For some hours earth and water had been bathed in the semi-darkness of a
misty night when the Seminole canoes issued from the broad mouth of the
bayou. The stench of the mangrove swamps behind them still hung heavy in
the lifeless air, and as they advanced, a thick gray fog crept in from
the sea. Soon the trailing folds of vapor rolled in opaque clouds along
the water, and hovered, damp and billowing, over the moving flotilla.
Osceola shouted an order in Seminole and a moment later, the bow of a
canoe nosed beside the stern of the leading dugout.
“Stop paddling!” he commanded, and his two companions obeyed. “I told
the men to close up in single file,” he explained to Bill and Sam. “It
is easy to go astray in a fog like this.”
“You said a mouthful,” returned Bill. “And the first thing you know
we’ll be heading back to the mainland. There’s not a compass in the
whole outfit.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll see that we get to Shell Island all
right.”
“Well, you’ve got your hands full,” retorted his friend. “How do you
expect to guide us? I can’t see three feet overside.”
“By instinct—an extra sense, perhaps, you would call it. No man of my
race ever loses his bump of direction.”
From the fog behind them came the hoot of a nightbird.
“All set—let’s go!” Osceola dipped his paddle. “No talking, please, from
now on. Voices carry a long way over the water, you know.”
For the better part of the next three hours, the long line of dugouts
forged ahead through the heavy blanket of sea fog. Once more, the
journey seemed endless to Bill. His nerves were tingling with the
thought of the night’s work ahead. Would Osceola be able to guide them
to the island? The chief paddled steadily onward, seemingly never at a
loss as to the direction his little craft should take.
Gradually this confidence was imparted to the white lad. They would
succeed ... they must. Yet these Seminoles were but untrained aborigines
at best. Would they be able to overcome the white men, professionals,
only too well versed in all the exigencies of gang warfare? To the
Seminoles this expedition meant merely a matter of revenge, an insult to
wipe out. To Bill it meant the life and liberty of his father. They must
succeed, he told himself desperately, for the twentieth time—they
_would_ succeed.
The fog grew less dense. A few straggling wisps of mist played round the
line of canoes and were gone. From out the murk came the dull roar of
surf breaking on a rocky shore. Then suddenly the grayish white of
cliffs loomed up straight ahead.
From Osceola’s throat came the raucous screech of an owl. As one man the
flotilla stopped moving.
“Shell Island,” the chief whispered. “The path up the cliffs is yonder,
to the left. You go to the right, Bill. You know my plans, and I know
yours.”
“O—and likewise, K.” Bill’s voice was husky with excitement, though he
strove to keep it casual. “Good luck and good hunting, old man.”
“Good luck, Bill.”
They clasped hands, and an instant later, the canoe following drew
alongside. Bill immediately changed places with the Indian who had been
paddling in the stern. He placed his rifle carefully on the bottom of
the canoe and grasping his paddle, swung the craft round to the right.
Three more canoes fell into line behind him, and the four left the main
flotilla and headed off to the westward, keeping the cliffs and the
pounding surf off their port quarter.
Bill’s canoes pushed swiftly ahead over the long ground swell until
three quarters of an hour later, the narrow entrance to the bay was in
sight. Now their pace slackened, the dip of their paddles in the quiet
water became barely perceptible, and hugging the deep shadow of the
cliff, the canoes glided into the bay like dark water wraiths on a jet
black background.
The sky was overcast, the visibility poor, but Bill could make out the
night lights of Martinengo’s yacht. Nearby floated a large amphibian,
evidently a sister ship of the one wrecked in the Glades. Tied up to the
concrete pier was a smaller seaplane.
For a moment they rested on their paddles. Then at a sign from Bill, the
other three canoes made off silently for the yacht.
Bill pointed his own craft for the amphibian. He doubted that a harbor
watch would be kept aboard the plane, and in this he found his surmise
correct. Drawing alongside, he made the canoe fast to an interplane
strut, and motioned to his two companions to climb aboard.
