News that a strange craft had put into Cotabato reached Piang in his mountain home. Hurriedly he gathered his few weapons together and started down the trail. He passed many traders and venders, who had also heard of the boat, and he hastened his steps in his desire to be there early.

“Un-di?” (“Whither?”) called Sicto as Piang trotted past him.

“To the barrio,” replied Piang. Sicto hurried to keep up with him, but Piang had no wish to be in company with the ne’er-do-well Moro boy, and he did not try to conceal his feelings. The natural dignity of the Oriental kept Sicto from displaying his anger at the repulse, but he sullenly slackened his pace and registered a black mark against this haughty Piang.

Piang loved to be alone; his playmates were too noisy, too talkative; he, too, loved to chatter and play games at times, but now in the jungle, as the morning light slowly broke through the damp foliage, he wished to be alone and watch nature unfold to the coming day. It seemed to him that the huge elephant ears lifted their dew-weighted leaves and shook themselves in the gentle wind. The monkeys peeped out at him and continued to make their toilet undisturbed. Other travelers startled the little creatures into watchfulness, but Piang came upon them so silently, so peacefully, that they scarcely noticed him.

There was one spot, half-way down the trail which he wanted to reach alone; there the jungle seemed to part, as if to grant a glimpse of the harbor below. He quickened his stride, and as he passed a party of men one of them called to him, “You will be first to-day, little fleet one.” So there was none before him. He was glad, and when he came within sight of the clearing, he rejoiced in his solitude. He wondered if the boat was a vinta from Borneo, or if it was loaded with copra for Japan. There now, when that mist lifted, he would know.

As the beautiful harbor broke upon his sight, Piang paused, holding his breath, for out of the boat, the only one in view, smoke was pouring. It was on fire! But why were the people not trying to save the cargo? A huge black stick standing in the middle of the hull was belching smoke. While he was regretting that he would be too late to assist at the rescue, he was startled by a thin white stream spurting out of the mast-head. Gradually he connected it with the shrill whistle that pierced his ears.

Piang wanted to run back, to warn the others that some strange monster had sailed into their midst; but he saw that his brothers in the barrio were calmly watching the thing, and as it did not seem to hurt them, he took courage and dashed on down the trail into the jungle. All the rest of the journey he strained his ears to catch that shrill voice, which he was now sure came from the boat. As he flew through the silent forest he recalled the tales of the demons that the wise men talked about, and he decided to approach the thing with caution. Finally he stood on the shore, and there before his eyes was a boat that seemed to be alive. It was breathing. But where were its sails? How did it move? Clusters of natives, their fear stilled by curiosity, watched the approach. Breathlessly they waited. It was coming toward the tiny wharf, and just as it settled alongside, a piercing screech from it sent them tumbling over each other in a mad attempt to get away. From the safety of trees and huts they waited. Big men, pale and straight, walked from the boat and beckoned them to descend. Cautiously the more daring ones responded, and soon the whole population was gathered around the visitors.

Curious to see what the strangers were showing the dato, Piang slipped quietly up behind and caught sight of the most beautiful colored cloth he had ever seen. “Bandana,” the pale man called it. Piang longed to possess it for his mother; how she would love to wear it for her gala head-dress! The sailor then produced a tiny object that glistened and sparkled in the sun; it was about as large as the palm of Piang’s hand and very thin. The Moros were very much excited over it, and when Piang reached up on tip-toes to peer through the crowd, he cried aloud, for there, staring back at him was a boy he had seen somewhere. The little brown face and the piercing black eyes, the long hair twisted in a knot with the ends flying loose, were all strangely familiar. It was—Piang! “Mir-ro,” he repeated after the white man when his scattered wits permitted, and the crowd had ceased its merriment at his expense. The Moros were more interested in the knives, tobacco, and strange food that the strangers had brought than in the red bandana handkerchief and the toy mirror; but Piang longed to carry the two things that had caught his eye back to his mother, and he was silently gazing at them when Sicto, attracted by Piang’s admiration, picked the mirror up to look at it.

