The Filipinos' private car rolled into the train yards just north of New York's Grand Central Station. It was wet, windy, and not yet daybreak. The train slowed and Julio gazed through the rain-streaked window at the dark, foreboding sky, the cold glass numbing his cheek. Great plumes of smoke billowed out as the train squealed and hissed to a halt. Julio could just make out a group of figures moving around in the murk outside. He strained to get a better look. Suddenly out of the gloom a pale face streaked in oil and grime pressed up against the glass, almost a mirror image of his own.

(Note for readers: this is an excerpt from the new book "The Lost Tribe of Coney Island: Headhunters, Luna Park, and the Man Who Pulled Off the Spectacle of the Century" from journalist Claire Prentice)

The trainman couldn't believe what he was seeing. He shouted to the other men working in the yard to come over. Within a few moments, a group had gathered around. They gawked through the window in slack-jawed amazement. Dark-skinned men and women wearing hardly any clothes peered back at them. One, a child with skin as black as coal, waved. Where, one of the trainmen wondered aloud, were they going? Madison Square Garden? To the port to catch a ship back to wherever they had come from? No, it must be Coney Island, insisted another, that was where the freaks of the world ended up. The trainmen would certainly have a story to tell their families that night. The foreman shouted at them to get back to work.

The engineer let off the brakes, and the train trundled down the track toward Grand Central. It was just before 5:15 a.m. on Monday, May 15, 1905, when the Igorrotes' car pulled up to the platform, giving a jolt, which woke the handful of tribespeople who were sleeping under a pile of rough military blankets. Grand Central was accustomed to welcoming eight hundred trains and seventy-five thousand passengers daily, but it had never seen a cargo like this. The Igorrotes experienced a now familiar blend of excited bewilderment. They had journeyed halfway across the world, and had rattled across eleven US states, through wide-open plains and busy railroad junctions. They had grown accustomed to new sights and sounds but nothing could have prepared them for their arrival in America's greatest city.

Outside, newspaper reporters and photographers jostled to get a view of the savages through the windows. They turned to each other as if to confirm what they were seeing. "The men looked the part of head-hunters with a vengeance," observed one. "Both the men and women were tattooed from head to foot, the marks on the chest of some of the men indicating . . . that they were fully-fledged harvesters of heads. The women sat in the window smoking big, black cigars with great contentment, and one of them had two spools attached to large pieces of wire in her ears. Both sexes wore large brass earrings which were remarkably suggestive of the dog tags used in this city."

Truman Hunt was usually cool under pressure. But today was different. After more than six months of planning, it was almost time for the show to begin. He could hardly wait. The Igorrotes were going to be the talk of Coney Island. No, of the nation. Before they left the train, he gave them a pep talk. Truman was an enthusiastic, if sometimes inexact, speaker of the Bontoc language. None of the tribe could mistake the energy of what he was saying but Julio had to step in from time to time to help when Truman couldn't find the right words. The tribespeople were to be on their best behavior. Those who knew some English were permitted to speak to the reporters, provided they didn't stray from the script they'd rehearsed with Truman and Julio on the journey.

Egged on by Truman, Fomoaley pushed to the front and puffed out his chest as he posed for the cameras. Around his neck the chief wore strings of beads decorated with what looked like human hair. Truman pointed out the tattoos on his body, which indicated his prowess as a headhunter. This was not the first time several of the photographers had stood this close to a murderer but, they thought, this one seemed remarkably good-humored. Hold up your spear and look angry so we can get a picture of you in a ferocious pose, shouted one of the photographers. Smiling graciously, the headhunter obliged.

Reporters crowded around the Igorrotes and began shouting out questions. What do you think of America? Is it true that you eat dogs? Will you be hunting human heads here in America? Truman had a well-rehe