While the Seminoles searched the hull, Bill busied himself with the
engine. He removed two spark plugs, and disconnected the joints in the
pipe line at both the fuel tank and carburetor. When he had finished the
Seminoles reported that there was no crew aboard.
Bill nodded his satisfaction and the Indians followed him back into the
canoe. Their next port of call was the seaplane, moored to the pier,
where the same performance took place. When this aircraft had also been
put out of commission, they turned their attention to the yacht.
As his canoe slid close to the long, black hull of Martinengo’s palatial
craft, Bill dimly discerned the dark blotches on the waterline below the
overhang of the stern. An instant later, his canoe nosed in among the
Indian dugouts.
Not a word was spoken. Except for the lap of wavelets against the
yacht’s hull, and stentorian snores from somewhere above their heads,
the night was peculiarly silent. From afar came the dull boom of the
surf. Then they heard the _pop-pop_ of rifle fire from the interior of
the island, more than a mile away.
Bill faced about. “If these gunsters show fight, shoot to kill!” he
hissed in a tense whisper. “But if a man throws down his arms, he is to
be bound and held prisoner. I will have no murdering of unarmed men. And
anyone who disobeys this order will be shot out of hand by me. Am I
understood?”
He was answered by a low chorus of grunts.
“Then—let’s go!”
Leaving but one man to guard the canoes, the little band swarmed over
the low bulwarks and on to the yacht’s deck. The sailor on watch was
roused from his slumbers to find himself held fast by painted savages.
Before he was sufficiently awake to shout for help an oily rag was
thrust into his mouth. Then while one Seminole knotted a scarf about his
face to keep the gag in place, he was trussed up with rope from the coil
on which he had been sleeping. His bonds were further secured to a
ringbolt in the decking and then he was abandoned.
At a word from Bill, four Indians entered the companionway amidship,
while he and the others hurried on to the forecastle entrance. He found
the door closed, jerked it open and ran down a steep flight of steps.
His hand groped along the wall in the darkness, there came the click of
a switch and the quarters of the crew sprang into view. A table ran down
the middle of the long, narrow cabin, and twelve bunks lined the walls,
six on either side. Eight of these were occupied.
Bill’s words came sharp as the crack of a pistol.
“Hands in the air! Legs overside—and stay put!”
The man in the second bunk on the right reached stealthily under his
pillow, and flashed an automatic into sight, while Bill’s eyes raked the
other side of the cabin. But before the sailor could crook his trigger
finger, Bill felt an object whizz past his head from the rear, and to
his astonishment, he saw the man crumple as though struck by lightning.
The dead body fell to the floor. Imbedded in the middle of the man’s
forehead was a Seminole tomahawk.
This summary piece of justice evidently cowed the other forecastle
hands, for they offered no resistance. They were led on deck and
effectively bound with rope and laid in a row beside the deck watch.
Bill did not wholly trust his Seminoles to keep to the promise he had
extracted from them. In their eyes this night’s work was a vendetta, war
to the death, vengeance to be atoned by blood alone. They had come here
to kill or be killed. He felt almost certain that they would murder
these prisoners if given the slightest provocation. Therefore he
remained on deck until the last gunster was laid beside his fellows,
before going below. As it was, he met the men he had sent down to the
cabins as he entered the companionway.
“Anybody down there?” he asked brusquely.
“Great Chief, there _were_ three white men,” the leader said slowly.
“Where are they?”
“They were foolish enough to fight, Great Chief. They have gone to the
Happy Hunting Ground. We have brought their scalps.”
Bill turned away in disgust. Yet there was nothing he could do. Censure
at this stage of the game would be sure to provoke mutiny. If he
upbraided these savages for acts which according to their code were acts
of justice, they would probably throw off his leadership and massacre
the remaining prisoners.
“Yellow Wing!” he beckoned to a subchief. “You and Long Snake will stay
here with these men. You will be accountable to Chief Osceola for their
safety. The rest of us will take three of the canoes and go ashore.”
Bill knew that this order did not please the two Indians, but they made
no comment, and he led his group overside.
At the concrete pier he left another Indian on guard, and then, followed
by the remainder of his band, hastened up the road to the top of the
cliff. Ever since they had heard the report of the first gun, the firing
in the middle of the island had been practically continuous.
