moment, and without a flag of truce, he hoisted his hat on his
scabbard, and Koolau's bullet tore through it. That afternoon they
shelled him out from the beach, and as he retreated into the high
inaccessible pockets beyond, the soldiers followed him.

For six weeks they hunted him from pocket to pocket, over the
volcanic peaks and along the goat-trails. When he hid in the
lantana jungle, they formed lines of beaters, and through lantana
jungle and guava scrub they drove him like a rabbit. But ever he
turned and doubled and eluded. There was no cornering him. When
pressed too closely, his sure rifle held them back and they carried
their wounded down the goat-trails to the beach. There were times
when they did the shooting as his brown body showed for a moment
through the underbrush. Once, five of them caught him on an exposed
goat-trail between pockets. They emptied their rifles at him as he
limped and climbed along his dizzy way. Afterwards they found
bloodstains and knew that he was wounded. At the end of six weeks
they gave up. The soldiers and police returned to Honolulu, and
Kalalau Valley was left to him for his own, though head-hunters
ventured after him from time to time and to their own undoing.

Two years later, and for the last time, Koolau crawled into a
thicket and lay down among the ti-leaves and wild ginger blossoms.
Free he had lived, and free he was dying. A slight drizzle of rain
began to fall, and he drew a ragged blanket about the distorted
wreck of his limbs. His body was covered with an oilskin coat.
Across his chest he laid his Mauser rifle, lingering affectionately
for a moment to wipe the dampness from the barrel. The hand with
which he wiped had no fingers left upon it with which to pull the
trigger.