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.