The Argus Pheasant

"Yes, some long huts. Big enough for thirty men. He said they were to be a protection against the fevers."

"The fevers?" Van Slyck exclaimed in amazement.

"Yes, the fevers that killed Mynheer de Jonge, he said."

Van Slyck's face became livid with passion. "Against the fevers that killed de Jonge, eh?" he snarled. "The damned Yankee will find there are more than fevers in Bulungan."

He flashed a sharp look at Muller.

"When you see Koyala," he said, "send her to me."

CHAPTER XIV

Koyala's Defiance

From his quarters in the residency building, the same room where his predecessor, the obstinate and perverse de Jonge, had lived his brief and inglorious career, Peter Gross looked across the rolling expanse to the jungle-crested hills of Bulungan.

It was now two weeks since his coming. Many changes had been wrought during the fortnight. The residency had been cleared of vermin and made habitable. Paddy Rouse had been installed as secretary and general factotum. The tangle of cane, creeper growth, and nipa palm that had grown in the park of shapely tamarinds since de Jonge's death had been cut away. Two long, low buildings had been erected as barracks, and Captain Carver had converted the newly created plain into a drill-ground.

They were drilling now, the khaki-clad twenty-five that had crossed the Java Sea with Peter Gross. Two weeks on shore, supplementing the shipboard quizzes on the drill manual, had welded them into an efficient command. The smartness and precision with which they executed maneuvers compelled a grudging admiration from the stolid Dutch soldiers of Fort Wilhelmina who strolled over daily to watch the drills.

"They'll do, they'll do," Peter Gross assured himself with satisfaction.

He stepped back to his desk and took a document from it. It was Muller's first report as controlleur. Peter Gross ran his eyes down the column of figures and frowned. The accounts balanced and were properly drawn up. The report seemed to be in great detail. Yet he felt that something was wrong. The expenses of administration had been heavy, enormously heavy, he noted. Instead of exporting rice Bulungan had been forced to import to make good crop losses, the report showed.

"Mynheer Muller is a good accountant," he observed to himself. "But there are a few items we will have to inquire into." He laid the report aside.

The door opened and Paddy Rouse entered. His bright red hair, scrubby nose, and freckled face were in odd contrast to his surroundings, so typically Dutch. Mynheer de Jonge had made this retreat a sanctuary, a bit of old Holland transplanted bodily without regard to differences of latitude and longitude. In the east wall was a blue-tile fireplace. On the mantel stood a big tobacco jar of Delftware with the familiar windmill pattern. Over it hung a long-stemmed Dutch pipe with its highly colored porcelain bowl. The pictures on the wall were Rembrandtesque, gentlemen in doublet and hose, with thin, refined, scholarly faces and the inevitable Vandyke beard.

"A lady to see you, sir," Paddy Rouse announced with military curtness, saluting. The irrepressible Irish broke through in a sly twinkle. "She's a beauty, sir."

Peter Gross controlled the start of surprise he felt. He intuitively guessed who his visitor was.

"You may show her in," he announced.

"Yes, sir."

"And, Paddy – call Captain Carver, please."

"Yes, sir."

The shock of red hair darted away.

Peter Gross looked out of the window again. The crucial moment, the moment he had looked forward to since accepting his appointment, was upon him. What should he say to her, this woman of two alien, utterly irreconcilable races, this woman so bitterly wronged, this woman with a hot shame in her heart that would not die? How should he approach her, how should he overcome her blind, unreasoning hatred against the dominant white race, how persuade her to trust him, to give her aid for the reclamation of Bulungan?

At the same time he wondered why she had come. He had not anticipated this meeting so soon. Was there something back of it? As he asked himself the question his fingers drummed idly on the desk.

While he was meditating he became suddenly aware of another presence in the room. Turning, he found himself looking into the eyes of a woman – the woman of his thoughts. She stood beside him, silent, possessed. There was a dagger in the snakeskin girdle she wore about her waist – a single thrust and she could have killed him. He looked at her steadily. Her glance was equally steady. He rose slowly.

"You are the Juffrouw Koyala," he announced simply. "Good morning, juffrouw." He bowed.

There was an instant's hesitation – or was it only his imagination, Peter Gross asked himself – then her form relaxed a trifle. So slight was the movement that he would not have been sure had not every muscle of her perfect body yielded to it with a supple, rhythmic grace.

"Won't you be seated?" he remarked conventionally, and placed a chair for her. Not until then did she speak.

"It is not necessary, mynheer. I have only a few words to say."

The cold austerity of her voice chilled Peter Gross. Yet her tones were marvelously sweet – like silver bells, he thought. He bowed and waited expectantly. In a moment's interlude he took stock of her.

She was dressed in the native fashion, sarong and kabaya, both of purest white. The kabaya reached to midway between the knees and ankles. Her limbs were bare, except for doe-skin sandals. The girdle about her waist was made from the skins of spotted pit vipers. The handle of the dagger it held was studded with gems, rubies, turquoises, and emeralds. A huge ruby, mounted on a pin, caught the kabaya above her breasts; outside of this she wore no jewelry. Her lustrous black hair hung loosely over her shoulders. Altogether a creature of the jungle, she looked at him with a glance in which defiance was but thinly concealed.

"What did you wish to see me about?" Peter Gross asked when he saw that she was awaiting his permission to speak.

Something like a spark shot from the glowing coals of her eyes. The tragic intensity of those eyes stirred anew the feeling of pity in the resident's heart.

"I am told, mynheer, that the governor withdrew his offer for my person at your request," she said coldly.

The statement was a question, Peter Gross felt, though put in the form of a declaration. He scrutinized her face sharply, striving to divine her object.

"That is true, juffrouw," he acknowledged.

"Why did you do this, mynheer?"

Peter Gross did not answer at once. The direct question astonished him.

"Why do you ask, juffrouw?" he parried.

Her finely chiseled head tilted back. Very royal she looked, very queenly, a Diana of the tropic jungle.

"Because Koyala Bintang Burung asks no favors from you, Mynheer Gross. Nor from any white man."

It was a declaration of war. Peter Gross realized it, and his face saddened. He had expected opposition but not open defiance. He wondered what lay back of it. The Dyak blood in her, always treacherous, never acting without a purpose, was not frank without reason, he assured himself.

"I had no intention of doing you a favor, juffrouw," he announced quietly.

"What was your object, mynheer?"

The words were hardly out of her mouth before she regretted them. The quick flash of her teeth as she bit her lips revealed the slip. Peter Gross instantly divined the reason – her hostility was so implacable that she would not even parley with him.

"To do you justice, juffrouw," he replied.

The words were like oil on flame. Her whole figure stiffened rigidly. The smoldering light in her eyes flashed into fire. The dusk in her face deepened to night. In a stifled voice, bitter with scorn, she cried:

"I want none of your justice, mynheer."

"No, I suppose not," Peter Gross assented heavily. His head sagged and he stared moodily into the fireplace. Koyala looked at him questioningly for a moment, then turned swiftly and glided toward the door. A word from Peter Gross interrupted her.

"Juffrouw!"