Billy’s mother, always foul-mouthed and quarrelsome, had been a veritable demon when drunk, and drunk she had been whenever she could, by hook or crook, raise the price of whiskey.  Never, to Billy’s recollection, had she spoken a word of endearment to him; and so terribly had she abused him that even while he was yet a little boy, scarce out of babyhood, he had learned to view her with a hatred as deep-rooted as is the affection of most little children for their mothers.

When he had come to man’s estate he had defended himself from the woman’s brutal assaults as he would have defended himself from another man—­when she had struck, Billy had struck back; the only thing to his credit being that he never had struck her except in self-defense.  Chastity in woman was to him a thing to joke of—­he did not believe that it existed; for he judged other women by the one he knew best—­his mother.  And as he hated her, so he hated them all.  He had doubly hated Barbara Harding since she not only was a woman, but a woman of the class he loathed.

And so it was strange and inexplicable that the suggestion of the girl’s probable fate should have affected Billy Byrne as it did.  He did not stop to reason about it at all—­he simply knew that he felt a mad and unreasoning rage against the creatures that had borne the girl away.  Outwardly Billy showed no indication of the turmoil that raged within his breast.

“We gotta find her, bo,” he said to Theriere.  “We gotta find the skirt.”

Ordinarily Billy would have blustered about the terrible things he would do to the objects of his wrath when once he had them in his power; but now he was strangely quiet—­only the firm set of his strong chin, and the steely glitter of his gray eyes gave token of the iron resolution within.

Theriere, who had been walking slowly to and fro about the dead men, now called the others to him.

“Here’s their trail,” he said.  “If it’s as plain as that all the way we won’t be long in overhauling them.  Come along.”

Before he had the words half out of his mouth the mucker was forging ahead through the jungle along the well-marked spoor of the samurai.

“Wot kind of men do you suppose they are?” asked Red Sanders.

“Malaysian head-hunters, unquestionably,” replied Theriere.

Red Sanders shuddered inwardly.  The appellation had a most gruesome sound.

“Come on!” cried Theriere, and started off after the mucker, who already was out of sight in the thick forest.

Red Sanders and Wison took a few steps after the Frenchman.  Theriere turned once to see that they were following him, and then a turn in the trail hid them from his view.  Red Sanders stopped.

“Damme if I’m goin’ to get my coconut hacked off on any such wild-goose chase as this,” he said to Wison.

“The girl’s more’n likely dead long ago,” said the other.

“Sure she is,” returned Red Sanders, “an’ if we go buttin’ into that there thicket we’ll be dead too.  Ugh!  Poor Miller.  Poor Swenson.  It’s orful.  Did you see wot they done to ’em beside cuttin’ off their heads?”