“Go down,” Leo was told. He stiffened.
“No, I won’t.”
“He says he won’t come down.”
“Who cares what he says? Make him. And quick, we haven’t got all night.”
Leo cried out as he felt the push from behind and he fell through the trapdoor. He was falling – falling – but instead of hitting the earth he felt his fall broken by pairs of arms, which caught and set him on his feet.
Dazed, he blinked, staring around him. The cellar seemed to be alive with light. Torches flamed everywhere. He could make out some twenty or thirty huddled forms arranged along the walls of the room, a band of grotesque, fearsome-looking figures, their faces besmirched with blacking and garishly painted. Others were wearing animal masks, furred and horned, and were clad in weird wild-man and Indian outfits. In addition to the torches, their hands clutched makeshift weapons – sticks and staves, tomahawks, axes and shields taken from the exhibition wall at the lodge, Leo realized.
But this ragtag-and-bobtail lot was no brotherhood of Senecas come together in a ceremony of honor and friendship. Tonight, the night of the last campfire – night of the moonbow – there would be held not Seneca ceremonies, but Mingo revels. In the flickering torchlight, one by one he examined the evil-looking bunch, seeking hints as to who was who. Yet so successful were their disguises that they were to all intents and purposes impenetrable – except -yes – maybe the one got up as a fox, who now took up a position of importance before Leo, eyes glinting behind his furry muzzle. In one “paw” he displayed an Indian rattle, which when shaken gave off a menacing sound, like the tail of a rattlesnake. It must be Phil, Leo decided. He’d been clever enough to remove his ring, but there was a telltale white band around his finger that the burnt cork had missed.
“Go ahead, look about you,” the fox suggested with a spurious show of affability. “See what is to be seen. Think where you are, and to what purpose.”
He gestured beyond the intervening heads, past the furnace and the coal bin, toward the shadows at the far end of the cellar. There a line of Indian blankets was hung with wooden clothes pins on a wire stretching fully across the room, effectively shutting off the farther view, while in the corner was something else Leo hadn’t noticed before. He stood tiptoe, trying to make out what – no, who – it was.
“Go on, take a good look,” urged the fox smoothly. “It’s a friend of yours. Maybe he’ll give you an idea of what’s going to happen – just in case you were wondering.”
Oh no! Leo stared in alarm and astonishment as he recognized Wally Pfeiffer. His arms had been pulled back over his head and secured, his ankles and legs bound as well. On his bare chest a crude swastika had been drawn; his lips were swollen.
“What have you done to him?” Leo demanded in consternation.
“See for yourself,” said the fox. “That’s what we do to traitors. And that spud’s a traitor if ever there was one, isn’t he, men?”
“Yeah, traitor!” they shouted. “Lousy traitor.” And, “Liar!” they called, and “Lousy, dirty creep!”
The fox resumed. “We’ve been teaching him a lesson, we have. We’ve been reminding him whose side he’s supposed to be on, and not to go warning other traitors. Present company not excepted.”
“But he’s hurt-”
“He needed a lesson,” someone muttered.
“It’s true,” said the fox. “He needed to be taught. Like certain others need it, too.” He paused for effect, allowing his words to sink in, then he spoke again. “Let’s see how well the lousy spud’s learned his lesson.” He gave Wally a jab with his staff. “All right, traitor, hop to it. Come on, say it-”
Wally’s eyes rolled in their sockets and his lips moved, but no sounds came out. The fox seized him by the hair, and yanked his head back.
“You heard me, speak! Do as you’ve been told.”
He tried to speak but couldn’t manage it. Again the fox’s hand snapped out, catching him a crack across the lips.
“Say it!”
Wally turned a pitiful face toward Leo. “Y-you – d-dirty
– murdering – bas-bas-tard.”
And he spat.
Leo recoiled as Wally’s spittle flew into his face.
“Make him say the rest,” prompted another voice, deep and resonant. It came from the lips of a “wolf.” Leo could see the flash of eyes behind the mask. Eyes and voice, he knew both: they belonged to the Brown Bomber. His friend, who had smashed his violin. '
“Well, speak up,” urged the wolf. Wally only stared in fright.
“Leave him alone, Bomber,” Leo said in a low voice. “He didn’t do anything to you-”
“Silence!” came the fox’s crisp command. “There is no Bomber here. We are the. brotherhood of Mingoes.” That much, ironically, was true: no Bomber here, not really. The third of the Three Musketeers had betrayed not only Leo but Tiger Abernathy as well.
As if reading Leo’s thoughts, the wolf turned away and prompted Wally again.
“Go on, now – say it.”
“I forget…”
“Tell him what you are,” he commanded.
Wally’s head lolled. “I’m nothing b-but a dirty – traitor. I d-deserve – t-to – d-die.”
“All right, that’s enough of that crap,” came an impatient voice. “Let’s get on with it and stop all this screwin’ around.”
As hands reached for Leo, he broke free and, ducking under their outstretched arms, headed for the hatchway steps. Before he could reach them he felt a heavy blow across the back of his neck; he crumpled to the floor. Amid shouts, they grabbed him and dragged him back into the light, securing him with rawhide thongs to a post in the same way Wally was tied. Bodies huddled closer now; faces, hot and sweaty, were streaked with soot.
“Let the trial begin,” the fox intoned.
“Yeah,” they all muttered, nodding, “the trial…”
Still dizzy from the blow to his neck, Leo peered around at their faces, at their eyes agleam, anticipatory, hungry for action. So he was to be tried, then. But on what charges? What was his crime?
“A man should be told what he’s being tried for,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.
The fox stared back at him. “I’m the judge here. You must say ‘Your Honor’ to me, like in a real court.”
Leo put on a show of bravado. “This isn’t a court, it’s just some stupid game. You’re all nuts!”
The forthright declaration provoked a volley of laughter: they were nuts? No pal, Wacko was the one who was nuts. After all, Wacko had been to the asylum. The fox’s fist flew up and caught him across the mouth. The blow hurt. Tears stung his eyes and he was helpless to wipe them away. Now he was certain the fox was Phil. “He likes to hurt people,” Wally had said. Leo could taste blood, feel his lip swelling.
“Hey, come on, you guys,” someone called out wearily. “Let’s get on with it.” His companions muttered agreement. They wanted the whole show. The group parted as another figure, this one featuring a bear’s physiognomy, made his appearance.
“Who is it that now comes before the tribunal of the Mingo Lodge, and to what end?” intoned the fox.
“It is I,” said the bear, “Nananda the All-knowing Spirit of the Mingo tribe, and I have come to accuse. Am I permitted to continue?”
“Who do you accuse?” came the query.
A grubby finger was raised, pointed.
“I accuse the prisoner.” From the voice Leo thought perhaps the bruin was Bosey; the thick-set “crocodile” at his shoulder was Bullnuts.
The fox nodded gravely. “Very well, you may continue, Mr Prosecutor. Call your first witness.”
The bear turned and surveyed the group on both sides of him. “I call the frog,” he said. “Let him come forward and testify. Listen carefully, all of you, to what he has to say.”
The group gave way and yet another figure, smaller than the others and costumed as a frog, was pushed forward.
“Say, then. Give evidence,” instructed the fox eagerly. The bear prompted the frog. When the frog spoke it was in the accents of Peewee Oliphant.
The whole idea of Peewee’s being in on this monstrous show turned Leo’s stomach.