As Challoner, followed by Dawson and the men of Jakoits village, rushed along the narrow path that led to his house, they heard the roar and crackle of the flames; when they gained the open they saw the bright light shining on the old cannon, whose polished brass was stained and streaked with red. Tiaru lay across the breech, dead.

For nearly two days Challoner and his natives followed the tracks of the murderer into the heart of the mountain forest of Ponapé. Dawson and another party had left early the same night for the Rôan Kiti coast, where they landed and formed a cordon, which it would be impossible for Larmer to pass.

Watty, his fellow-scoundrel, was captured early next morning. He had lost his way and was lying asleep beside a fire on the banks of a small stream.

He was promptly shot by Dawson. Larmer was to be taken alive.

Meanwhile Challoner and his men pressed steadily on, driving their prey before them. At noon on the second day they caught sight of his huge figure ascending a rocky spur, and a party of natives ran swiftly to its base and hid at the margin of a small, deep pool. Challoner knew that his man wanted a drink, and would soon descend the spur to get it.

For some hours not a sound broke the silence, then a stone rolled down, and presently Larmer’s head appeared above a boulder. He looked carefully round, and then, finding all quiet, began the descent. On the very edge of the pool he again stopped and listened, holding his pistol at full cock. His left hand was slung to his chest by a piece of green hibiscus bark, which was passed round his neck and roughly tied.

The silence all around him was reassuring, but he still held out the pistol as he bent his knees to drink. Ere his lips could touch the water two half-naked figures sprang upon him and bore him down. He was too weak to resist.

“Do not bind him,” said Challoner, “but tie his right hand behind his back.”

Larmer turned his bloodshot eyes upon the trader, but said nothing.

“Give him a drink.”

A native placed a gourd of water to his lips. He drank greedily. Then, in silence, Challoner and his men began their march back.

At sunset the people of Jakoits gathered together in front of the blackened space whereon the trader’s house had stood. Raised on four heavy blocks of stone was the still blood-stained cannon, and bound with his back to its muzzle was Larmer.

Challoner made a sign, the brown-skinned men and women moved quickly apart in two parties, one on each side of the gun. Then Rul, the chief of the Jakoits* village, advanced with a lighted stick, touched the priming, and sprang aside. A sheet of flame leaped out, a bursting roar pealed through the leafy forest aisles, and Challoner had avenged his murdered wife.