Jinaban was led forth from Palmer's house into the village square, and bound with his back to a coconut palm. On three sides of him were assembled nearly every man, woman, and child on Las Matelotas Lagoon. Not a sign of fear was visible in his dark, bearded face; only a look of implacable hatred settled upon it when Palmer, followed by the half-caste seaman and a servant boy, walked slowly down his verandah steps and stood in full view of the assemblage. He was unarmed, but the boy carried his rifle.
Raising his hand to command silence, the murmuring buzz of voices was instantly hushed, and the trader spoke. There, said he, was the cruel murderer who had so ruthlessly slain more than a score of men, women, and children—many of whom were of his own blood. Jinaban must die, and they must kill him. He himself, although he had good cause to slay him, would not. Let one of those whose kith and kin had been slain by this cruel man now take a just vengeance.
A young man stepped out from among the crowd, and Palmer, taking the rifle from the boy who held it, placed it in his hand. He was the brother of the girl whom Jinaban had shot through the legs and left to die of starvation and thirst.
Slowly the young native raised the rifle to his shoulder, glanced along the barrel, then grounded it on the sand.
“I cannot do it,” he said, handing the weapon back. Jinaban heard and laughed.
“Just what I thought would happen,” muttered Palmer to Porter. “We must hurry things along, even if we have to do it ourselves,” and then, raising his voice, he called out—
“Ten silver dollars to the man who will shoot Jinaban.”
No one moved, and a low murmur passed from lip to lip among the crowded natives. A minute passed.
“Oh, cowards!” said Palmer scornfully. “Twenty dollars!”