Before Piang realized it, Sicto was negotiating with the owner, offering in trade his brass buyo, or betel-box, used for containing a preparation of the betel pepper, extensively chewed in the East. Why had Piang not brought his brass? He would run and fetch it; but the man would not wait. Just as he saw the things about to pass into the hands of his rival, he remembered his ring. Attracting the attention of the trader, he quickly unscrewed the tiny center and proudly displayed a few glittering flakes; Piang did not know that they were gold dust; but the trader whistled a low note of surprise and called one of his shipmates aside. The Moro boy had seen the Japanese trade whole shiploads of copra for the shiny stuff, so, when he had found some in the sand one day, he had gathered it.

When the trader made it clear to Piang that he could have the treasures for more of the flakes, he was delighted, and without a moment’s delay started off up the trail, not deigning to glance at the disappointed Sicto.

Up, up, he climbed. Heat, thirst, nothing slackened his pace. Arriving at his home, he flew to the lake, and, without a word to any one, jumped into his banco and pushed out into the water. Sweat poured down his face; mosquitos buzzed around his head: but he had no time to build a smudge. He must hurry, or the strange boat would leave the island and take forever the treasures Piang so coveted.

Soon he struck the current, and when he felt the boat settle into it he dropped over the side, holding on to the outriggers, and let the boat pull him through the cool water. He noticed another banco in the distance and wondered what brought another person out on the lake in the heat, but the mosquitos occupied all his attention, and he dived and swam under the water to avoid them, soon forgetting the other boatman.

Which stream had he paddled up before, when he had found the bright sand? He examined the shore carefully as he climbed into the boat. It must be there. Yes, he remembered the orchids in that tree. Cautiously he guided the banco to the mouth of the creek, and he shuddered as he caught sight of a shiny black object slipping into the water. It was a harmless snake, but Piang did not like snakes and he hurried past the spot. Gradually he lost sight of the lake and the sun; overhanging vegetation and fallen trees engulfed him. At times he could not use his paddle, and cautiously avoiding the thorns and poisoned things, he pulled the boat along from above. Soon this little stream would take him into the big river where he had found the pretty sand.

Piang was startled by a sound behind him. Surely he had heard a paddle. But all was silence when he paused to listen. When he came to the river he shouted with delight, for his journey was half over, and there in the sun sparkled his treasure. Taking his gourd from the boat, he filled it with sand and then started the long process of washing it away. Always in the bottom would be left a few of the bright grains. These he poured on a leaf, but he discovered in dismay that they stuck there, and when he tried to brush them off, they sank into the leaf.

While he was pondering on his predicament he heard the chatter of a hablar-bird, and he chuckled to himself. He searched his banco for his bow and arrows, but was astonished to find only the bow. What a misfortune! He must have lost the arrows on the trail. Nothing daunted, little Piang set about his task in another manner. Scattering a handful of parched corn in a clearing, he laid the noose of his rope around it, and taking the end of it in his hand, silently withdrew into the thicket and waited.

Soon the big bird discovered the handy meal and, loudly proclaiming its rights to possession, flapped its way to the earth and lighted right in Piang’s noose. The hablar-bird fluttered and chattered as it settled to the task of filling its craw with the good food. Cautiously Piang watched his chance and, with a deft twitch of the rope, secured the noose around the bird’s foot. Such screaming and flapping! “Now you be good bird, and I no hurt you,” Piang admonished. Catching hold of the creature behind the head, Piang held it firmly and quickly plucked three large feathers from its brilliant plumage. He then set it free and laughed to see it searching for its lost glories.

Piang would have enjoyed watching it, as it scolded him from a high limb, but he could not delay and he set about his task quickly. Cutting off the end of each quill, he scraped it clean inside and washed the pithy part out. He had seen his father prepare a quill in this way for packing tobacco-powder.

When these receptacles were ready to receive the gold-dust, he began washing the sand again; and when he had secured enough to fill all three quills he stuck a piece of green banana on the ends for a stopper. Now he would have the treasures for his mother—that beautiful cloth and the funny, thin thing that played pranks on you when you looked into it.

