“There are a few in the cities, who were used to growing fat on graft under the old rule, who do not like the Americans. Then too there are traders, white men with black hearts, who will do anything they can to stir up trouble. In the old days they grew rich selling arms and supplies to rebels. It is rumored that a boat loaded with rifles and ammunition is hiding away somewhere among the islands and that a rebel chieftain is here in the hills exciting the hill people to rebel. If only the Marines were here and the native police,” she sighed, “they’d put an end to it. But we must do what we can.
“If rebellion is started, cruel leaders will go roving through the hills forcing the people to follow them. In that way many innocent ones will be killed. If it can only be stopped, lives will be saved. And think what it means to live!”
Curlie did think. Every morning was a delight. Every day brought some fresh revelation from the natural world. Each night brought sweet repose. Ah yes, life was good.
The life of the hill people was simple and beautiful—children playing about their small, grass thatched, white plastered homes, men hoeing corn, women picking wild coffee, and always the simple songs of the hills were on their lips.
As they rounded a rugged cliff that overhung the trail, the sound of the drums grew louder and mingled with it was the chant of many voices.
“It is very near,” said the native woman.
“Listen!” said Curlie impressively. “When Columbus visited this island on his first great voyage, he heard those drums. All down the centuries they have sounded until now.”
“Yes,” said Dot. “And always for war. If only we could get their goat,” she said once more. “They will not go into revolt before the black goat is sacrificed.”
“But you can’t get their goat,” Mona whispered in an awed tone. “The Papa Lou has thrown a spell about the black goat. He throws spells over men and all living things. If he says ‘come’ the nightingale lights on his shoulder and the wild parrot eats from his hands. Twenty days ago the black goat ran wild in the mountains. Now he will not leave the Papa Lou. You do what you will, you cannot get the black goat. It is a spell that is cast over him.”
“Some part of what you have said is true,” said Dot, “but not all, I hope. We can get their goat. At least I hope so. Somehow we must do it.”