Yes, that was it:--for the enemy, admiration; for him, the friend, the servitor, the caybigan, contempt. Pedro slid down to the big net below. And long in the dim light of his little lamp he oiled and cleaned and polished and caressed. III A mysterious enemy began to vex the little detachment of San Juan with the puerile attacks. Every night a Mauser bullet came wailing down the Lipa road and passed over the outpost with a resounding hiss. The first time this occurred, the lone sentinel, returning the fire, doubled back prudently upon the guard rushing out to his support. Tense in vigilance the little troops waited for the attack. But it did not come. At regular intervals a lone bullet screeched above their heads, and that was all. Finally they charged along the highway. A few more detached shots met them; then there was silence. The following night the same thing took place--the wail of the lone bullet, the alarm, the pursuit--and nothing. A new plan was tried. Four men were placed at the outpost with saddled horses within reach. At the humming approach of the first shot they leaped into their saddles and thundered down the highway; it stretched before them, moon-golden between the black thickets, and deserted. Returning they scouted the brush, the big horses crashing down the thick vegetation. But there was nothing. A corps of native beaters was added the next night. They searched the bush thoroughly on both sides of the road. The shrill katydids dropped into silence; lizards, snakes, iguanas, loathsome beasts of obscurity rustled off in panic. But that was all. Caybigan was called to the rescue. For two days he worked upon the inhabitants of the pueblo. But for once his wonderful faculty failed him; he found no trace of the secret enemy. An ambush was prepared. Ten men at early dawn lay down in the bush near the spot from which it was calculated the bullets came. All day they lay there, low, without a whisper, without a movement. But when night came, it was the other outpost, at the opposite extremity of the pueblo, which was attacked. After this last effort the thing was accepted as routine. There was a childishness, a puerility about it that made the men smile. They grew rather to like this little excitement, breaking the monotony of long vigils. But gradually the affair grew more interesting. The man was learning to shoot. Each night the leaden missile screeched a little lower, a little closer. Finally, one night, the guard, when relieved, was found walking his post with his left arm limp along his side, neatly punctured by one of the mysterious bullets. On the same morning, Blount, walking along the main street, was stopped by old Eustefania. "Mi capitan," she said, cringing before him, "do you wish to know who shoots your soldiers at night?" "Who?" asked the Sergeant curtly. "Caybigan," she said. From the depths of their caves her eyes glowed at him, fixed, violent.