Challoner was a trader at Jakoits Harbour in Ponape, one of the loveliest of the great Caroline Archipelago in the North Pacific.  He was a quiet but determined-looking man of fifty, and at the time of this story had been living on Ponape for over five years.  Unlike the generality of the white men who were settled on the island, he never carried arms and never entered into any of the disputes that too often occurred among them and ended in bloodshed.

Many of his neighbours were scoundrels and ruffians of the deepest dye ­deserters from whale-ships and men-of-war, or escaped criminals from California and the Australian colonies.  Some of these earned a living by trading with the natives for turtle-shell and cocoanut oil, others were simply beachcombers, who attached themselves to the leading chiefs and gave their services to them in war time, receiving in return houses and land, and spending their lives in time of peace in the wildest dissipation and excesses.

In those days the American whaling fleet made Jakoits and the other three harbours on the beautiful island their rendezvous before sailing northward to the coasts of Japan and Siberia.  Sometimes there would be as many as thirty ships arrive within a week of each other, carrying from thirty to forty hands each; and these, when given liberty by their captains, at once associated with the beachcombing element, and turned an island paradise into a hell during their stay on shore.

There was among these beachcombers a man named Larmer.  He was of Herculean stature and strength, and was, in a manner, their leader.  It was his habit in his drunken moments to vaunt of the bloody deeds which he had perpetrated during his crime-stained career in the Pacific Islands.  For the lives of natives he had absolutely no regard, and had committed so many murders in the Gilbert Islands that he had been forcibly taken on board a whaler by the few white men living there, and threatened with instant death if he returned.

The whaleship landed him on Ponape, and his presence soon became a curse.  Being possessed of plenty of arms and ammunition, he soon gained the friendship of a native chief ruling over the western district of the island, and his savage nature at once showed itself by his offering to destroy the inhabitants of a little island named Pakin, who had in some way offended this chief.  His offer was accepted, and, accompanied by five ruffianly whites and some hundreds of natives, the unfortunate people were surprised and butchered.  Elated with this achievement, Larmer returned to Ponape, and, during the orgy which took place to celebrate the massacre, he shot dead one of his white companions who had displeased him over some trifling matter.

The news was brought by a native to Challoner, who with a fellow-trader and several local chiefs was sitting outside his house smoking and enjoying the cool of the evening, and watching the flashing torches of a number of canoes catching flying fish beyond the barrier reef.  Neither of them felt surprised, and Challoner remarked to the native that it was good to know that one bad and useless man was dead, but that it would be better still to hear that the man who slaughtered a whole community in cold blood was dead also.

“I wouldn’t have said that if I were you,” said Dawson, the other trader, nervously; “that fellow Larmer is bound to hear of it.”

“I am quite prepared,” Challoner replied quietly, “as you know, Dawson.  Things cannot go on like this.  I have never killed a man in my life, but to kill such a brute as Larmer would be a good action.”

The distance between Challoner’s place and Kiti, where Larmer dwelt with his villainous associates, was but ten miles.  Yet, although Larmer had now been living on the island for a year, Challoner had only once met and spoken to him.

During a visit which he (Challoner) had made to a little harbour called Metalanim, he had explored some very ancient ruins there, which were generally believed by the white uneducated traders to have been constructed by the old buccaneers, though the most learned antiquarians confess themselves puzzled to solve the mystery of their existence.  But that these ruins had been used as a depot or refuge of some sort by those who sailed the North Pacific more than two hundred years ago was evident, for many traces of their occupancy by Europeans had been found by the few white men who had visited them.

It was Challoner’s fortune to discover amid the mass of tangled vines and creepers that grew all over the walls, and even down in the curious chambers, an old brass cannon.  With the aid of some of his native friends he succeeded in dragging it forth and conveying it in his boat to his house, where, upon cleaning it, he found it bore the Spanish arms over the date of its casting in Manila, in the year 1716.  Much interested in this, he refused to sell the gun to several whaleship captains, who each wanted to buy it.  He would sell it, he thought, to better advantage by sending it to Australia or Europe.

