“Since we are headed toward Jekiri’s sanctum, I guess it behooves us to get all the dope goin’ about these fellows,” interjected a recruit.
Piang’s big, black eyes filled with mystery when he described how the juramentado rides to the abode of the blessed on a shadowy, white horse, taller than a carabao, just as dusk is falling. Indeed, he assured them that he had seen this very phenomenon himself and shivered at the recollection of the unnatural chill and damp that crept through the jungle while the spirit was passing.
“Bosh, Piang, you mustn’t believe those fairy tales now. You are a good American.”
“Sure, me good American, now,” grinned the boy.
There is nothing to differentiate the island of Basilan from the many others in the Sulu group. The natives seemed far from hostile, however, and Lieutenant Lewis remarked upon their docility to Sergeant Greer.
“Don’t let ’em fool you, sir; they’re not to be trusted,” he replied.
“Oh, Sergeant, I think we are all too scared of the dirty beggars. If we ever stop dodging them, they will stop lying in wait for us.”
The old man’s face did not reveal his misgivings, but he wondered where this young upstart would lead the men and inwardly cursed the war department for sending troops into the jungle under the command of a baby. He was soon to change his opinion of this particular “baby.”
Camp was pitched near the water’s edge in a tall cocoanut grove that supplied them with food and water as well as shade. The chores over, liberty was granted to explore the island. The sergeant shook his head; he seemed to feel the inexperience of the new officer and overstepped the bounds of discipline when he warned him again of the treachery of the natives, advising him to keep the men in camp.