Toosa, standing without movement or change of expression, watched as Henry fumbled with his gun, and getting himself erect by an effort, tried to level the rifle at Toosa.
“Even in his condition, he might hit him!” urged Bill, trying to disengage his arm from Tom’s restraining clutch.
“He’s a magician,” Tom replied. “Don’t let’s interfere!”
Bill stared at his young companion in amazement; then his eyes turned to observe the expected result. Henry, the rifle leveled, stood on his uncertain feet, trying to “draw a bead” with the wavering sights.
Toosa, arms folded, did not move. His eyes were fixed on Henry.
In the brush, Indians were watching intently. Would their magician and healer, their guide and guardian, falter? Could the white man with the devil-stick that spat fire and death—could he——?
Suddenly Henry advanced a step, lowering his rifle.
“I’ll—I—give you—chance!” he sputtered. “I give—you chance! ‘C-’cause why? ‘C-’cause you got to tell me where is Mort Beecher an’—an’—the Golden Sun!”
Toosa did not move, nor did he open his lips. He simply stood, eyes coldly, glowingly fixed on the furious, maudlin white man.
“You tell, I not shoot—I call men and put you out of way till we finish,” Henry called in his husky voice. “Then we fix the two who come with me—eh, boys?” He swung, staggering a little, to try and get response from the brush. Not an Indian showed himself or moved.