“Porto Bello, eh?” said Bill.
“Porto Bell’. Yes. Now——”
There was a commotion at the doorway. Henry Morgan had crept up to see what was so mysteriously transpiring in the hut, and as the two guards had no instructions concerning him and did not dare to interrupt their chief, Henry had listened, had caught the whole message.
While Bill leaped up and Tom caught his feet under him swiftly, Henry strode into the hut, kicking over the calabash, into which Toosa had been staring after he inhaled the smoke.
“Porto Bello!” he shouted. “Well, that’s where Henry Morgan will find him. As for you—” he swung on his white companions, “you can follow me if you dare—but if you do, I shoot!”
He snatched up Bill’s rifle, just before Tom anticipated his move.
“I take this,” he snapped, “’cause why? Toosa has mine. Now I go in canoe. I’ll tell your friends the yellow-jack got you. They can’t pass the deadlines to find out. We’ll take the cruiser and go on. When we find Mort Beecher I’ll let them come back and hunt you up if they want to. I’ll have what I want.”
“You swine!” cried Bill, halted by the rifle in the menacing hands. “That’s how you repay——”
“That’s how I repay that kid for what he did to my—stuff!” growled Henry. Toosa made an effort to stop him as he backed toward the door, but the smoke had really taken some of Toosa’s strength, or at least he was not swift enough in his move, for Henry sidestepped and sent a cruel kick at the dark face. Toosa fell back in time to avoid it, but Henry, thrusting the peering Indians to each side, backed out and turned as Bill tugged at a revolver.
Still striving to loosen the weapon, which his excitement made more of a task than it should have been, he raced to the door, Tom at his heels. They saw Henry Morgan running, rifle under his arm, for the sandy beach, where a rushing torrent worried at the sand and bore it away in great, swirling streaks.