Rebound (20 page)

Rafael proved right. Between the warriors attending the funeral and the peace conference, there were hardly any Kalingas left
over to deal with the Velez forces. In Dartley’s favor, neither the dead warrior nor the quarrel were of major importance,
so there was no chance of the ceremonies running into weeks instead of days. But Dartley’s patience was exhausted. Since Rafael
accused him of being a headhunter and as being fiercer himself than most of the Kalingas, he decided to behave like one, to
see where it would get him.

The next time Dartley and the three others
ran into a group of Kalinga warriors—nine men, not far from the long hut—Dartley handed his M16 to Harry and approached one
man in the group. He cursed and shouted at this man, calling him a stupid coward, among other things, for not attacking Velez.
The Kalinga did not know a word of English, but he understood well enough that the American was insulting him and had put
his weapon aside for the possibility of hand-to-hand combat. When several other Kalingas put in a couple of what sounded like
peacemaking words, Dartley yelled at them, pulled his combat knife, and waved it in their faces. Any of these spear-wielding
men could have disposed of Dartley in a second if they had taken his knife-waving as anything more serious than a display.
Dartley had picked up some pointers from the argument between the two groups, and although he waved the weapon and cursed
them, he never moved even vaguely near striking distance to any of them.

Dartley was pleased that the Kalingas seemed to be taking him seriously; if one of them had laughed in his face and asked
what this crazy American thought he was fooling, that would have ended it. Dartley’s own men took him equally seriously. Benjael
was already doing his Tondo street-tough posturing against some of the Kalingas, showing that, right or wrong, he was going
to back up Dartley in any rumble. Harry, clutching two M16s, looked scared enough to open fire on everyone at any moment.
Rafael was trying to make peace by standing between Dartley and the Kalingas, talking alternately in their language to them,
to Dartley in English,
and to Benjael and Harry in Tagalog. Dartley guessed he wasn’t making much sense in any language, which was exactly what Dartley
wanted. There was only one way to solve their differences—through the
bodong
peace pact system.

“Where the roads end the headhunters begin,” Rafael liked to say. But Dartley was aware that it was more complicated than
that. For example, the Kalinga women who first had surrounded their car had known that the easiest way for them to render
the vehicles almost useless was to let the air out of the tires—hardly the act of totally unsophicated “stone age” people.
The women had been amused when Dartley had reinflated the tires from the flask of pressurized air brought in to inflate the
rubber rafts. Dartley soon learned that the Kalingas believed in the power of antibiotics, that they liked the idea of electricity
and indoor plumbing, distrusted what their children might be taught at government or church schools, and, in general, were
much more aware of twentieth-century technology than their appearance might lead a casual observer to expect. They learned
to use the three captured M16s quickly, and only Dartley’s limited supply of ammo kept them from becoming expert marksmen.

Dartley’s peace conference was a huge success; this was something new, and the warriors finished up the funeral and other
bodong
in order to take part in it. Since Happy Man Velez was widely regarded among the Kalingas as the man behind the government
dam projects, they all readily agreed that he should be killed if a
way could be found to do it so that the Army would not blame them. Happy Man’s enemies in Manila would be secretly pleased
at his death. Yet they would send in the army on punitive expeditions to show the mountain people that they could not knock
off powerful people when they wanted. Dartley said he would kill Happy Man with their help, and when he had done the job,
he would leave traces to show that it had been an American who was responsible. By the time the authorities found these, he
expected to be back in Maryland.

Using their skills of moving through the forest undetected, Kalinga warriors penetrated Happy Man’s outer defenses, getting
to within a few steps of the house and remaining undetected. But Dartley did not fool himself that he could do the same. Besides,
the reports that the Kalingas brought back were not good. Velez had a private army of full-time gun-toting goons numbering
somewhere between forty and a hundred, depending on which Kalingas were talking. All carried either M16s or shotguns and moved
in patrols of three or more men around the clock. Against them, Dartley could muster a little more than fifty Kalingas, about
twenty of whom had guns—all bolt-action or shotguns except for the three captured M16s and two more spares from the car trunk.

