The weaklings and cowards they had promptly eaten, and the unbelievable tale of their many heads adorning the canoe-houses was part of the myth.
And this tribe, territory, and stronghold, at the latter end of time, Bashti had inherited, and he had bettered his inheritance.

Nor was he above continuing to better it.

For a long time he had reasoned closely and carefully in maturing the plan that itched in his brain for fulfilment.

Three years before, the tribe of Ano Ano, miles down the coast, had captured a recruiter, destroyed her and all hands, and gained a fabulous store of tobacco, calico, beads, and all manner of trade goods, rifles and ammunition.
Little enough had happened in the way of price that was paid.

Half a year after, a war vessel had poked her nose into the lagoon, shelled Ano Ano, and sent its inhabitants scurrying into the bush.