CHAPTER IX

MAGIC AND MADNESS

In the midst of a tropical paradise under the vivid moon, and with the looming grandeur of brooding mountains over it, Tom and Bill saw such an orgy of lust and degradation as made them shudder.

Around the rude receptacle which held the fermented cane-juice, the Indians gathered. The younger men and the older youths played a weird, tuneless melody on reed pipes while the others indulged their taste for the strong liquid. Henry Morgan joined these and seemed to be a member of long standing, by the greetings he got.

Out into the moonlit square of the village, a space where the earth was trodden by countless feet until it was almost as hard as stone, came a bent, but striking figure. Although age had almost drawn his nose and chin together, although his body was in no way erect or striking, Tom saw nothing grotesque in that stalking form; rather, it spoke of power and of virility.

Toosa was a figure of force in his rage!

He approached the trough and for a while, as though ashamed, or frightened, the men were very still.

“Can he stop them, do you suppose?” Tom whispered, to Bill, as the two crouched by the door of the large hut that had been assigned to them.

“He has a lot of influence over them,” replied his companion.

They watched, silent and amazed as Toosa stalked straight over to the group of Indians. The reeds ceased to whine and whistle. The younger men and the boys appeared to fade into the encircling brush.

Toosa simply stood there, his distorted body drawn as erect as was possible, arms folded, his face stern in the moonlight.

Toosa spoke no word.

There was a long moment of absolute silence. Toosa looked at his tribesmen and they, shamed, looked down at the ground.

Only Henry Morgan, his ruddy face inflamed, his eyes more bleary than ever, stared boldly back at the dark-skinned nemesis. Toosa did not even glance toward the white man; his regard was fixed upon his own kind. Several of them shifted their positions nervously and one, sidling off with head averted, disappearing into the brush.

That seemed to be the signal. Still Toosa said nothing—he merely looked his anger and disgust. But the men began to move, restlessly and then hurriedly rising and starting in various directions, none going near Toosa except one careless individual. With a swift, unexpected sweep of his ape-like arm, Toosa touched that man—and he sprawled in a choking, gasping heap.

“Look! Look at Henry!” whispered Tom, gripping Bill’s shoulder hard in his excitement.

“Just what I was afraid of,” Bill whispered back. “I hope he doesn’t think about us—I can guess that he’s going to defy Toosa! If he can get the Indians back he may turn their attention on us—then——”

He did not say any more, but his hand tightened on the stock of his rifle and with the other he loosened one of his two pistols, worn in belt holsters, and glanced at Tom in the dim light. Tom was too intent on the scene in the square to observe Bill’s half intent to give him a weapon which, did need arise, Tom’s training during the trip would enable him to use effectively.

Henry, his muscles responding poorly to his befuddled will, staggered upright and, wavering a little, faced Toosa.

“Get out of here!” he roared. “What do you mean, you red dog, by interfering with a white man’s pleasure!”

“What did he say?” Tom asked as Toosa made a curt response.

“Something to the effect that the white man’s ‘pleasure’ was the Indians’ ruin!” Bill told him.

“It is, too,” agreed Tom. “I’m with Toosa, all the way.”

Henry was not with Toosa, but very much against him! He stood, shakily but with fury growing in his face, a white man of the lowest sort, in maudlin rage defying a red man of the higher type of intelligence. It passed through Tom’s mind that by comparison, the red man was the finer specimen, dwarf or not.

“I’ll teach—teach you—to—” gulped Henry, and he bent down for his rifle, lying on the ground.

Bill’s muscles tensed, and he was about to leap forward, his own weapon ready; but Tom held his arm, and whispered, “Wait!”

“But—” began Bill, but what transpired caused him to hesitate.

Toosa, standing without movement or change of expression, watched as Henry fumbled with his gun, and getting himself erect by an effort, tried to level the rifle at Toosa.

“Even in his condition, he might hit him!” urged Bill, trying to disengage his arm from Tom’s restraining clutch.

“He’s a magician,” Tom replied. “Don’t let’s interfere!”

Bill stared at his young companion in amazement; then his eyes turned to observe the expected result. Henry, the rifle leveled, stood on his uncertain feet, trying to “draw a bead” with the wavering sights.

Toosa, arms folded, did not move. His eyes were fixed on Henry.

In the brush, Indians were watching intently. Would their magician and healer, their guide and guardian, falter? Could the white man with the devil-stick that spat fire and death—could he——?

Suddenly Henry advanced a step, lowering his rifle.

