The Presidente of Igut sat rigid, apparently glued to his chair, staring through the doorway at a little man on a grey horse, who had just ridden into the clearing, followed by a score of bolomen; but Commissioner Furber stood up to face the danger, like a white man should. It was, in a sense, the supreme moment of his life, and the good blood which was in him proved stronger than the effects of the evil training he had been given.
He had left his revolver hanging on one of the posts of the little veranda, which was fortunate for him; otherwise, he would have started to shoot, and they would have had to kill him.
Felizardo brought his horse right up to the foot of the little ladder, and then he spoke. “You are the Senor Furber? Good! I am Felizardo. I was told you wished to see me, so I have come. What is it you would say, Senor?”
For the first time for many years, Commissioner Furber was at a loss for words. “I … you”—he stammered a little—“you are at war with the Government, and it is my duty to have you captured.”
The old man smiled. “But no, Senor. The Americanos make war on me, which is very different. I am the Chief of these mountains. All I wish is to be left alone, as I have said many times.”
Greatly to his own surprise, Mr Furber felt a keen desire to argue the point with this outlaw and Enemy of the Sovereign People. “It is impossible,” he said. “The whole island must be under our law.”
“There is only one law here,” the other retorted, “the Law of the Bolo. Will you carry that word back to Manila?” Furber flushed slightly; so his life was to be spared. “You are in my power. Your troops cannot be here for at least an hour, time enough in which to kill many men; but I will let you go, because, after all, I want peace. Will you take my message to your people?” And Mr Furber promised.
Felizardo beckoned to a couple of his men, then turned to the Commissioner again. “There is justice to be done, though, on the Presidente of Igut. He was in league with the band of Juan Vagas. Read that, Senor,” and he handed a letter to the white man, who, after having read it, looked very sternly at the trembling magistrate of Igut. Somehow, Mr Furber’s views had changed greatly during the last few minutes. He turned to Felizardo again. “I will deal with him, Senor, on my honour,” he said, and for a moment there was a spark of hope in the Presidente’s heart.
But Felizardo said: “He is my prisoner, Senor Furber. Besides, it will save time and trouble.” Then he nodded to his two men, who dragged the Presidente out of the shack. The shivering wretch caught hold of Furber’s leg as he was hauled past, but the Commissioner shook himself free, and went inside, so that he should not see what they were going to do.
It was, as Felizardo had predicted, an hour later when the first of the troops came back. Whilst the men were cutting down the body of the Presidente, the officer in command hurried to the shack, where he found the Commissioner sitting at the table with his head buried in his hands. He looked wearily up as the other came in.