side the stairs, the pole
would reach almost through the door of the hut.

Scotty nodded. Rick stepped to a position beside Chahda and nodded.

Chahda flexed his muscles, wrapped his fingers tightly around the handle
of his bolo, spread his feet and swung.

The steel blade hit the bamboo floor and sliced through, flying in a
great arc.

There were yells from the men upstairs. Chahda swung again as running
feet made the floor vibrate. Scotty gave a wild yell and charged like a
knight attacking an enemy. The bamboo pole caught Nast in the stomach
and drove him back into the hut.

The box containing the skull slid and caught.

Chahda swung again, in desperation, and the box dropped through! Rick
caught it, and the weight would have driven him to the ground had not
Chahda given a hand.

They rushed the box to its prearranged hiding place, then Rick gave a
piercing whistle. They ran, all three of them, in three different
directions.

Chahda headed for the jeep. He ran quietly. Scotty headed south, yelling
as he went; Rick ran north, giving an occasional bellow. That was to
draw the pursuit away from Chahda, so he could get to the jeep
undisturbed.

The pursuit had organized, apparently, because both Nast and Lazada were
barking orders. Rick kept yelling, but he was now in the brush. Scotty
was yelling, too.

Rick pushed his way through the brush and emerged on the bank of a river
or estuary of some kind. Beyond, on the opposite bank, were rows of
wooden forms that marked the outline of salt pans. Water was let into
the square pools in the early morning, and by nightfall it had
evaporated, leaving its salt behind.

For a tense moment Rick waited. Perhaps he was not being followed.
Perhaps they had followed Scotty. Then he heard the brush snapping and
knew they were on his trail. He had to keep going. He stepped into the
water and went right on until it was over his head. He spluttered, his
eyes stinging from the salt. The water was brine, already partially
evaporated and ready for the salt pans.

A few strokes took him to the opposite bank. He climbed out onto the
salt pans, his clothes dripping and his shoes soggy. He ran.

He was almost across the field of salt pans when a shot whistled past.
He bent low and ran faster, remembering that Nast carried a .38 in a
shoulder holster.

The second shot was closer, but not close enough. He reached the field
beyond the salt pans and headed for a coconut grove about