Soon after its discovery he had set his people to work to clean and polish it One day he saw coming towards him a man, who from his huge figure he knew must be Larmer, the beachcomber.

“I say, boss,” said the man roughly, “let’s have a look at that cannon you’ve found, will yar?”

“There it is,” said Challoner quietly, pointing to his boat-house, but not deigning to accompany the beachcomber and show him the weapon.

Larmer made a brief but keen inspection, and then walked into the trader’s room and, unasked, sat down.

“It’s as good as new,” he said.  “What do you want for it?”

“I will not sell it,” replied the trader coldly, eyeing the beachcomber steadily, “at least to no one in Ponape.  There is too free a display of and use of arms here as it is,” and he looked pointedly at the brace of heavy Colt’s revolvers in his visitor’s belt.

A scowl darkened Larmer’s face.  “I’ll give you a hundred dollars for the thing,” he said.  “I want it, and I mean to have it” And he rose and dashed his huge hand down upon the table.

Challoner was unarmed, but his face betrayed neither fear nor any other emotion.  He was standing with his back to the doorway of his bedroom.  A thick curtain of navy blue calico concealed the interior of this room from the view of any one in the living room, and Larmer had seen no one but the trader about.

For some few seconds there was silence; the beachcomber, with his clenched fist still on the table, was trying to discover whether the man before him was intimidated.  Challoner stood unmoved.

“Yes,” began Larmer again, “I want that cannon.  Sru, the chief of Kiti, an’ me is going on a little war-party again.  But I’ll pay you for it.”

“And I tell you that I won’t sell it.  Least of all to a man like you, who would use it for murder.”

The beachcomber’s hand went to his belt ­and stayed there, as the trader stepped aside from the doorway and he saw a rifle pointed at his heart.  It was held by the trader’s wife.

“Put up your hands,” said Challoner, with a contemptuous laugh.  “And now listen to me.  I want no quarrel with you ­don’t force one on me.  Now clear out.”

Without a word the baffled man turned away.  But the look of savage hatred that gleamed in his fierce eyes told Challoner that he had made a dangerous enemy.  And only a few days passed before he heard from the natives that Larmer said he would have his revenge ­and the brass gun as well ­before many months were over.

But the trader, though apparently taking no heed, was yet watchful.  His influence with the natives of the Jakoits district was great, for they both liked and trusted him as a just and honourable man, and he knew that they would rally round him if Larmer attempted either to carry off the gun or do harm to him.

For some months matters went on at Jakoits very quietly, and the last of the whaling fleet having sailed, Challoner and Dawson went about their usual work again, such as trading along the coast in their whaleboats and storing their cocoanut oil in readiness for the Mocassin, the trading ship which visited them once a year, and was now due.

Although living only a few miles apart from each other, the two did not very often meet, but Challoner was one day surprised to see Dawson’s boat pulling into the beach, for he had had a visit from his friend only the previous evening.  The moment the boat touched the sand Dawson jumped out, and Challoner at once saw by the anxious expression on his face that something was wrong.

He soon learnt Dawson’s news, which was bad enough.  The Mocassin had run ashore in the night at a place five miles away from Dawson’s village, and it was feared she would become a total wreck unless she could be lightened and floated over the reef into smooth water.  The captain had sent an urgent message for aid, and in less than half an hour the two men were on their way to the wreck, accompanied by nearly every male native in Challoner’s village.

Towards sunset on the following day, just as the boats were in sight, returning from the wreck, Tiaru, the trader’s wife, with her one child and some of her female relatives, were coming from their bathe in the sea, when they heard screams from the village, and presently some terrified women fled past them, calling out that Larmer and another white man and a number of their native allies were carrying away the brass gun.  In an instant the young wife gave the babe to a woman near her, and darted towards her husband’s house.  A number of women and children, encouraged by her presence, ran to alarm the approaching boats.

In front of the trader’s house Larmer and another beachcomber were directing a score of Kiti natives how to sling the heavy gun between two stout poles.  A sentry stood on guard at the gate of Challoner’s fence, but Tiaru dashed his crossed musket aside, and then sprang into the midst of her husband’s enemies.

