“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——”