The Law of the Bolo

by Stanley Portal Hyatt

Father Doyle rose. “It is enough,” he said; and he went into the cave with Felizardo, and, having heard his confession, gave him absolution, being a man who, having no other interest in life save the service of his Master, was not afraid of what other men might say concerning him. So, at last, after thirty-six years, Dolores Lasara was married to Felizardo by Father Doyle, the American priest, in the presence of old Don Juan Ramirez the Spaniard, and John Mackay the Scotchman. Then the two latter went outside, and sat by a fire in the open, and waited for dawn, when Father Doyle came out and told them that the gentle, faithful soul of the wife of Felizardo had gone to its own place.

Presently Felizardo came out also, looking a very old man for his years, and saw to their wants with a grave courtesy, making no mention of his loss until he had arranged everything for them; then, “I shall bury my wife at San Polycarpio, where she was born,” he said very quietly.

Don Juan gave an exclamation of surprise, foreseeing the difficulties, but Father Doyle nodded sympathetically, whilst John Mackay rose from his seat at once. “Then I had better see Basil Hayle,” he said. “Calocan is but a mile or two by water from San Polycarpio.”

“And how about the Scouts at Igut?” Don Juan’s voice was full of anxiety. “If they heard and made an attack, what would happen then? Why not tell Captain Bush also?”

Felizardo shook his head. “They will not hear. We shall pass Igut in the night; and even if they did attack—well, there will be bolomen, though I want peace above all things, if only for this journey. You say, ‘Tell Captain Bush,’ Senor. No, he is not like the Captain of the Constabulary. He could not understand, treating his own wife as he does. I know, Senor, even about that.”

So no word went down to Igut concerning the death of Dolores and Felizardo’s intention of burying her in her own birthplace, San Polycarpio; but John Mackay hastened to Calocan, and saw Basil Hayle, to whom he told the whole matter.

Basil stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “I shall be there myself,” he said at last, “and I will take those of my men who escaped from the fight on the hillside, when Felizardo cut my company to pieces. They will go, not as guard to me, but as a guard of honour to the body of Felizardo’s wife.”

John Mackay looked at him curiously. Somehow, he had never suspected Captain Hayle of being sentimental, but at that time he had heard nothing concerning the friendship between Mrs Bush and his host; otherwise, he would have known that any man who honoured his own wife was Basil Hayle’s friend, just as Captain Bush was his enemy.

It was late in the afternoon when they started down the mountain-side with the body of Dolores, and it was already dark when they skirted round Igut town. There were nearly a hundred bolomen in the procession when it left the mountains, and ten more joined it from Katubig, and twenty from Igut itself, greatly to the surprise of old Don Juan, who recognised two of his own warehousemen amongst them. The Spaniard was going through to San Polycarpio, because Felizardo was an old acquaintance, almost an old friend, because Felizardo and Dolores Lasara had, somehow, always been in the background of his life, and because now he felt that a definite factor had gone out of his life. He sighed heavily as he thought of it. Like Felizardo, he was growing old. It was time he went back to Spain. He had one advantage over the outlaw, he told himself, in that he had no wife whose death would make the rest of his existence a mere waiting for death, in the hope of reunion. Then suddenly it struck him that, after all, Felizardo was more fortunate, for he had a child, whilst Don Juan Ramirez of Igut was the last of the family. All those things the Spaniard thought of, as he rode by Father Doyle’s side through the long night.

Father Doyle went with the procession because it was his duty. It was therefore a matter of total indifference to him whether or no the Government learnt of his action and showed its annoyance. He was not responsible to the Philippine Commission for what he did in his capacity as priest. He owed allegiance to a very different Power. As for his actions of the previous night, his mind was at rest on that point. He had acted according to his own conscience, and he told himself with a sigh that if he could have given absolution to the Commissioners themselves with as little hesitation as he had given it to Felizardo the outlaw, it would have been a good augury for the future of the Islands.