The Argus Pheasant

"I hardly know whether it's safe for us to venture into the town," Carver observed. "Couldn't you arrange to have the meeting here, away from all that mob? There must be thirty thousand people down below."

"I would rather meet them on their own ground."

"It's a big risk. If there should be an attack, we couldn't hold them."

"Thirty thousand against twenty-five would be rather long odds," Peter Gross assented, smiling.

"You're going to use the fort garrison, too, aren't you?" Carver asked quickly.

"I shall take just two people with me," Peter Gross announced.

"My God, Mr. Gross! You'll never get back!" Carver's face was tense with anxiety.

"Three people will be just as effective as twenty-six, captain," Peter Gross declared mildly. "The victory we must gain to-day is a moral victory – we must show the natives that we are not afraid."

"But they're bound to break loose. A show of military force would restrain them – "

"I think it would be more a provocation than a restraint, captain. They would see our helplessness. If I go alone they will reason that we are stronger than they think we are. Our confidence will beget uncertainty among them."

Carver had long since learned the futility of trying to dissuade his chief from a course once adopted. He merely remarked:

"Of course I'll go?"

"I'm sorry, captain – " Peter Gross's face expressed sincere regret. "Nothing would please me more than to have you with me, but I can't spare you here."

Carver realized that himself. He swallowed his disappointment.

"Whom were you planning on taking?" he asked abruptly.

"Inchi – "

Carver nodded approval.

– "And Paddy Rouse."

"Paddy?" the captain exclaimed. "Of what use – I beg your pardon, Mr. Gross."

Peter Gross smiled. "It does seem a peculiar mission to take that youngster on," he said. "But Paddy's going to be rarely useful to me to-day, useful in a way every man couldn't be. These natives have a superstitious reverence for red hair."

An understanding smile broke upon Carver's face.

"Of course. A mighty good idea. Bluff and superstition are two almighty-powerful weapons against savages."

"I also hope that we shall have another ally there," Peter Gross said.

"Who is that?"

"The Juffrouw Koyala."

Carver frowned. "Mr. Gross," he said, "I don't trust that woman. She's Dyak, and that's the most treacherous breed that was ever spawned. We've got to look out for her. She's an actress, and mighty clever in playing her little part, but she can't hide the hate in her heart. She'll keep us on the string and pretend she's won over, but the first chance she gets to strike, she'll do it. I've met that kind of woman in the Philippines."

"I think you are wholly mistaken," Peter Gross replied decisively.

Carver glanced at him quickly, searchingly. "She's a damn pretty woman," he remarked musingly, and shot another quick glance at the resident.

"That has nothing to do with the matter," Peter Gross replied sternly.

Abruptly dropping the topic, Carver asked:

"At what hour does the council meet?"

"Four o'clock."

"You'll be back by sundown?"

"I am afraid not. I shall probably spend the night with Wobanguli."

Carver groaned. "Send Inchi if things look as though they were going wrong," he said. "Might I suggest that you let him go to the village right away, and keep away from you altogether?"

"If you'll instruct him so, please. In case there is trouble, throw your men into the fort." He took a package of papers from his pocket and gave them to Carver. "Here are some documents which I want you to take care of for me. They are all addressed. One of them is for you; it appoints you military commandant of Bulungan in case something should happen to me down below. Don't use it otherwise. If Van Slyck should make a fuss you will know how to handle him."

"I understand," Carver replied shortly, and pocketed the envelope. He strode back to his shelter with a heavy heart.

CHAPTER XVI

Peter Gross's Pledge

The afternoon sun was pouring its full strength on the coral highway to Bulungan when Peter Gross rode to the council. He was mounted on a thoroughbred that he had brought with him from Java, and was in full-dress uniform. On his breast gleamed several decorations awarded him by Governor-General Van Schouten. It was the first time he had used them, and it was not vanity that inspired him to pin them on his coat. He realized the importance of employing every artifice to impress the native mind favorably toward its new ruler. Paddy Rouse was in field-service uniform, and rode a chestnut borrowed from the military stables.

The terrific din created by several thousand gongs of brass, copper, and wood, beaten in every part of Bulungan to testify to the holiday, was plainly audible as they cantered along the road.

"Sounds like the Fourth of July," Paddy remarked cheerfully.

When they neared the village two Gustis, youthful Dyak chiefs with reputations yet to make, charged toward them with bared krisses. As the hoofs of their jet-black steeds thundered toward Peter Gross, Paddy gave his horse the spur and shot it half a length ahead of the resident. His hand was on the butt of his pistol when a low-voiced warning from his chief restrained him. Just as it seemed that they would be ridden down the horsemen parted and flashed by with krisses lifted to salute. They wheeled instantly and fell in behind the resident.

"Whew," Paddy whistled softly. "I thought they meant business."

"It was meant to do us honor," Peter Gross explained.

More native princes spurred from the town to join the procession. In each instance the demonstration the same. Paddy noted that every one was mounted on a black horse and carried a kris whose handle was of either gold or ivory, and was studded with gems. None used saddles, but each horse was caparisoned with a gayly colored saddle-cloth embroidered with gold thread. The bridles were of many-colored cords and the bits of silver. He pointed out these things to Peter Gross in an undertone.

"That shows that they are all of princely rank," Peter Gross informed him.

The din from the gongs became almost deafening as they entered the outskirts of the town. The crowd thickened also, and it became increasingly difficult to break through the press. Paddy Rouse's eyes swam as he looked into the sea of black and brown faces grimacing and contorting. The scene was a riot of color; every native was dressed in his holiday best, which meant garments of the gaudiest and brightest dyes that his means enabled him to procure. Paddy noticed a patriarch in a pea-green velvet jacket, blue and orange chawat, or waist-cloth, and red, yellow, and blue kerchief head-dress. Most of the kerchief head-dresses, worn turban-fashion, were in three colors, blue predominating, he observed.

"Big reception they're giving us," Paddy remarked.

Peter Gross's reply was noncommittal. He felt a little of the forces that were at work beneath the surface, and realized how quickly this childishly curious, childishly happy mob could be converted into a bedlam of savagery.