men separated themselves from the rest of the band and led the
way out of the valley up the mountainside. The travelers had to
stop often, for, besides the natural difficulties of the way, the
chief proved a new obstacle. Every mile or so he would apparently
repent of his hospitality. He would stop, gather his tattooed
braves about him and confer with them, while his would-be
visitors sat on the ground or a fallen tree-trunk to await his
pleasure. Finally he would start off again, the travelers
following, but no sooner were they under way than again their
uncertain guide would stop. Once he and his men stood motionless,
listening. Away up in the boughs of a camphor tree a little
tailor-bird was twittering. The savages listened as though to the
voice of an oracle.

"What are they doing?" Mackay asked of one of his men, when the
head-hunters stopped a second time and stared earnestly at the
boughs above.

"Bird-listening," explained the guide. A few more questions drew
from him the fact that the savages believed the little birds
would tell them whether or not they should bring these strangers
home. They always consulted the birds when starting out on a
head-hunt, he further explained. If the birds gave a certain kind
of chirp and flew in a certain direction, then all was well, and
the hunters would go happily forward. But if the birds acted in
the opposite way, nothing in the world could persuade the chief
to go on. Evidently the birds gave their permission to bring the
travelers home, for in spite of many halts, the savages still
moved forward.