What was that sound? Surely some one was spying on him. In a flash he remembered the banco on the lake, the other sounds he had heard. Also he remembered that Sicto wanted the same treasures that he coveted. He had been followed by the bully, and now, without his bow and arrows, he was helpless. To gain the lake again, he must pass through that treacherous creek, and he knew that Sicto would think nothing of robbing him and hastening to the village to buy the treasures with Piang’s hard-earned bright sand. Somewhere those wicked eyes were watching him from the foliage, but Piang bravely covered his misgivings.

There were two trails to the village; one lay to the west through the lake that he had crossed; the other was straight ahead, down the river. But there were cataracts on this river, and Piang wondered if he could make his way on foot from the head of the first one to the right trail. He decided to take the risk and quickly headed his banco in that direction. As he started down the river, he heard a howl of rage, and glancing back, saw Sicto preparing to follow.

So! It was to be a race! Piang had foiled the bully, and his little heart beat faster as he realized the consequences if Sicto should catch him. Piang had a good start, but the river was so treacherous, the eddies so powerful, that sometimes his boat seemed to stand still or almost turn around when it was caught by the counter-current. How he loved his slim little craft! Whenever possible, it obeyed his wish, and he chuckled to see Sicto struggling with his heavy boat. If he could only reach the first head-water and land on the opposite shore, he would not fear defeat. For who was more fleet-footed than Piang, who more able to ferret his way through the almost impenetrable jungle?

Cautiously he watched the shore; he had been this way only once before, and wondered if he could remember where the trail began at the water’s edge. The current was so swift here that it was hardly necessary to paddle at all; so he rested to examine the shore.

But what was the matter with Sicto? Why had he stopped paddling? In a flash it came over Piang that the cataract was near, and he started to back water with all his might. To his horror he found that he could not control the boat; fight as he would, it paid no heed to his struggle, but dashed on toward the waterfall. At first Piang thought he would swim, but realized that he would be swept over just the same. There was only one thing to be done—he must ride the cataract. Sicto was left far behind, clinging to the bank, watching with a sneer the boy going as he thought, to his death. He wondered why Piang was standing up in the banco; surely it would be best to lie flat in the boat and cling to the bottom.

Gracefully Piang poised his body for the dive. The feathers were safely thrust into his long hair, and his bolo secured in his belt. With hands outstretched above his head, he waited for the great moment. He knew that if he was skilful he could clear the dangerous waters below the falls and either swim to the shore or reach his banco. Faster, faster went the boat, and his little heart thumped so that he feared it would burst. He tried to remember that this was not such a dangerous feat; others had accomplished it, and he could, if he was careful. The drop was only a few yards, but the danger lay in the shoals at the foot of the falls. What a beautiful sight Piang was, poised on the brink of that foaming cataract, the black jungle for a background! As he felt the banco quiver and twist he prepared for the dive. Finally the boat reached the crest and, with a lurch, shot from under the boy as he sprang far out into space. It seemed an eternity to Piang before he plunged into the waters below; then he sank down, down. The roaring and thundering deafened him, and he wondered if he should ever stop tumbling over in the water. It tossed him, tore from his hands any support he was able to grasp, and finally, after almost depriving him of breath, left him floating on the surface of a calm pool. How delicious the rest seemed! How tired he was! As he lay there on his back, he watched the water pour over the rocks above his head, and marveled that he had accomplished it all so easily.

Gradually Piang regained his composure, and his first thought was for the quills. Yes, they were still safe, and he must hurry. Not fearing Sicto’s interference any more, he began to wonder how he should find the trail. Searching the river for his banco, he discovered it caught by some reeds near the shore. It was easy to swim on that side of the river; so he slowly made his way to the overturned canoe, deftly righting it, and in a moment was over the side, searching for the extra paddle he always kept tied in the bottom. Fortunately it had not been torn away, and avoiding the rapids, he hugged the shore and finally resumed his journey down the river.

What a wonderful experience Piang had had! How he would boast of his bravery, Moro fashion, and maybe the wise men would praise him. As he paddled down the river he kept his eyes open for trails; and when he heard the next cataract thundering its menace in the distance, he decided to land and search the jungle for a path. Beaching his banco, he hid it in the undergrowth, and, carefully avoiding the stinging vines, crept into the shadow of the jungle.

