“I told those chaps of mine not to come back here until the third day,”
said Osceola, “because they will need a couple of days at least to
prepare for an expedition of the kind I have in mind.”
“I shouldn’t think it ought to take them that long—what have they got to
do?”
“Oh, paint themselves for battle, for one thing. Have a war dance or
two, and a lot of the same. You must remember that my people are only
semi-civilized. The only way that anyone can control them is to let them
go their own way, when it comes to tribal customs, that do no one any
harm. Buck that sort of thing—and you are out of luck—good and plenty!”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply that if I tried to ‘convert’ them, they’d have little use for
me—dead or alive.”
“You mean they’d do away with you?”
“Literally, yes.” Osceola laughed at the expression on Bill’s face. “But
don’t worry—I understand them, and so long as I let them alone, they’ll
love me. Anyway, you and Sam and I can do with a couple of days’ rest,
you know, before we start out for the Big Cypress.”
“I agree with you on that. Gee, this sun is getting hotter than hot. How
about going up to your abode? I haven’t sprung my idea yet.”
“Why, that’s so, old man. Certainly, come along—I want to hear what
you’ve got to say.”
Once in the dim shelter of the chief’s house, the two sat cross-legged
on the central table and Bill opened the conversation.
“Where’s Sam?”
Osceola shook his head amusedly. “Gone off to see how the squaws make
that stew. We don’t need him. Spill the good old beans, Bill.”
“Well—your plan is to take your fighting men across the Glades and clean
out the diggings, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Of course the details must still be arranged, but we have
plenty of time to work them up before we start. Have you any suggestions
to make?”
“Why not tackle the island first?”
“Yes, I thought of that. But it’s a bigger and harder job than the
workings. Over in the cypress swamps we can come down on the stockade at
night and surprise them. Shell Island is quite another proposition.
There’s only one entrance to the place,—the bay. And the Martinengos
keep it well guarded. The rest of the coastline is one continuous
palisade of unscalable cliffs.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong!” cried Bill. “There is a spot where the
cliffs can be climbed—_and, not even the Martinengos know of it!_”
Osceola looked his amazement. “How did you get on to it?”
“Through Sam. He was a house servant, he tells me, for the bosses on
Shell Island for several years. Gradually he became a trusty. They gave
him the run of the island, and while off duty one day he discovered this
place in his rambles. He says that there is a small, sandy beach at the
foot of the cliff, and that any active man can climb up or down without
a great deal of trouble. He has done it himself, so he ought to know.”
“Well, that throws a little different light on the picture. I’d
certainly like to clean out that nest of cutthroats—but it’s a big job.
I hadn’t contemplated doing anything like that. My plan was to free
those poor devils who are slaving in the Big Cypress—but——”
“Why not do the thing up brown, while we’re at it? Of course, I needn’t
tell you my main motive is to release my father. And incidentally to be
revenged on the brains of this outfit—the Martinengos. By Jove, man,
I’ve hardly dared think about Dad—let alone mention him—when I picture
him in that filthy dungeon——” Bill’s voice broke and he clenched his
fists on his knees.
“Naturally, Bill, I understand that. And I am with you every bit of the
way. But I feel that we must reason it out very carefully—we dare not
fail, either way.”
“But how can we? With Dad free and Shell Island in our hands, we could
clean up the other place properly!”
Osceola shook his head thoughtfully. “It’s a long, long hike from the
island to the gold workings—twice as far from there as it is from here.
Even if we are able to capture the island, some of the men are sure to
slip through our hands, get away in one of the planes, perhaps and by
the time we travel on to Big Cypress, that gang there will have been
warned, they’ll be ready and waiting for us. The chances are, in that
case, we’d be cleaned out. A surprise attack is one thing, Bill, but a
pitched battle with trained gunsters—I’d simply be throwing away the
lives of my men who trust me. No, I can’t see it.”
Bill slid off the table and stood facing his friend. “But you are
leaving Dad out of the picture!”
“What do you mean?”
“Dad has influence in Washington. The President is a personal friend of
his. Our job is to clean up the island. Then he will get the U. S.
government to step in—and they will attend to the Big Cypress business
themselves. You see? I should have told you this in the beginning, but I
guess I was sort of hazy when I got thinking about Dad.”
