When that reel was over the chief, after a long silence, spoke.
“Oh, dear!” said Margery. “He says the men who have failed are to be sent to their fathers—that means——”
Cowering, shrilly screeching with fear, Henry and Mort tried to dash toward safety. But at a sign from the chief the archers were in the hut, and before the crawling pair of white men appeared the other group, armed with cudgels of knobbed, polished wood.
“Stop!” shouted Tom. “Tell him to stop, Margery!”
Fearlessly he dashed in front of Henry and Mort, and faced the men with the bows. In one hand he held the closed lighter; in the other he unrolled a piece of leader film torn from another roll.
“Margery,” he gasped, “tell that Indian that our magic is good magic and is stronger. But tell him that we want these men spared. Say that if he does not we will use our magic to pour fire on his village and we will burn it to the ground.”
Margery, white-faced under her bronze, and with tight lips, managed to gasp out enough to make the chief listen.
Nevertheless he leaped out of his hammock and strode forward.
Tom put up a hand.
“Watch out!” he shouted.