Artemus Calloway

“ And then, locked in embrace, the plantation manager and the witch doctor disappeared in the crocodile pool.
There was a sudden rush—horrid grunts—the crushing of bones—and Condon imagined he could see the water redden. Armstrong and the witch doctor were no more.
Then, from Condon's laborers in the trail, came cries of denunciation. "He is no witch doctor! He fought with the white man and was eaten by crocodiles—he who told us that he could destroy white men by pointing his finger at them. He told us that the crocodiles could not harm him." ”

“ A witch doctor who lives in the jungle is behind the trouble here. And a white man is behind the witch doctor!"
Condon started. "You mean—?"
For a moment Hernandez said nothing, staring at the desk before him. Then:
"Armstrong!"
Condon's hands twitched nervously. "How do you know—or suspect—this, Hernandez?"
"I am positive, Mr. Condon. I have a man working under me whom I trust implicitly. He is an Indian-one of those commonly known as a Mosquito Indian—they live down on the Mosquito Coast, you know——"
"Yes. Go on. What about him?"
"Well, he is a very intelligent fellow. ”

“ 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. ”