"I say, you know, I've never done you any wrong, have I?" the sheriff
persisted.

"You do me wrong when you try to put me in prison," was the reply. "And
you do me wrong when you try for the thousand dollars on my head. If you
will live, stay where you are."

"I've got to come across and get you. I'm sorry. But it is my duty."

"You will die before you get across."

The sheriff was no coward. Yet was he undecided. He gazed into the gulf
on either side and ran his eyes along the knife-edge he must travel. Then
he made up his mind.

"Koolau," he called.

But the thicket remained silent.

"Koolau, don't shoot. I am coming."

The sheriff turned, gave some orders to the police, then started on his
perilous way. He advanced slowly. It was like walking a tight rope. He
had nothing to lean upon but the air. The lava rock crumbled under his
feet, and on either side the dislodged fragments pitched downward through
the depths. The sun blazed upon him, and his face was wet with sweat.
Still he advanced, until the halfway point was reached.

"Stop!" Koolau commanded from the thicket. "One more step and I shoot."

The sheriff halted, swaying for balance as he stood poised above the
void. His face was pale, but his eyes were determined. He licked his
dry lips before he spoke.

"Koolau, you won't shoot me. I know you won't."

He started once more. The bullet whirled him half about. On his face
was an expression of querulous surprise as he reeled to the fall. He
tried to save himself by throwing his body across the knife-edge; but at
that moment he knew death. The next moment the knife-edge was vacant.
Then came the rush, five policemen, in single file, with superb
steadiness, running along the knife-edge. At the same instant the rest
of the posse opened fire on the thicket. It was madness. Five times
Koolau pulled the trigger, so rapidly that his shots constituted a
rattle. Changing his position and crouching low under the bullets that
were biting and singing through the bushes, he peered out. Four of the
police had followed the sheriff. The fifth lay across the knife-edge
still alive. On the farther side, no longer firing, were the surviving
police. On the naked rock there was no hope for them. Before they could
clamber down Koolau could have picked off the last man. But he did not
fire, and, after a conference, one of them took off a white undershirt
and waved it as a flag. Followed by an