He affectionately rubbed a twisted hand along his rifle barrel and
made sure that the sights were clean. He had learned to shoot as a
wild-cattle hunter on Niihau, and on that island his skill as a
marksman was unforgotten. As the toiling specks of men grew nearer
and larger, he estimated the range, judged the deflection of the
wind that swept at right angles across the line of fire, and
calculated the chances of overshooting marks that were so far below
his level. But he did not shoot. Not until they reached the
beginning of the passage did he make his presence known. He did not
disclose himself, but spoke from the thicket.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

"We want Koolau, the leper," answered the man who led the native
police, himself a blue-eyed American.

"You must go back," Koolau said.

He knew the man, a deputy sheriff, for it was by him that he had
been harried out of Niihau, across Kauai, to Kalalau Valley, and out
of the valley to the gorge.

"Who are you?" the sheriff asked.

"I am Koolau, the leper," was the reply.

"Then come out. We want you. Dead or alive, there is a thousand
dollars on your head. You cannot escape."

Koolau laughed aloud in the thicket.