A whisper of awe rustled through the surrounding ranks. Ignorant of firearms, they thought the young American wielded some uncanny power with his black weapon. Already distinguished as the first white man to set his foot upon Apo, he was now regarded with a feeling akin to worship.
Ohto was silent, lost in a protracted, inscrutable study of Terry's face. At last the old man turned on his heels to sweep the circle of his people for confirmation of his surmise. Satisfied, he raised his hand for silence.
"There has been worry ... doubt ... among you—who should take up Ohto's burden when he lets it fall ... soon. You are entering new times, will meet new and strange things. To Ohto it seems best that he leave his people under the guidance of a young and strong and kind chief who knows all these strange things ... one who can lead you safely into the new life. What say you, my people? Who shall sit in Ohto's chair when he is gone?"
For a moment the multitude was silent as the significance of Ohto's query sank into their slow minds, then a murmur of approval rose among them, swelled into a deafening shout of acclamation.
"The pale white man! The pale white man!"
Terry understood. Uncertain, he turned to the Major, but Ohto interrupted by addressing him directly.
"You have heard. When Ohto leaves—and it can not be long—he leaves his people in your hands. You will be patient, kindly, gentle, with them. That Ohto knows ... it is written in your face."
As Terry slowly bowed his head slightly in acceptance of the trust, the delighted Hillmen stirred, whispered to each other. The hum of voices grew louder but was instantly hushed by the dramatic gesture with which Ohto extended his arm toward a low cotton tree that stood at the edge of the woods. The thousand eager heads turned almost as one.
Upon a slender leafless branch which extended at right angles from the trunk of a kapok tree two large gray wood pigeons had perched side by side in the close communion of mated birds, heedless of the host below them. Unafraid, tired, content with what the day had brought them in the lowlands, they were happy in safe return together to their mountain home.
In the hush which followed recognition by the throng, the limoçons moved closer to each other, wing brushed wing, sleepy lids lowered over soft eyes to shut out the crimson glory of the dying sun. Then the little throats throbbed as they voiced gratitude to their Creator in gentle, low pitched notes, lilting with the joy of life, plaintive with the brevity of its span.