Dick had fared little better. A rock, thrown by one of the black men, had hit the revolver he was carrying and knocked it from his hand. The weapon flew off somewhere in the darkness, and while the stones continued to hail through the air, Dick went down on all fours and tried to locate the six-shooter.
"Now you've got 'em!" came the voice of Whistler. "They've lost the gun and are all but done for. Rush 'em!"
The negroes, considering that they were only receiving a dollar each for helping Whistler, were putting a lot of vim and ginger into the one-sided combat.
Giving vent to exultant yells, they rushed from the timber and, in a few minutes more, would have overwhelmed Matt and his friends by sheer force of numbers. But the unexpected happened.
From the door of the hut came old Yamousa, her tattered garments flying about her as she ran. Over her head she held a gleaming white skull—either of a cat or a dog—and the picture she made, gliding through the firelight, was enough to awe the fiercest of the superstitious blacks.
"Stop!" she screeched. "Zis ees somet'ing I will not have. Zese boys are my franes—mes amis—an' I will not haf zem hurt. You hear? T'row one more stone an' Yamousa puts obi on ze lot of you, ev'ry las' one. How do you like zat, you niggers? How you like ze evil eye on you?"
Instantly the headlong rush of the blacks was stopped. Halting in trepidation, they drew together, hands drooping at their sides and every ounce of hostility oozing out at their finger tips.
The boys were amazed at the old woman's power. Under the spell of their superstition, the negroes were held as by iron chains.
"Don't let the old hag fool you!" shouted Whistler. "She can't hurt you as much as those white boys can if you leave 'em alone. They came out of the sky in their bird ship, and if you don't capture them they'll put something worse than the evil eye upon you. Never mind Yamousa!"
A murmuring went up from the blacks and they began to move undecidedly.