“Set down the gun,” she panted indignantly, “ye coward men of Roan Kiti, and ye white men thieves, who only dare to come and steal when there are but women to meet and fight with thee.”

Larmer laughed.

“Get out o’ this, you meddling fool,” he said in English, and then, calling to the natives to hasten ere it grew dark, he took no further notice of the woman before him.  Then, as they prepared to raise their burden by a united effort upon their naked shoulders, Tiaru sprang into the house and quickly reappeared with a heavy knife in her hand.  Twisting her lithe body from the grasp of one of the beachcombers, with flaming eyes she burst in amongst the gun carriers and began slashing at the strips of green bark with which the cannon was lashed to the poles.

“Curse you!” said Larmer fiercely, striding forward and seizing her by her long hair.  “Take away her knife, Watty, quick!” And he dragged her head back with brutal strength ­to release his hold with a cry of savage fury as the woman turned upon him and with a swift stroke severed the fingers of his left hand.  Again she raised her hand as Larmer drew a pistol and shot her through the body.  She fell without a cry upon the gun beneath.

Watty.  “Look there!  There’s all our natives running away.  We’re as good as dead men if we stay here five minutes longer.  I’m off anyway”; and then, hurriedly binding up his companion’s bleeding hand, he disappeared into the surrounding forest after his native allies.

For a few moments Larmer stood irresolute, looking first at the body of the woman lying across the gun, then at his wounded hand.  Already the shouts of Challoner’s natives sounded near, and he knew that the boats had reached the beach.  The gun, which had cost him so dear, must be abandoned, but he would take a further revenge upon its owner.  He ran quickly to a fire which burned dimly in Challoner’s cooking-house, lit a bunch of dried palm leaves, and thrust it into the thatch of the dwelling-house.  Then he struck into the jungle.

As Challoner, followed by Dawson and the men of Jakoits village, rushed along the narrow path that led to his house, they heard the roar and crackle of the flames; when they gained the open they saw the bright light shining on the old cannon, whose polished brass was stained and streaked with red.  Tiaru lay across the breech, dead.

For nearly two days Challoner and his natives followed the tracks of the murderer into the heart of the mountain forest of Ponape.  Dawson and another party had left early the same night for the Roan Kiti coast, where they landed and formed a cordon, which it would be impossible for Larmer to pass.

Watty, his fellow-scoundrel, was captured early next morning.  He had lost his way and was lying asleep beside a fire on the banks of a small stream.

He was promptly shot by Dawson.  Larmer was to be taken alive.

Meanwhile Challoner and his men pressed steadily on, driving their prey before them.  At noon on the second day they caught sight of his huge figure ascending a rocky spur, and a party of natives ran swiftly to its base and hid at the margin of a small, deep pool.  Challoner knew that his man wanted a drink, and would soon descend the spur to get it.

For some hours not a sound broke the silence, then a stone rolled down, and presently Larmer’s head appeared above a boulder.  He looked carefully round, and then, finding all quiet, began the descent.  On the very edge of the pool he again stopped and listened, holding his pistol at full cock.  His left hand was slung to his chest by a piece of green hibiscus bark, which was passed round his neck and roughly tied.

The silence all around him was reassuring, but he still held out the pistol as he bent his knees to drink.  Ere his lips could touch the water two half-naked figures sprang upon him and bore him down.  He was too weak to resist.

“Do not bind him,” said Challoner, “but tie his right hand behind his back.”

Larmer turned his bloodshot eyes upon the trader, but said nothing.

“Give him a drink.”

A native placed a gourd of water to his lips.  He drank greedily.  Then, in silence, Challoner and his men began their march back.

At sunset the people of Jakoits gathered together in front of the blackened space whereon the trader’s house had stood.  Raised on four heavy blocks of stone was the still blood-stained cannon, and bound with his back to its muzzle was Larmer.

Challoner made a sign, the brown-skinned men and women moved quickly apart in two parties, one on each side of the gun.  Then Rul, the chief of the Jakoits village, advanced with a lighted stick, touched the priming, and sprang aside.  A sheet of flame leaped out, a bursting roar pealed through the leafy forest aisles, and Challoner had avenged his murdered wife.