“Why not?”
“There are no boats to carry you.”
“In those boats. [Pointing out two tiny dugouts barely able to carry two men each.] You and one of your friends can go up in them if you like. Two of our men will paddle you.”
Finished Trail built by Ifugaos.
Approximately a thousand miles of such trail have been built in the Mountain Province and Nueva Vizcaya under American rule.
This proposition did not seem attractive to me, so I suggested that I would take a little walk up the river. I had been positively assured that there was no other boat in the vicinity, but at the very first turn discovered a suspicious looking trail running up into the bushes and following it found a fully rigged war-canoe over which freshly cut brush had been hastily thrown. I suggested to the Moros that this looked very much like a boat. They replied that it leaked. I asked them to put it into the water, stating that I liked to see boats leak. Not a Moro stirred. We had brought twenty-five soldiers ashore with us, as Tumay’s reputation was by no means of the best, and I now called to some of them to come and put the boat into the river. In passing back of the group of Moros, one of these men stubbed his toe on the shaft of a lance which was hidden in the grass, and fell on his nose. He raised the lance as he recovered his feet, then stooped and picked up a second one, trailed them behind him until he reached a position in front of me and dropped them on the ground. Both had the sheaths removed from their long steel heads. Another soldier kicked around in the grass a bit and produced a serpent kriss which had been drawn from its scabbard. Still another fished up a baróng.[2]
I asked the ranking Moro present what was the meaning of these weapons, concealed at our very feet. He said that they were afraid that we would steal them and had therefore hidden them. I asked him whether any white man had ever stolen anything from them, and also why they had hidden them there, where we were likely to cut our feet on them, instead of in the forest which was not fifty yards away. Obviously there was no satisfactory answer to these questions and he had no time to attempt any, for one of the soldiers stooped down and pulled out of the grass from beside his very hand a forty-five caliber single-action revolver, cocked and with all six cylinders loaded. Fearing to be taken at a disadvantage, I said to the soldiers, “Make these men sit down, and search the place for arms.”
The soldiers repeatedly ordered the Moros to sit down and the order was translated to them in their own language by my interpreter. Not a man obeyed. On the contrary, one of them turned his back and started off at a quick pace, disregarding repeated orders to halt. Theoretically he should have been shot.