Hernandez laughed. "Square-faced gin. He stays soaked all the time. But I have a plan"
"But how," interrupted Condon, "did your man learn all this?"
"By pretending to believe in voodooism—and by watching. He has attended the ceremonies with the others. And he has followed Armstrong there when the witch doctor was alone. That is how he learned of the poisoned water. He has heard nothing there about the murder of the native, but I am sure there is a connection there somewhere if we can find it."
Hernandez made a significant gesture.
"You don't know the confidence those people have in that old fellow. He has a pond there in front of his cave. A natural sort of pond. Been there for centuries, I suppose, and it is full of crocodiles. Sacrifices to these crocodiles have been hinted at—but of course I couldn't swear to that. I do know, however, that the laborers here are blind enough in their belief of him to do anything he might tell them."
Condon's face was wrinkled in thought. "But your plan?" Hernandez leaned nearer. "Listen. . . ."
SEVEN-THIRTY o'clock that evening found Bart Condon, Juan Hernandez and the Indian of whom Condon had been told concealed on the side of the little jungle hill above the witch doctor's cave. Almost at his doorway was the pond of which Hernandez had spoken. An occasional swish of the water told of life in it. Just in front of the cave, squatted on the ground beside a faint brush fire, was the witch doctor, an old, shriveled, dried-up, gray-headed black.
"We can hear from this place?" Condon whispered.
"Yes," replied Hernandez, "but be quiet. He might hear you."
Back in the jungle, monkeys chattered. Baboons howled nearby. A macaw set up a shrill shrieking. Once Condon heard the helpless, hopeless cry of some small animal as it met the death of the jungle. Some beast of the tropics slipped past them. Bart Condon gripped his revolver.
And then they heard somebody approaching. Down a little trail—the same trail which Condon had traveled part of the way—a man was coming. A few moments later Armstrong was standing before the witch doctor's fire.
With every nerve on edge, Condon watched. Armstrong and the witch doctor, both now seated before the blaze, wasted no time on inconsequential talk.
Armstrong was speaking in Spanish: "You understand exactly what you are to tell those people when they come here tonight."
"I do."
"Very well. Here is half the money. You will receive as much more—provided you get Condon's laborers away tomorrow—and keep them and all others away."
The witch doctor nodded. "They will be away, before tomorrow. When they leave here they will be afraid to return to the man Condon’s plantation."
"They won't even return for their things?"
The old man laughed shrilly. "They will believe everything on that plantation accursed when I have finished with them and will never desire to see their things again. I intended telling them that they must leave tomorrow. Now I have decided to have them leave tonight. It is better so."
Again the witch doctor laughed.
"But" and now there was something in his voice Condon had not detected there before—"there is more money to come to me, Senor."
Armstrong’s tone was impatient. "You get that when the laborers have quit the plantation."
