MODERN PIRATES
Picking up the bundles of their clothes, the Seminole herded the chums
along the trail; its limestone-coral hurt their tender, bare feet while
they had hard work to avoid the deep, searing gashes which saw grass
makes.
They came after a few minutes to a small open glade, almost bare of
soil; here the Indian made a sharp, guttural sound. They turned.
Gesturing to them to sit, he said “A-pok-es-chay,” or “All sit down!”
They read the gesture but not the words. However, because of their
condition they preferred to stand. After he tossed their clothes to the
ground the Indian signed for them to spread the garments to dry again
and then, turning, he walked swiftly out of sight.
“This is a nice fix,” said Tom. “What will Mr. Neale do when he sees the
sloop gone and doesn’t find us?”
“He will think Sam has made off with us—or that Tom has been so scared
that he helped Sam,” Nicky declared.
As a point of truth, Mr. Neale at almost that moment gave up his waiting
vigil, and with dejected shoulders bent to the oars for a long, grilling
pull across the Sound. His purpose was to try to reach some revenue
guards or others who could help him to overtake the _Treasure Belle_.
They were not to meet their chief again for some time!
They dressed when their clothes were dried. The first effort they made
to retrace the way down the trail was met by the appearance of the
Seminole; he was on guard if not always visible.
Seated, dejectedly idle, the chums waited. A brief exploration by Cliff
toward the side of the trail they had not traversed yielded no way of
escape. It ended at another water path, this one going off from what
might be a transfer and landing dock, off toward the North.
“That’s where the Indians come with their own canoes,” Cliff told his
companions.
“But where do they take the liquor?” Nicky wondered. “Up at the north of
the Everglades there isn’t anything much.”
“Just the place to load trucks, I suppose,” Cliff surmised.
The afternoon dragged. They were not fed and no offer was made by the
Seminole to converse. He seemed not to understand Nicky’s attempt to
address him in English, but shook his head, waved the youth back and
touched his belt significantly.
Night came and still they were in their uncomfortably hard position, and
growing very hungry indeed.
“If he means to starve us, why I’m going to make a break as soon as it
gets pitchy dark,” Nicky whispered.
But as soon as it got pitchy dark there came a peculiar call from the
dock where Indians were supposed to arrive, and the young adventurers
soon found themselves the center of a small group of the Indians, one
about their own age, but not at all approachable. With the green-glassed
ship’s lantern to show them, their captor made an explanation in his
guttural dialect and then left the younger member of the party on watch
while, with the others, began transferring the cases from the further
end of the trail to the dock, and thence, the chums inferred, to canoes.
Cliff tried to establish conversation with their young guard.
“No-chit-pay-lon-es-chay!” he said. They did not comprehend that he
ordered them to lie down and sleep, and kept eagerly arguing that they
were hungry, pointing to their open mouths, in the dim light, and
rubbing their stomachs.
“So-toke-kee-aw-mun-chee!” he said, holding out his hand, palm up. He
meant, “Give me money,” but they had none and so the negotiations were
suspended.
Finally, when, as Nicky declared, their backbones were shaking hands
with their stomachs, a new voice was heard on the trail.
Preceded by their earlier captor, bearing the lantern, whose queer light
he threw full in the chums’ faces, there came a squatty, burly, ape-like
white man, with a jutting jaw, sharp, mean eyes, but with a quirk of a
smile at one side of his twisted mouth.
“Ho!” he said, in a deep rumble, “thought you cleared out this morning.
Saw the craft up anchor!”
He made a gesture that sent the Indian away; the lantern, set down as he
left, gave the scene a weird green light.
“Well, my lads,” began the man, “how’d you come to stay here, when the
sloop sailed?”
Nicky told him about their colored man and his terror of the ghostly
boat the night before.
“Ho-ho-ho!” laughed their new acquaintance. “Scared him, did it? We
aimed to scare the whole passel of you—we went to enough trouble.”
“Why did you want to scare us?” demanded Nicky eagerly.
The other did not answer. He seemed to be deep in thought.
“When are you going to feed us?” demanded Tom, more practically. Fearful
though he might be in face of the unknown, he was no coward when face to
face with a situation he could understand. And hunger was such a
situation.
“No eats! Hum—well—” The man rubbed a stubby, brownish beard,
reflectively. “We can’t starve you—we aimed to drive you away, but that
didn’t work—still, no use to starve you till we know all we want to——”
He made a sign, as if he had decided on his course.
“Go ahead, back down the trail,” he ordered. Nicky, Tom and Cliff lost
no time in complying.
Following, with the light, he directed them to the inlet where most of
the cases were now being carried away. He spoke rapidly to the Seminole
who seemed to be the leader of the Indian faction, gave him some coins,
and then ordered the three chums into his boat—the same one, for all
they knew, which they had seen the night before.
“Now I see how they got away after scaring us,” whispered Tom as the
crew of four stoutly-built white men used their oars as paddles, working
the boat further along the inlet until they came to a point where they
made still another turn and went down another narrow stream toward the
Sound.
“Just ‘ring-around-a-rosy,’” Cliff declared. “That makes the spot those
three trees are on an island—a key—after all!”
“But we’ll get no chance at any treasure, there,” said Nicky dejectedly.
Apparently the nearest of the crew thought this was important enough to
call to the attention of his captain. He turned and repeated Nicky’s
words, with a guffaw.
“Treasure, hey?” cried the bearded white man. “Who told you there was
treasure there?”
“Why—” Nicky stammered, hesitated, then decided that it could make no
difference anyway whether he told it all or not—with Mr. Neale
unaccounted for, with Sam and his sloop gone, with their own selves
captive, what chance had they for treasure? They’d be lucky, he thought,
to be set ashore, marooned like old-time sailors—and spared a worse
fate!
He told of finding the old can on the islet.
“Hum-m-m!” mused the man, clearing his throat. “Maybe you won’t find a
treasure—but, anyhow, you’ll get a square meal—then, we’ll see!”
“Where are you taking us?” demanded Nicky, once more brave.
“Why, to our floating palace. Maybe—who knows—maybe it’ll turn out to be
a treasure hunt, after all. In that case the boys’ll welcome it for a
change from hi-jacking!”
“Hi—hi—” Cliff gasped.
“Hi—jacking, he said,” Tom explained.
“I know it,” Cliff shivered, “and that makes it worse.”
“Worse than being in the hands of rum-runners?”
“Worse! I’d say so! Hi-jackers are pirates if ever anybody was. The
rum-runners bring contraband, and illegal liquor, into the States
against the law. But the hi-jackers are men who hold up their boats and
trucks and steal from them.”
“I hadn’t heard about them,” said Nicky.
“Well,” said Cliff under his breath as their boat scudded over the
waters of the Sound toward a small island near the upper end, “well, it
would be bad enough to be caught by people who break the law; but the
ones who prey on them are about the roughest and toughest people in the
world. They are modern pirates and no mistake!”
“Well,” said Nicky, shrugging his shoulders, “we’ll get through somehow,
and anyway—we eat!”
Behind the island they found a trim, beautifully built, low, rakish
craft. She was a power boat, about sixty feet long—a little more,
perhaps. She lay low in the water and was of such a dull color that she
could scarcely be seen in the dark.
They touched her side at a hanging ladder.
“Up you go!” said the man, under his breath. Then, to someone at the
rail, “Here’s three young recroots, Don Ortiga!”
“Don—” Nicky gulped. “What’s the matter?” whispered Tom.
“Ortiga—” Nicky returned, “that’s the name of the man who owned that
other speed boat, back in Jamaica! Now—I wonder——”