Max Brand

Harrigan Max Brand

"That fellow with the red hair," said the police captain as he pointed. "I'll watch him," the sergeant answered. The captain had raided two opium dens the day before, and the pride of accomplishment puffed his chest. He would have given advice to the sheriff of Oahu that evening. He went on: "I can pick some men out of the crowd by the way they walk, and others by their eyes. That fellow has it written all over him." The red-headed man came nearer through the crowd. Because of the warmth, he had stuffed his soft hat into a back pocket, and now the light from a window shone steadily on his hair and made a fire of it, a danger signal. He encountered the searching glances of the two officers and answered with cold, measuring eyes, like the gaze of a prize fighter who waits for a blow. The sergeant turned to his superior with a grunt. "You're right," he nodded. "Trail him," said the captain, "and take a man with you. If that fellow gets into trouble, you may need help." He stepped into his automobile and the sergeant beckoned to a nearby policeman. "Akana," he said, "we have a man-sized job tonight. Are you feeling fit?" The Kanaka smiled without enthusiasm. "The man of the red hair?" The sergeant nodded, and Akana tightened his belt. He had eaten fish baked in ti leaves that evening.