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“You’re talking nonsense, too,” said Albert, “and you’re talking to your superior officer. If you are not with me in this, go back to your cable, and tell the man in Octavia that it’s a warm day, and that the sun is shining; but if you’ve any spirit in you,–and I think you have,–run to the office and get my Winchester rifles, and the two shot guns, and my revolvers, and my uniform, and a lot of brass things for presents, and run all the way there and back. And make time. Play you’re riding a bicycle at the Agricultural Fair.”

Stedman did not hear this last; for he was already off and away, pushing through the crowd, and calling on Bradley, Sr., to follow him. Bradley, Jr., looked at Gordon with eyes that snapped, like a dog that is waiting for his master to throw a stone.

“I can fire a Winchester, sir,” he said. “Old Tom can’t. He’s no good at long range ‘cept with a big gun, sir. Don’t give him the Winchester. Give it to me, please, sir.”

Albert met Stedman in the plaza, and pulled off his blazer, and put on Captain Travis’s–now his–uniform coat, and his white pith helmet.

“Now, Jack,” he said, “get up there and tell these people that we are going out to make peace with these Hillmen, or bring them back prisoners of war. Tell them we are the preservers of their homes and wives and children; and you, Bradley, take these presents, and young Bradley, keep close to me, and carry this rifle.”

Stedman’s speech was hot and wild enough to suit a critical and feverish audience before a barricade in Paris. And when he was through, Gordon and Bradley punctuated his oration by firing off the two Winchester rifles in the air, at which the people jumped and fell on their knees, and prayed to their several gods. The fighting men of the village followed the four white men to the outskirts, and took up their stand there as Stedman told them to do, and the four walked on over the roughly hewn road, to meet the enemy.

Gordon walked with Bradley, Jr., in advance. Stedman and old Tom Bradley followed close behind, with the two shot-guns, and the presents in a basket.

“Are these Hillmen used to guns?” asked Gordon. Stedman said no, they were not.

“This shot-gun of mine is the only one on the island,” he explained, “and we never came near enough them, before, to do anything with it. It only carries a hundred yards. The Opekians never make any show of resistance. They are quite content if the Hillmen satisfy themselves with the outlying huts, as long as they leave them and the town alone; so they seldom come to close quarters.”

The four men walked on for a half an hour or so, in silence, peering eagerly on every side; but it was not until they had left the woods and marched out into the level stretch of grassy country, that they came upon the enemy. The Hillmen were about forty in number, and were as savage and ugly-looking giants as any in a picture book. They had captured a dozen cows and goats, and were driving them on before them, as they advanced further upon the village. When they saw the four men, they gave a mixed chorus of cries and yells, and some of them stopped, and others ran forward, shaking their spears, and shooting their broad arrows into the ground before them. A tall, gray-bearded, muscular old man, with a skirt of feathers about him, and necklaces of bones and animals’ claws around his bare chest, ran in front of them, and seemed to be trying to make them approach more slowly.

“Is that Messenwah?” asked Gordon.

“Yes,” said Stedman; “he is trying to keep them back. I don’t believe he ever saw a white man before.”

“Stedman,” said Albert, speaking quickly, “give your gun to Bradley, and go forward with your arms in the air, and waving your handkerchief, and tell them in their language that the King is coming. If they go at you, Bradley and I will kill a goat or two, to show them what we can do with the rifles; and if that don’t stop them, we will shoot at their legs; and if that don’t stop them–I guess you’d better come back, and we’ll all run.”