“How about it?” asked Bill an hour later. “Time to travel?”
“I guess those lads behind the stockade should be pretty well off to
bye-bye by this time,” yawned Osceola, getting stiffly to his feet. “In
more ways than one, I hate to leave the shelter of this good old tree.
It certainly has proved a help in time of need!”
Bill likewise stood up and balanced himself on their airy perch in the
darkness. “Well, I can see your point,” he answered, “but I’m not
getting sentimental about it. Ever since that filthy snake poked his
nose at me, I’ve been waiting for his wife or brother or sister to drop
on me. I can’t see in the dark like you. So the sooner we make the road,
the happier I’ll be.”
Notwithstanding the urge that prompted Bill to hasten, it took the two
some time to reach the corduroy road. Osceola took the lead. He seemed
to have no trouble in discerning obstacles quite invisible to Bill. At
the base of the tree, he caught his white friend’s hand, and after a few
words of caution, started forward.
To Bill the trip seemed endless. They had not gone far when he lost all
sense of direction. Along slimy roots, first above and then below water,
they made their way. It was impossible to pierce the inky shadow under
the trees. If it had not been for Osceola’s uncanny power, half
instinct, half sight, Bill would have floundered into the soft mud of
the swamp and been sucked down into the ooze. How long the journey took,
Bill could never figure out when later he thought about it. The actual
distance was not great, but the time taken to travel it seemed years.
“Here we are,” exclaimed Osceola at last. “Step on to that log, and be
careful. It runs up the side of the dump at the end of the road.”
Bill felt with his foot in the darkness, touched one of the tree trunks
thrown down to act as road ballast. A scramble up the steep incline
followed, the Indian still guiding him by the hand, and they were
standing on the corduroy.
They were now no longer under the forest canopy and above their heads
the heavens were studded with stars. Without a word, the youths broke
into a trot. Fifty yards from the stockade gates they halted. There came
a whispered conference, and then two dark figures entered the shadow
cast by the trees and crawled forward along the roadside.
Just before they reached the gates they turned to the right. Following
the log wall, they continued to creep on until they arrived midway
between two of the flood lights which illuminated the compound. These
were placed on high poles, perhaps ten feet above the twelve-foot
stockade.
Bill grasped more firmly the short, thick stick he carried, and placed
his mouth close to Osceola’s ear. “Lucky Martinengo never thought that
prisoners might want to get _into_ this place, rather than break out of
it,” he whispered. “If those lights faced this way, we’d sure be out of
luck.”
The Seminole grunted a low assent.
“Stand with your back to the wall,” Bill continued, “and give me a hand
up. When the guard comes along, I’ll bean him with this club. Then I’ll
pass him over to you.”
“Okay. But after you drop him over, get on this side of the wall again,
while I’m tying him up with the creepers. One of those devils inside is
likely to spot you, otherwise.”
“Good idea—I’ll do that. Ready?”
For, answer, Osceola got to his feet and walked over to the stockade.
Here he turned, placed his back against the wall and made a stirrup of
his clasped hands.
Bill stuck the club into his waistband and a moment later was standing
on his friend’s broad shoulders. Up went his hands and he chinned
himself to the top of the wall. A broad sentry-bench ran along the
inside of the stockade. Lounging with his back to the logs, sat a guard,
every feature of his unpleasant face made plain by the blazing
floodlights.
Bill lowered himself onto Osceola’s shoulders and leaned forward.
“He’s sound asleep!” he whispered tensely.
“Fine. We’ll leave him alone, then. Get an arm over the top and stand by
for my weight when I hoist myself up.”
Bill obeyed and the Indian caught his leg. Then came a moment of severe
strain—and Osceola clung to the wall at his side.
Up and over they went together. Bare feet touched the sentry-bench,
tiptoed to the edge and the lads disappeared beneath it. They had
reached their first objective in less than two minutes.
Safe for the moment from outside observation, Bill followed Osceola as
the young Indian skirted the wall in the deep shadow below the
sentry-bench. No word was spoken. Each knew exactly what he must do, and
kept his mind focussed on that performance. True, the first part of
their plan was working out far better than they had expected, but the
second and third stages of their enterprise were far more dangerous.
Although they were elated by their success so far, neither was
overconfident.
Osceola stopped short and pointed to a building that stood possibly
twenty yards away. Smaller than most of the houses, it was a bungalow,
with wide verandas extending round the entire structure. It was
shingled, and topped with a low-eaved roof of attractive green tiles.
The contrast between this comfortable-looking dwelling and the barn-like
quarters of the slaves was as pronounced as day and night, or the
contrast between home and prison. Bill had not slept in a comfortable
bed for some time. Then and there he determined to finish out the rest
of the night in that bungalow!
Between the sentry-bench and the house there was no shelter of any kind.
Floodlights streamed down on the hardbaked clay of the compound,
bringing every rut or small unevenness of the surface into clear relief.
Moreover, the ground was within the direct line of vision of the
sentries.
“Do we crawl—or make a dash for it?” hissed Osceola.
“The sooner, the quicker. We’re more likely to attract attention moving
fast, but we’re harder to hit!”
The Seminole nodded. “Ready if you are.”
