“Yes,” said Nicky. “And of course you told the San Blas Indians——”
He saw Tom touching his ear, in a Mystery Boys sign of warning, and he changed the statement. “You told the San Blas Indians the same thing!”
“I did.” Henry grinned at them. “And I told them more, as you may have heard. I told them that when our friends came along, to pass them right along and help them to follow us.”
Nicky could not contain his disgust any longer. All this was a tissue of falsehood and he hated such talk.
“You told them that they must forbid us to stay near them—said we were evil doctors and if we came we would do harm. And what’s more, you said that if the people you doctored didn’t get well, it was because we were working harm on them!——”
Nicky stopped for breath and Henry, after a little start, turned to Mort Beecher and held out his hands, palms up.
“Ain’t that Indians for you?” he pleaded for agreement. “Ain’t that Indians? They’ll twist and alter anything you say. ’Cause why? ’Cause they want to keep everybody out of this country. They don’t want the dear little golden-haired girl rescued. Not they. They want her to stay here and be a priestess and cure them and dance in their festivals and bring them good luck. And we——”
“And we want to save her—and here we are, risking life and limb and trying to help, and you go and get mad.” Mort Beecher drew his fat jowls into a somber, dejected appearance. “Seems like there ain’t any gratitude in the world, seems like.”
“Oh, all right—the Indians might have mixed up and twisted what you said,” Tom agreed. “Nicky isn’t really mad at you—he only felt that you ought to have brought us all along.”
“And for what?” demanded Mort Beecher. “For all of you to be killed? Wasn’t it bad enough for us to be done that to? Wasn’t two lives enough to risk—but where is the rest of your party?”