah relentlessly pursued. A sudden darkening shadow startled the captain of the Sabah, and he pointed toward the mountains.

“Something queer hatchin’ over there, General.”

A dense mist hid the hills; only old Ganassi Peak stood out, dignified and stern. Like a dirty piece of canvas, one cloud balanced itself on Ganassi’s shoulder and rapidly spread itself around the peak. It seemed to sap the very life from Ganassi, as it enveloped it in a chilling embrace. Slowly the cloud loosed its hold and bounced along on the lower hills. In its center it seemed to bear a restless, struggling mass, and the passengers on the Sabah watched it nervously. Strange things happen very suddenly in the sunny Celebes. Fascinated, they watched the odd cloud lumbering toward them, dipping and lifting its burden. It sailed over the mountains, flitted past the jungle and reached the ocean, where it hovered and waved as if undecided which way to go. At times, like canvas, it would belly down in the middle, almost burst, right itself, and come sailing on. Again and again the heavy contents pulled the cloud to earth, but valiantly struggling with its burden, it resisted. The cloud brought with it a death-like mist, damp and choking, and the sunshine was abruptly put out. The thing hesitated over the Sabah, dipping and sucking itself back, as if made of elastic; it wandered about aimlessly and paused over the fleeing Dyaks. Finally as if discouraged and strained beyond its endurance, it gave up.

With shrieks and cries the Dyaks watched it. Tons and tons of water burst from the cloud, striking the sea with a hiss that sent the spray high in the air.

“Waterspout!” yelled the captain and ordered the Sabah’s engines stopped. In horror they beheld the crazy column careen about, obeying its master, the capricious wind, and following any stray current; around and around the spiral, grinding mass of water veered and circled aimlessly. It danced and capered about the ocean like some malignant monster loosed from torment, and finally, as if by direct intent, started for the river’s mouth. The Dyaks saw it coming, and in their puny efforts to escape, looked like ants before an elephant. The five streams, flowing through the delta of the Cotabato River, seemed to draw the vicious waterspout toward them, and on it went, directly in the wake of the doomed Dyaks. Tensely the Sabah’s passengers followed the course of the spout. The whirling Nemesis descended upon the pirates; their cries of anguish came faintly through the roar and hiss of water; crude Dyak prayers, shrieked by terrified worshipers, smote upon their ears, and finally, like a whirlwind, the waterspout pounced upon its victims. It caught at them with a thousand arms; it tossed them up, bore them down, tore them from the light eggshell praus, crushing them to bits.

Through the entire fleet stalked the monster, dealing out death and destruction to all, and, when there remained naught to vent its wrath upon, like an insatiate giant, it turned toward the jungle. Straight up the river it marched, rooting up trees, tearing down banks, and gradually vanished in the distance, leaving wreckage and disaster in its path.

Silenced by the terrible spectacle, the Americans seemed to huddle closer together for protection, or comfort. But two figures stood out alone on the Sabah’s deck.

Papita’s eyes were fastened on Piang, on the charm that dangled from his necklace of crocodile teeth; Piang was lost in Ganassi Peak. His eyes were filled with a divine awe as he silently faced his beloved peak, where dwelt his wonder man, the Hermit Ganassi. Every element of his being, his very attitude, proclaimed that his spirit was pouring out a thanksgiving to his patron, whose prayers to Allah, the Merciful, had sent the waterspout to destroy his enemies. The Christians, boasting a greater God, were put to shame by this artless exhibition of a faith that they could never feel, and their eyes were filled with admiration as they looked upon this Moro boy, transfigured in his faith, as he muttered softly:

“There is no God but Allah!”

The End