The Kalingas had their own methods of warfare, and none of these included taking orders from Dartley. So far as the American
could understand, it was every man for himself in Kalinga fighting. Since Happy Man’s house was fortified and his goons disciplined,
a surprise
attack would probably result in more confusion than real damage. Dartley had no interest in inflicting punishment on the Velez
goons. All he wanted was to hit Happy Man neatly and split the scene while people were still wondering what was happening.
According to Rafael, the Kalingas would have none of this. They wanted something like Dartley dragging Happy Man’s body around
town while waving the Stars and Stripes. It no longer surprised Dartley that the Kalingas knew what an American flag looked
like. But he recognized that he could not depend on them to do what he wanted in a firefight. He could not even tell how accurately
Rafael was translating what he or the Kalingas were saying. Maybe Rafael had his own ideas, too, which he attributed to either
side as it suited him….

A breakthrough came from Rafael’s version of what four Kalinga scouts had seen near the Velez house. None of the warriors
had laid eyes on Happy Man, saying only that they saw an armor-plated Jeep Cherokee come and go and that they knew he traveled
in it. But they prided themselves on getting within earshot of the guards, even though they could not understand what they
were saying.

Rafael said, “The four were hiding in bushes only half a spear’s throw away from nine Velez men. Two of the men were arguing,
which, of course, appealed to the Kalingas. Then some of the guards left and came back with farm workers and their fighting
cocks. This was when the two guards who were arguing went at each other with knives. One stabbed the other in the side
and walked away while the remaining men carried the wounded man into the house.”

“That makes one less for us to deal with,” Dartley concluded, not too interested.

“The
tupada!”
Harry said excitedly. “Tomorrow is Sunday. Maybe the guards will be there. Maybe Happy Man too!”

Benjael and Rafael agreed. The cockfight, or
tupada,
was the big Sunday sporting occasion in country towns. A high-liver like Happy Man would have little else to do up here.

They saw local men walking by the side of the road with a fighting cock nestling in the crook of an arm. Benjael drove, with
Rafael beside him and Dartley in the backseat with the brim of an old straw hat pulled down over his face. Benjael had dropped
Harry in Balbalasang early that morning. The cockfights were to begin in the early afternoon, at no particular fixed time
so far as they had been able to find out. Harry was to check out the town and meet them on the edge at two o’clock. He was
dozing in the sun when they arrived.

“We are in luck,” Harry said as he got in the backseat. “Yesterday three busloads of tourists got into town with an Army escort.
Two of the buses are filled with Japanese men, but the third has American servicemen—maybe sixty or seventy of them. A lot
of them are going to the
tupada.
You won’t be noticed.”

When the car got into town, Dartley saw that what Harry said was true. There were bored-looking groups of nineteen- and twenty-year-old
Americans wandering in the streets,
with a few older-looking ones, all servicemen. Apparently the charms of the pretty, rustic town had worn off, and they were
in search of more active entertainment. The Japanese were all middle-aged and walked in larger groups, photographing just
about anything that came along, including the Americans and themselves, as well as the pretty girls, waterfalls, and orange
trees.

The cockpit was a large, roofed structure, open on all four sides. It was in a small town park, and the members of the crowd
wandered among flower beds or sat on the grass as well as crowded into the cockpit. The fighting area was a dirt patch about
ten feet by ten, surrounded by the tiers of heavy planks that served as seats. The owners of birds proudly held them in one
arm and strutted around themselves, heavy with rural macho.

Dartley split up from the other three and mingled in the loud, good-humored push as people tried to catch a close view of
various birds before they placed their bets. About twenty of the U.S. servicemen were there, some looking disapproving, others
pushing with the Filipino locals for a close look and a bet. It occurred to Dartley that Happy Man would be presented with
an easy target here but could not resume his killing of Americans in a place where it could be traced to him so easily. Dartley
tried to keep out of conversation with them, but that wasn’t the way things were going to be. A red-faced man with a brush
cut and a barrel chest gave him an elbow in the ribs.