The great silence was everywhere, and Piang wondered if he could trust his instinct to lead him aright. The heavy vines obstructed his passage, and he was forced to cut and hew his way through the edge of the forest. Nature does her best to protect the jungle, for always, on the edges, bamboo, and bajuca (pronounced bah-hoo-kah) vie with each other in forming an impenetrable wall; but after the first few yards the obstinacy of the vines seems to relax, their sentinel duty over.

Luckily for Piang, the jungle was well supplied with paths here, and he soon found the one leading down to the barrio. His heart was light, now, and he threw back his head and shouted with glee as he remembered Sicto, pale with terror, lest he too be swept over the cataract. Very quickly his exultation subsided, however, when he realized that Sicto could easily be on this same trail, and he redoubled his efforts as he imagined he heard twigs snapping behind him. What if the boat had already gone. What if its coveted treasures were lost forever?

From his customary trot Piang broke into a run, and, panting and sweating, pushed forward. Soon the trail joined the one he had taken that morning, and in a moment he would come to the clearing where he had first seen the strange boat. Yes, there it was; ugly, cross-looking, without one of those bright-patched sails that decorated all the boats Piang had ever seen. But—was it moving? With a cry, Piang started forward as the white smoke appeared, and the shriek echoed and reËchoed through the jungle. Fury, resentment, and determination flashed across his face; with a howl he darted down the trail. There was only a little way to go now, and he would run like the wind. Friends and strangers tried to speak to him as he approached them on the trail, but he brushed them aside impatiently and rushed onward.

With his last bit of breath he stumbled through the barrio, but the boat was steadily moving out to sea. He threw himself on his face and beat the wharf with his clenched fists. All was lost—the beautiful “ban-da-na” for his mother, the “mir-ro,” too! An exclamation from one of the men arrested his attention, and he sprang to his feet in an instant. The boat had stopped; and—could he believe his eyes?—the man with the treasures was getting into a small skiff and was beckoning to Piang!

Quickly the boy responded. Making sure that the precious quills were safe, he dived into the sea and struck out toward the approaching boat. When they pulled him over the side, a cheer went up from the Moros on the bank and was answered by another from the strange boat. Eagerly Piang searched the boat for the two objects so dear to his heart, but the trader silently tapped the ring and waited. Slyly the boy considered. Finally he drew forth one quill and offered it to the man. He handed Piang the red calico handkerchief, saying “ban-da-na.” Eagerly the boy grabbed it. Guardedly the two contemplated each other. The trader reached into his pocket and produced the toy mirror, surrounded by colored pins; Piang offered to trade for another quill, but the man shook his head. Piang resolutely shook his, and the owner intimated that the trade was over by slipping the mirror back into his pocket. Piang could not stand the suspense, despite his passion for making a good trade, so he thrust the other quill into the stranger’s hand, grasped the treasure, and, saluting them in his dignified fashion, slipped over the side and was off.

When Sicto slunk into the hill barrio that night he was anxious to avoid Piang, but our hero was not concerned about him at all. Around the great fire in the center of the village were seated all the important members of the tribe, and Sicto’s envy was complete when he saw that Piang’s mother was the object of adoration. There she sat, the coveted “ban-da-na” crowning her stately head, and around her neck was suspended the funny thing that laughed back at you. Silently she offered each member of the circle one of the colored pins, and when all were supplied, they fell to the task of picking their teeth, at intervals reverently examining the instrument. When the allotted period had elapsed, Piang’s mother again extended the mirror, and when each one had gazed into the depth, the pin was replaced, later to be handed on to a new comer.

Sicto had joined the less fortunate persons who were watching the ceremony from a distance. Only the elect were permitted to approach the circle. From his place of honor Piang glanced loftily in their direction, and as his eyes met Sicto’s, his triumph was complete. Under Piang’s steady gaze, the bully quailed and, dropping his eyes, shambled off into the darkness.