Occasionally it would lessen for a few seconds, to break out in fresh
bursts directly afterward. Now, as they ran along the road which led
down into the broad valley of the island, the firing became more
intermittent, and at last died away altogether.
They entered the belt of woods and were traveling along the winding
roadway at a trot when the sound of rifles broke out afresh. This time,
the volleys seemed to come from the woods ahead. The party stopped and
listened.
“They’re getting nearer,” muttered Bill, after a moment.
“White Man retreating along this road, Red Man following, Great Chief,”
declared an elderly Seminole at Bill’s side.
“How do you know they are White Men, Straight Arrow?”
“Those nearest us wear white men’s boots, Great Chief. No Seminole makes
noise like that when he runs.”
Bill could hear nothing except the firing, but it never occurred to him
to doubt the keen-eared Indian’s word.
“Into the woods!” he commanded. “And don’t fire until you hear me
whistle!”
The dark shadows of his savage allies seemed to melt into the forest.
Bill slid behind the trunk of a palm, from where he had an unobstructed
view of the turn in the road beyond. He could hear the sound of running
footsteps now. The reports of rifles came nearer and nearer.
Finally a band of fifteen or twenty men appeared around the bend. In the
darkness of the dense woods it was difficult to distinguish objects
clearly, but Bill saw that four of the men bore a burden, and as they
got well past the turn in the road, they stopped and lowered it to the
ground. Immediately afterward the trip hammer detonations of a machine
gun shattered the night.
There came a flash and a sharp report from the woods on the opposite
side of the road. The machine-gunner fell sideways, clutching his
shoulder. Another took the wounded man’s place. Before Bill could purse
his lips to whistle, first one side of the road, then the other were
raked with a hail of lead.
Bill could hear the bullets pinging into the soft palm that sheltered
him. He dropped to the ground and lying flat, opened fire with his
rifle, while the gangsters’ bullets went on singing above his head.
Flashes lit the woods continuously in every direction now, and the night
was made hideous by the bloodcurdling yells of the Seminoles.
Then another and heavier burst of firing came from the bend of the road.
The machine gun was suddenly silenced. The few gangsters that were left
turned and fled toward the bay.
Out of the woods leapt painted demons, shouting war cries. The cornered
gunmen wheeled and fought like frenzied rats. No quarter was asked or
given. Presently the Indians returned to the machine gun.
Bill stood in the middle of the road, his rifle at the ready.
“The first who touches one of these wounded gets a bullet from me!” He
shouted menacingly at the Seminoles, who, he knew were bent on taking
their trophy.
“And I’m with you on that, Bill!”
Osceola ran up, accompanied by his band of painted henchmen, and
immediately reeled off a series of fiercely shouted gutterals in
Seminole.
“That will hold them for a while,” he added in English to Bill.
“There’ll be no scalping if I can stop it.—Sam! Where’s that nigger?” he
raised his voice.
“Here I is, Marse Osceola. Here I is, suh. ’Fore de Lord, I ain’t
scalped a prizner!”
“Oh, shut up, and pass over that electric torch you’ve been carrying for
me. I want to get an idea of the damage done here.”
“Yas, suh, boss! Here it am, suh.” Sam was still stuttering as he handed
Osceola the flashlight. “Truly, I ain’t done no scalpin’ tonight,
Marse——”
“Keep still—or I’ll scalp you!” The chief switched on the light. “Well,
if you caught the lads afloat,” he said to Bill, “this is the last of
the gang ashore.”
“You mean they’re all wiped out?”
“Well, hardly. Some are, of course, a good number, too. But the live
ones are under lock and key in the jail.”
“But Osceola—did you find Dad?” Bill’s voice was trembling with
eagerness.
“Sorry, old man—he’s not on the island.”
“What! Don’t tell me he’s dead?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I captured the barracks boss, who seems to
be a pretty sound egg. He says that Martinengo left for the workings in
Big Cypress—it seems he is a trained pilot. He took your own plane, and
forced your father to go with him.”