d 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.