“Clark?” he asked in a Midwestern accent.

Dartley nodded, not smiling.

“Thought so. You look Air Force. I can always tell. But I ain’t going to say a word, though some of us Navy boys might like
to kick your ass, just for something to do in this goddam burg. They’re good kids, but hell, it’s a relief to talk to a grown
man for a change. You know this game?”

“I’ve never been to a cockfight before,” Dartley said. “I been stationed over here only two months. This is the first leave
I got.”

“And you came up here to rebel country on your own? I could tell you was a greenhorn just by seeing you alone here—and I ain’t
going to say nothing about anyone in the Air Force being dumb.” He slapped Dartley on the shoulder. “Wanna make some money?
You just stick with me and I’ll show you how this works.”

Dartley was relieved that the Navy man’s dislike of the Air Force made him want to talk about the cockfights instead.

“They don’t have no fixed card—that’s why you gotta get close in to find out what’s going on,” the Navy man explained. “In
that corner the contests are arranged and the fighting spurs are selected. You get a look at the birds here. Which do you
like for the next fight?”

Dartley watched the owners of a yellowish-white bird and a pied bird hold the right leg of the fowl out for a man to hold
a steel spur to it, having picked the blade from an array laid out on a cloth. The owner in each case nodded his approval,
and the spur was tied to the bird’s leg. Then the two men carried the fowl to the dirt area and, still holding them with both
hands,
faced them at each other so that their bills were just out of reach. The neck feathers of the birds ruffled up, and their
wattles grew red with rage. They struggled in their handlers’ clutches to get at one another.

The crowd roared with excitement as they saw the birds’ fighting urge. Dartley searched among the faces and was interrupted
by the Navy man with another elbow in the ribs.

“What’s wrong with you? Don’t you wanna lay a bet?”

“I like the pied bird,” Dartley said mechanically.

“That’s a piece of shit with feathers stuck on it,” the Navy man said. “They’re offering three-to-one against it.” A Filipino
with his arms outstretched shouted something in English to them, which Dartley did not catch. “Man says if you bet in dollars,
he’ll pay you in dollars. But I wouldn’t lay more’n five bucks on that lame hen you picked.”

“You got change of a hundred?” Dartley asked.

The Navy man laughed. “Man, you flash a hundred-dollar bill here and win, you’re liable to bankrupt this town’s whole economy—least
you’ll do is end up owning this cockpit, if no one kills you first. Uncle Sam always pays you Air Force assholes way too much,
if you want a Navy opinion.”

Dartley’s eyes again scanned the crowd as he half listened to his Navy buddy place the bets. He spotted Benjael, who shook
his head slightly, meaning he had seen nothing. He didn’t see Rafael, and Harry was so small that he would be
lost only a few yards away in this heaving, shouting crowd, frantically placing bets on the two birds being goaded by their
handlers.

The scores of bets were all being handled by one man, and not a peso was changing hands. This man stood at the center of the
tier of seats, arms outstretched with his hands signaling acceptance of bets shouted to him while he screamed the odds and
begged people to hurry in a kind of weird English and what sounded like several other languages or dialects. The two handlers
were holding the enraged cocks apart on the ground now, and the shouting grew frantic as last-second wagers were placed.

When the birds were released, they came together in a slap of talons, beaks, and flapping wings. Dartley could see them try
to peck out each other’s eyes while ripping at one another with their claws. They separated and came at each other in repeated
rushes, ripping, clawing, tearing, and pecking one another with a speed and ferocity that Dartley had never before thought
barnyard fowl capable of. The pied bird, at a point when Dartley though he might be winning, instead tried to run. But the
yellowish-white cock buried its steel spur deep in its body before the pied bird could get away and then pecked fiercely at
the top of its head.

A man rushed in and picked up both birds. He held the half-dead cock Dartley had bet on before the victor, who pecked at the
losing bird’s head.

“He has to peck twice to be declared the winner,” the Navy man said.