“Let’s go!”
Together they sprinted across the open space. Each moment Bill expected
the drilling pain of a rifle bullet between his shoulders, and it took
considerable will power not to crouch and slacken his pace. Their naked
feet made no sound at all on the hard earth and rather less than a
second later, the two vaulted the veranda railing and sank down behind
it.
Certain that so far their presence within the compound had not been
discovered, Bill got to his feet again. With Osceola at his heels, he
crossed the piazza to a screened door, pulled it open and entered the
house.
They found themselves in a kitchen where a gas stove stood in one
corner, across from a large sink. Polished pans and cooking pots hung
below long shelves stacked with cans of food, packages of cereal and the
like.
“Too bad we can’t help ourselves to a meal,” whispered Osceola. “I’m
famished, aren’t you?”
“Sure am. But come on now, when we’ve finished the job ahead, it will be
time to think of food. I prefer starving a bit longer—it’s one better
than dying by the lash! Through that door is our way. Quiet! if those
lads in there wake up before we want them to, you and I are out of
luck.”
Osceola opened the door indicated by Bill and they slipped through it,
closing it softly behind them. They were now in a hall which ran forward
bisecting this part of the house. There were two open doors on their
left. Bill pointed to the nearer and they tiptoed to the sill.
Thin rays from the floodlights filtered in through half open blinds. By
this dim light Bill and Osceola made out the figure of a man sprawled on
a cot by the window. A small bureau, two straight chairs, a wardrobe
trunk and grass matting on the floor completed the room’s furnishings.
On one of the chairs lay a small pile of clothes; on the other, close to
the head of the bed was an automatic revolver and a gold-faced watch.
Osceola passed like a shadow across the intervening space and grasped
the gun. Bill closed the door to the hall. Neither made the slightest
sound. Then Bill nodded to his friend. Osceola promptly kicked the side
of the cot and the sleeper awoke to find himself looking into a
blue-black muzzle.
“One peep out of you and I’ll blow your head off!” remarked the Indian
in a low, dispassionate voice. “Turn on your face and put your hands
behind your back.”
A single glance into his captor’s eyes was enough for the fellow on the
bed. Those smoldering fires of pent-up hate won the battle before it was
begun. The young man hastened to comply with instructions.
Bill came over to the bed and while Osceola continued to cover their
prostrate prisoner with the automatic, he tore a sheet into long strips.
With these the fellow on the bed was scientifically bound and gagged.
Then the two friends moved on to the next room.
In there, exactly the same thing happened. Ten minutes after entering
the bungalow, Bill and his Seminole friend were masters of the place.
“I don’t suppose this house has a cellar,” mused Bill. They were in the
kitchen, preparing a much needed meal.
“Not a chance,” said Osceola, from the stove. “You’ll strike water a
foot down anywhere in this compound. Haven’t you got those cans of
corned beef open? This skillet is piping hot.”
Bill tossed him the cans, placed a bowl of eggs within reach of the cook
and commenced to slice bread.
“I asked, because we’ve got to stow those aviators somewhere. Perhaps
the joint runs to an attic. That will do just as well.”
“Well, we’ll find a good place for them,” replied the Seminole, intent
on his cooking. “Confound them! These aviators of Martinengo’s live like
kings. A house to themselves, all kinds of good things to eat, and we
poor devils pigging it a stone’s throw away!—Better break open some more
of those cans. I see tomatoes, corn, asparagus and cherries on that
shelf. Let’s sample them all. I haven’t had a decent meal, let alone
half enough to eat for weeks. How about it? Have you got an appetite?”
“_Have_ I!” Bill began opening the other cans and dumping their contents
on plates which he placed on the kitchen table. “I’ll tell you one thing
and that is, we eat the rest of this as is. I can’t wait for cooking.
Bring over that skillet of eggs and corned beef. I’ll get the coffee.
The smell of this stuff has turned me ravenous!”
Half an hour later, the two lads drained the last dregs of their coffee
and grinned sleepily at each other across the table.
“Some feed!” Bill yawned and raised his arms above his head. “I bet
we’ve got away with three days’ rations. Gosh! One more crumb and I’ll
bust! Do you think it’s safe, now, to turn in? I could go to sleep
standing up.”
Osceola rose slowly to his feet. “Of course it’s safe, Bill. I wouldn’t
take a chance—not at this stage of the game, you know.”
“But how about the lad who cooks for our aviator-friends? He’ll mosey
along here in the morning, and when he finds _us_ sleeping here,
there’ll be the devil to pay!”
“Oh, no, there won’t! I know the man who acts as their servant, luckily
enough. He’s a sort of trusty—been here a long time—but he is locked up
in our prison house every night. That chap is just as keen to get back
to his home and his people as we are. There won’t be a peep out of Sam.
Our worries will begin again when we leave this place in the
morning——But sufficient unto the day——”
“Good enough!” enthused Bill, also leaving the table. “That being the
case, I vote we put the careless aviators in a good safe place. Then me
for bye-bye P.D.Q.!”
“If you think,” grinned Osceola, “that _I’m_ going to stay up and wash
dishes ...” he yawned, “you’ve got see-vee-rial thinks coming!”