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Updated: May 21, 2025
But Agno was a chill-blooded philosopher and bided his time, being different from Jerry in that he possessed human prevision and could adjust his actions to remote ends. From the edge of the lagoon, into the waters of which, remembering the crocodile taboo he had learned on Meringe, he never ventured, Jerry ranged to the outlying bush villages of Bashti's domain. All made way for him.
What delayed Agno's plot against Jerry for the half-year of the monsoon was the fact that the season of egg-laying for the megapodes in Bashti's private laying-yard did not begin until the period of the south-east trades. And Agno, having early conceived his plot, with the patience that was characteristic of him was content to wait the time.
Bashti demanded directly of Agno. "Me kai-kai along him," came the answer. "Him fat fella dog. Him good fella dog kai-kai." Into Bashti's alert old brain flashed an idea that had been long maturing. "Him good fella dog too much," he announced. "Better you eat 'm bush fella dog," he advised, pointing at wild-dog. Agno shook his head. "Bush fella dog no good kai-kai."
It was the head of one of Mendana's armourers, lost in a beach scrimmage to one of Bashti's remote ancestors. Still another head, the history of which was vague, was a white woman's head. What wife of what navigator there was no telling.
"Bush fella dog no good too much," was Bashti's judgment. "Bush fella dog too much fright. Plenty fella bush dog too much fright. White marster's dog no fright. Bush dog no fight. White marster's dog fight like hell. Bush dog run like hell. You look 'm eye belong you, you see." Bashti stepped over to Jerry and cut the cords that tied his legs.
Aora, who might be described as his prime minister and treasurer, had received the tithes as fast as they were paid over, and filled them into large, fine-netted bags of coconut sennit. At Bashti's back, squatting on the bunk-boards, a slim and smooth-skinned maid of thirteen had flapped the flies away from his royal head with the royal fly-flapper.
And Bashti's withered ancient hand, the back of it netted with a complex of large up-standing veins from which the flesh had shrunk away, dipped out a huge pistol of such remote vintage that one of Cromwell's round-heads might well have carried it or that it might well have voyaged with Quiros or La Perouse.
And Jerry did, uncovering two eggs, breaking them and lapping that portion of their precious contents which was not spilled and wasted in the sand. Bashti's eyes were quite lack-lustre as he asked "The feast of dogs for the men is to-day?" "To-morrow, at midday," Agno answered. "Already are the dogs coming in. There will be at least fifty of them."
"Fifty and one," was Bashti's verdict, as he nodded at Jerry. The priest made a quick movement of impulse to capture Jerry. "Why now?" the chief demanded. "You will but have to carry him through the swamp. Let him trot back on his own legs, and when he is before the canoe house tie his legs there."
Loaded with two slugs and a round bullet, its effect was that of a sawed-off shotgun. And Van Horn knew the blaze and the black of death, even as "Gott fer dang!" died unuttered on his lips and as his fingers relaxed from the part-lifted automatic, dropping it to the floor. Surcharged with black powder, the ancient weapon had other effect. It burst in Bashti's hand.
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