“Yes, we did,” answered Tom. “Do you know anything—”
He eagerly related the conditions of his sister’s disappearance. The white man listened gravely and then shook his head.
“Toosa will be here in a few minutes,” he stated. “He has asked me some curiously veiled questions. I wouldn’t be surprised if what I answered has something to do with the results he will get from his ‘magic’—but he is a fine old magician, and it helps his standing among the natives to let him keep them deceived—so I will let him reveal what his ‘magic calabash’ whispers to him.” He laughed as Toosa, grave and stately in spite of his deformed body, came in. Several other Indians were with him and quite a crowd assembled outside. These he dispersed, telling them something in their dialect which Bill guessed was to the effect that his magic was, this time, for the white ears alone.
Those who accompanied him hung heavy skins over the door, and took up positions outside, shooing away the straggling women who thirsted for every demonstration of their chief’s magical powers.
Toosa set on the trampled earth floor a calabash, and some other articles of his supposed craft; then he produced a skin bottle or flask and from it poured into the calabash a dark, rather evil smelling liquid, till the gourd container was level full.
Tom, watching closely, thought he detected a tiny wink pass between the solemn old fraud and his trade friend; however, Tom kept his own counsel and refrained from trying to catch Bill’s eye.
If they got the information he sought, it did not matter to him if Toosa liked to impart a touch of mystery to the telling!
“You good,” Toosa said to Tom. “I help. Tell what you not know!”
He built up a small fire of tiny twigs and let it burn until the sticks fell together, flared and then died down to a small flicker.
Onto that he threw some leaves and bits of dust or herbs finely powdered, and instantly a dense, whitish, and very pungent smoke rose.