Again and again, until its magazine was spent. Henry fired.
Toosa brushed some fiery sparks from the old coat he wore, and laughed, a horrible sound of triumph and rage.
“White man not hurt Toosa!” he cried.
Choking and sputtering in his fury Henry raised and reversed his rifle, clubbed it and rushed.
At the same instant Tom, like a streak of lightning, raced across the space; but he arrived too late; Toosa, with his long arms, caught the rifle and with a wrench tore it from Henry’s grip. He flung it aside but Henry, lost to all sense of decency or judgment, flung his weight against Toosa.
Toosa, braced as he was, gave back a step under the impact. Bill was almost beside Tom as the latter drew back, unable to interfere as Toosa’s foot caught on a projecting root at the side of the level space; down he went with a thud, and instantly Henry, on top, reached for his throat.
Toosa fought like a tiger, his own ape-like arms giving him the advantage of reach in the grapple for throatholds. But the fall had stunned Toosa a little and he did not grip with his customary strength.
Tom, with a quick insight, saw that Henry had an advantage.
Whether it was right or wrong to take part against a white man and to fight for an Indian would not at any time have bothered Tom. He knew that color did not matter; that it was the spirit and quality of a man that counted and not the skin he wore. So, unhesitatingly, he caught Henry’s legs and flung them, with all his strength, toward the side, thus unbalancing Henry, and causing him to roll, and to fling out an arm, instinctively, to catch himself.
In that instant Toosa recovered his power, scrambled up and stood watching Henry, sputtering and clamping his teeth in his rage. Toosa gave a sharp call. The Indians, no longer wondering if their leader was supreme, rushed forward and quickly secured Henry. He was bound and taken to another hut. Toosa turned to Tom, and with about the only smile Tom ever saw on his face, Toosa spoke: