I landed at Culasián Bay on the west coast, meaning to ascend a river to the settlement of Dato Tumay, the man whose people had on a former occasion fought Governor Miller with captured constabulary rifles and been soundly whipped. Finding no one on the beach, we walked up the river bank for a short distance to a group of half a dozen tightly closed houses which looked as if they might belong to fishermen. Here we were met by a splendidly dressed glad-hand delegation, who greeted us rather too effusively. My suspicion was further aroused by the fact that only three of them carried weapons, in sight at least. The weapons of a Moro chief are just as much a part of his full dress as are the garments he wears. I had a few moments’ friendly conversation with these people, during which I noticed that several of them displayed a marked inclination to get behind me. This I did not like, so took up a position with my back to the river. Presently I suggested that we had come to call on Dato Tumay. The following conversation ensued:—
“You cannot go to see him.”
“Why not? Are the trails in bad condition?”
“There are no trails.”
“Are you not Dato Tumay’s people?”
“Yes.”
“How did you come down if there are no trails?”
“We came down the river.”
“Very well, we will go up the river.”
“You cannot do that.”