The Seminole clapped him on the shoulder. “That,” he said heartily, “is
a bird of another color, Bill! And I was worried about my men. Your plan
is approved and accepted without question! Now, let’s forget the whole
business until my Seminoles come back here. I don’t think I’ve ever been
quite so tired as I am at this minute. Just remember that those workings
are not any health resort. I’m all in—and I’m going to sleep until I’m
called for dinner.”
“And I’m going to do the same thing. Isn’t that a hammock over there
between those palms? Me for it. You may find a wooden table comfortable
to retire on, but as Sam says—‘Unh-unh! Not _me!_’ Your hospitality is
lavish—but after last night I ache from head to foot. Does the mighty
chief mind if his humble servant retires to the hammock?”
“If I had a shoe I’d throw it,” laughed Osceola. “For goodness’ sake,
take the hammock, and anything else you want. On your way—I’m sound
asleep!”
Sunrise two days later saw a flotilla of Indian dugouts drawn up on the
shore of the Seminole’s island. The squaws of the little community had
been up half the night cooking, and now the warriors were busily
consuming what would probably constitute their last hot meal for some
time to come.
There were about sixty braves all told. Gone now were their brightly
colored tunics and head-dresses. The entire band had stripped to a
loin-cloth, and the face and body of each man was painted in designs of
his own fancy. All heads were shaven clean except for the scalp lock,
which was decorated with a single feather of the red heron. Each brave
carried a rifle, knife and tomahawk.
After they had eaten their fill, Osceola lined them up on the shore and
spoke a few words to them in their own language. Bill stood beside him
and viewed the little army with keen interest. Never had he seen such a
fearsome group. They brought to mind pictures of the frontier days in
the old West. If these fellows were really as fierce as they looked, he
thought it boded ill for the Martinengos and their gunmen.
When Osceola had finished his harangue, the band of warriors commenced
to board their canoes.
“Where in the world is Sam?” Bill asked the chief as they walked toward
the handsome dugout that was Osceola’s private property.
“Here I is, suh!”
A painted savage broke from the embrace of a squaw twice his size and
girth, and came running up to them.
“Good Lord, Sam! Where are your clothes?” The chief stared at him in
open-mouthed astonishment.
“Ise a Seminole brave, now!” proudly announced the darkey. “Lil Eva, she
done fix me up last night!”
“Little Eva!” exploded Bill. “That squaw must weigh two hundred and
fifty!”
“Yas, suh! Fine woman. We gwine to git married when I come back from
killin’ off dem gangsters. She say dat I’m her fightin’ man now—an’ I
b’leeve I cert’nly do look like one.” He admired his painted chest,
grinning from ear to ear.
Bill and Osceola looked at one another and roared with laughter. “Well,
it’s okay with me, Sam,” declared the chief. “Hop aboard with your
armory. It’s time we were on our way. Lucky there are some blankets in
the canoe,” he added as he shoved off and sprang in after them, “you’ll
probably need several before we get through with this picnic.”
The chief’s dugout, with Bill, Sam and Osceola wielding the paddles,
shot swiftly down the waterway. The flotilla of canoes closed in single
file behind. At last the expedition was under way.
The journey south through the Everglades seemed but a repetition of
their former trip to Bill. The same endless stretches of sawgrass,
intersected by lily-choked waterleads swept out to a low horizon.
Occasional islands covered with a dense jungle of brilliant green
provided the only variation in the monotonous landscape. The sun swam in
cloudless skies, pouring down a heat that burned Bill’s flesh and sapped
his vitality. The others, if they minded the terrific discomfort,
appeared to ignore it. But Bill was thoroughly glad when at the
beginning of the third day, they left the Everglades behind and paddled
slowly down the broad bosom of a winding bayou.
That night the little army camped on the shore near the mouth of this
arm of the sea.
“We’ll rest up tomorrow and plan the details,” said Osceola, as they sat
by their campfire that evening. “Shell Island lies out there—about
fifteen miles away. So far, so good. I, for one, am going to turn in
now.”
“Call me at noon,” grunted Bill. “This may be my last sleep on earth—and
it’s going to be a good one.”