The Max Brand Megapack. Max Brand

raided two opium dens the day before, and the pride of accomplishment puffed his chest. He would have given advice to the sheriff of Oahu that evening.

      He went on: “I can pick some men out of the crowd by the way they walk, and others by their eyes. That fellow has it written all over him.”

      The red-headed man came nearer through the crowd. Because of the warmth, he had stuffed his soft hat into a back pocket, and now the light from a window shone steadily on his hair and made a fire of it, a danger signal. He encountered the searching glances of the two officers and answered with cold, measuring eyes, like the gaze of a prize fighter who waits for a blow. The sergeant turned to his superior with a grunt.

      “You’re right,” he nodded.

      “Trail him,” said the captain, “and take a man with you. If that fellow gets into trouble, you may need help.”

      He stepped into his automobile and the sergeant beckoned to a nearby policeman.

      “Akana,” he said, “we have a man-sized job tonight. Are you feeling fit?”

      The Kanaka smiled without enthusiasm.

      “The man of the red hair?”

      The sergeant nodded, and Akana tightened his belt. He had eaten fish baked in ti leaves that evening.

      He suggested: “Morley has little to do. His beat is quiet. Shall I tell him to come with us?”

      “No,” grinned the sergeant, and then looked up and watched the broad shoulders of the red-haired man, who advanced through the crowd as the prow of a ship lunges through the waves. “Go get Morley,” he said abruptly.

      But Harrigan went on his way without misgivings, not that he forgot the policeman, but he was accustomed to stand under the suspicious eye of the law. In all the course of his wanderings it had been upon him. His coming was to the men in uniform like the sound of the battle trumpet to the cavalry horse. This, however, was Harrigan’s first night in Honolulu, and there was much to see, much to do. He had rambled through the streets; now he was headed for the Ivilei district. Instinct brought him there, the still, small voice which had guided him from trouble to trouble all his life.

      At a corner he stopped to watch a group of Kanakas who passed him, wreathed with leis and thrumming their ukuleles. They sang in their soft, many-voweled language and the sound was to Harrigan like the rush and lapse of water on a beach, infinitely soothing and as lazy as the atmosphere of Honolulu. All things are subdued in the strange city where East and West meet in the middle of the Pacific. The gayest crowds cannot quite disturb the brooding peace which is like the promise of sleep and rest at sunset. It was not pleasing to Harrigan. He frowned and drew a quick, impatient breath, muttering: “I’m not long for this joint. I gotta be moving.”

      He joined a crowd which eddied toward the center of Ivilei. In there it was better. Negro soldiers, marines from the Maryland, Kanakas, Chinamen, Japanese, Portuguese, Americans; a score of nationalities and complexions rubbed shoulders as they wandered aimlessly among the many bright-painted cottages.

      Yet even in that careless throng of pleasure-seekers no one rubbed shoulders with Harrigan. The flame of his hair was like a red lamp which warned them away. Or perhaps it was his eye, which seemed to linger for a cold, incurious instant on every face that approached. He picked out the prettiest of the girls who sat at the windows chatting with all who passed. He did not have to shoulder to win a way through the crowd of her admirers.

      She was a hap haoli, with the fine features of the Caucasian and the black of hair and eye which shows the islander. A rounded elbow rested on the sill of the window; her chin was cupped in her hand.

      “Send these away,” said Harrigan, and leaned an elbow beside hers.

      “Oh,” she murmured; then: “And if I send them away?”

      “I’ll reward you.”

      “Reward?”

      For answer he dragged a crimson carnation from the buttonhole of a tall man who stood at his side.

      “What in hell—” began the victim, but Harrigan smiled and the other drew slowly back through the crowd.

      “Now send them away.”

      She looked at him an instant longer with a light coming slowly up behind her eyes. Then she leaned out and waved to the chuckling semicircle.

      “Run away for a while,” she said; “I want to talk to my brother.”

      She patted the thick red hair to emphasize the relationship, and the little crowd departed, laughing uproariously. Harrigan slipped the carnation into the jetty hair. His hand lingered a moment against the soft masses, and she drew it down, grown suddenly serious.

      “There are three policemen in the shadow of that cottage over there. They’re watching you.”

      “Ah-h!”

      The sound was so soft that it was almost a sigh, but she shivered perceptibly.

      “What have you been doing?”

      He answered regretfully: “Nothing.”

      “They’re coming this way. The man who had the carnation is with them. You better beat it.”

      “Nope. I like it here.”

      She shook her head, but the flame was blowing high now in her eyes. A hand fell on Harrigan’s shoulder.

      “Hey!” said the sergeant in a loud voice.

      Harrigan turned slowly and the sergeant’s hand fell away. The man of the carnation was far in the background.

      “Well?”

      “That flower. You can’t get away with little tricks like that. You better be starting on. Move along.”

      Harrigan glanced slowly from face to face. The three policemen drew closer together as if for mutual protection.

      “Please—honey!” urged the whisper of the girl.

      The hand of Harrigan resting on the window sill had gathered to a hard-bunched fist, white at the knuckles, but he nodded across the open space between the cottages.

      “If you’re looking for work,” he said, “seems as though you’d find a handful over there.”

      A clatter of sharp, quick voices rose from a group of Negro soldiers gathering around a white man. No one could tell the cause of the quarrel. It might have been anything from an oath to a blow.

      “Watch him,” said Harrigan. “He looks like a man.” He added plaintively: “But looks are deceivin’.”

      The center of the disturbance appeared to be a man indeed. He was even taller than Harrigan and broader of shoulder, and, like the latter, there was a suggestion of strength in him which could not be defined by his size alone. At the distance they could guess his smile as he faced the clamoring mob.

      “Break in there!” ordered the sergeant to his companions, and started toward the angry circle.

      As he spoke, they heard one of the Negroes curse and the fist of the tall man darted at the face of a soldier and drove him toppling back among his comrades. They closed on the white man with a yell; a passing group of their compatriots joined the affray; the whole mass surged in around the tall fellow. Harrigan’s head went back and his eyes half closed like a critic listening to an exquisite symphony.

      “Ah-h!” he whispered to himself. “Watch him fight!”

      The policemen struck the outer edge of the circle with drawn clubs, but there they stopped. They could not dent that compacted mass. The soldiers struggled manfully, but they were held at bay. Harrigan could see the heaving shoulders of the defender over the heads of the assailants, and the crack of hard-driven fists. The attackers were crushed together and had little room to swing their arms with full force, while the big man stood with his back against the wall of the cottage and made every smashing punch count.