“I’ll—I—give you—chance!” he sputtered. “I give—you chance! ‘C-’cause why? ‘C-’cause you got to tell me where is Mort Beecher an’—an’—the Golden Sun!”

Toosa did not move, nor did he open his lips. He simply stood, eyes coldly, glowingly fixed on the furious, maudlin white man.

“You tell, I not shoot—I call men and put you out of way till we finish,” Henry called in his husky voice. “Then we fix the two who come with me—eh, boys?” He swung, staggering a little, to try and get response from the brush. Not an Indian showed himself or moved.

“Why doesn’t Toosa run—Toosa! Toosa—run while he’s not watching!” shrilled Bill breaking from the hut.

Toosa made one gesture, a slight gesture. Bill saw it and stopped, while Tom advanced to Bill’s side, though both retired into the hut’s shadow as Henry, with a muttered word that was not good to hear, swung on his heel, caught his balance and glowered toward the hut. Then he pulled the trigger; there was a flash, but while Bill flung Tom back into the hut, neither was struck, nor did they hear where the bullet went.

Henry instantly swung back to face Toosa who had not moved.

“Come!” he shouted. “Tell me. Where is Mort Beecher! Where is that Golden Sun mine he told me about! You know! You can tell! Tell now, if you want—want see sun—sun rise in morning!”

Toosa, arms folded, waited, wordless.

“Oh, all right!” Henry growled, his voice shaking. He took another huge gulp from a calabash of liquid fire, choked, gasped and then re-sighted his rifle.

“Tell!” he called.

Tom held tightly to Bill’s arm.

There came the flash and roar of the rifle.

Toosa did not move!

Again and again, until its magazine was spent. Henry fired.

Toosa brushed some fiery sparks from the old coat he wore, and laughed, a horrible sound of triumph and rage.

“White man not hurt Toosa!” he cried.

Choking and sputtering in his fury Henry raised and reversed his rifle, clubbed it and rushed.

At the same instant Tom, like a streak of lightning, raced across the space; but he arrived too late; Toosa, with his long arms, caught the rifle and with a wrench tore it from Henry’s grip. He flung it aside but Henry, lost to all sense of decency or judgment, flung his weight against Toosa.

Toosa, braced as he was, gave back a step under the impact. Bill was almost beside Tom as the latter drew back, unable to interfere as Toosa’s foot caught on a projecting root at the side of the level space; down he went with a thud, and instantly Henry, on top, reached for his throat.

Toosa fought like a tiger, his own ape-like arms giving him the advantage of reach in the grapple for throatholds. But the fall had stunned Toosa a little and he did not grip with his customary strength.

Tom, with a quick insight, saw that Henry had an advantage.

Whether it was right or wrong to take part against a white man and to fight for an Indian would not at any time have bothered Tom. He knew that color did not matter; that it was the spirit and quality of a man that counted and not the skin he wore. So, unhesitatingly, he caught Henry’s legs and flung them, with all his strength, toward the side, thus unbalancing Henry, and causing him to roll, and to fling out an arm, instinctively, to catch himself.

In that instant Toosa recovered his power, scrambled up and stood watching Henry, sputtering and clamping his teeth in his rage. Toosa gave a sharp call. The Indians, no longer wondering if their leader was supreme, rushed forward and quickly secured Henry. He was bound and taken to another hut. Toosa turned to Tom, and with about the only smile Tom ever saw on his face, Toosa spoke:

“You save life!” he grunted. “You good. I help!”

“That’s all right,” Tom said. “You great magic man, I only help.”

“Yes,” Toosa answered.

“Now, we sleep,” he said. Not one of the Indians went near the rude trough again. They trooped away, all except two he appointed to guard Henry in his small hut. Toosa picked up the rifle and walked off.

“He surely is a great magician,” Bill commented, as he and Tom lay on their rudely made bedding of woven vines and soft branches. “Henry, bad as he was, couldn’t have missed him with all those shells!”

“Well,” said Tom, nestling into a comfortable spot, “I don’t want to take any credit away from Toosa’s magic—but I helped it along a bit.”

“How?” demanded Bill, lifting to one elbow and staring into the blackness of the hut.

“I thought he might get boisterous—that Henry!” ‘Tom answered. “So I took the chance, while you and he dozed in the hut after supper, and dug the bullets out of his magazine full of cartridges.”

“Tom,” said Bill, soberly, “I never thought of that. You’re a pardner. Shake!”

Tom did.