“Go slow!” Cliff urged, detaining Tom before the latter could make an impetuous rush toward the large hut. “If your sister is in there, be sure you won’t spoil everything by telling her—before you do tell her.”
Tom loitered. For once Nicky saw eye to eye with Cliff, and realized that hasty action might endanger them all. He added his plea to Cliff’s and Tom, finally, agreed.
“Yes,” he said, “we are in the Chucunaque circle. We don’t know what they may be planning to do to us. We don’t trust Henry or Mort and we can’t count on them. The main thing is to rescue Margery, for I am sure she is in that hut; but we can do more, maybe, by going slow.”
They took up their pace again, following the Indian. Just ahead of them Henry Morgan and Mort Beecher were being led in.
When the chums entered the hut they saw that an Indian somewhat more powerful and stalwart than the others, for the Chucunaque’s were not a large type, sat in a hammock in the center of the hut. Close to him, squatting on the ground, were a dozen men, elderly, solemn, dignified: the youths judged them to be councillors, as they were. Off at one side sat two other men, surrounded by the now familiar implements of the doctors, or medicine men, who both worked spells and tried, by their witcheries, to cure disease: their small success was attested by the prevalence of sickness and diseased skins among their tribesmen.
But the point to which the youths’ eyes focused, and on which every bit of their attention concentrated was that where a girl sat—the only female figure in the hut; she was fairly tall, a little less than five feet and five inches, they guessed as she sat. Her clothing was of the same sort as that of the Indian women outside; a ragged, but clean waist of European or American style was the only feature of difference, and that was so faded and worn that it hardly looked like anything. Beside that a short petticoat of dull colored cloth completed the visible clothing: her head was bare, and so were her brown, dusky limbs, and her feet.
But she was an American, not an Indian! And the crown of long, bright golden hair, glittering and glistening in the wavering torch-light was all the proof that the three comrades needed to identify her.
Tom could hardly repress a cry. He held his lips tight shut. Nicky, clutching his arm, felt the muscles stiffen, and gave his biceps a reassuring, excited squeeze. Cliff, noting everything, saw that Tom had regained his control and would be careful not to do anything that could endanger their plans.
Tom saw Henry and Mort draw closer together and whisper: they, too, realized who the girl was, in spite of her dark skin and her expressionless face. She had been long enough among the impassive Indians to acquire their facial stillness. When she spoke, her voice was high and excited, like that of a girl of ten, and she talked in the same way that a child would, using simple words, instead of using the manners and conversation of a miss of sixteen. When the Indians took her, Tom mused, she stopped growing up with no one to talk to in her native language.
Henry and Mort, still whispering, were led to a point to the right of the hammock, a little in front of the medicine men. Tom, Cliff and Nicky were stationed at the other side, before the councillors. It was easy to see that they were considered as separate and not friendly, for some reason.