THE FLIGHT BY NIGHT.
As the canoes glided silently towards the convicts' camp the paddle
strokes of the fugitives grew slower and more guarded, the blades of
the paddles were no longer lifted clear of the water lest the falling
drops from them should be heard by those on shore. The river narrowed
suddenly opposite the point, and the canoes would be compelled to pass
within a hundred feet of the enemy's camp. All of the convicts might
be in the woods surrounding the hunters' camp, waiting to close in on
their supposed victims, but there was a chance that they had had the
foresight to count upon this very attempt at escape and had left some
of their number on the point to cut off the retreat.
Charley thought of all this as he knelt in the stern of his little
craft and plied the paddle slowly and with infinite caution, his every
nerve tense, and sight and hearing strained to catch any sound of
movement on the rapidly nearing point. Were it white men only that
they were seeking to elude, he would have felt far less apprehension,
but he recognized that in the person of Indian Charley they had to deal
with a mind crafty and cunning, that would be likely to provide against
the very move they were making. Even in his anxiety, Charley could not
but notice and admire the marvelous skill with which the young Indian
in the dugout handled his clumsy craft. He hugged close to the farther
shore and glided along its border as noiselessly as a shadow. The
captain, although but little used to the paddle, was also doing
surprisingly well and was following closely in the wake of the dugout.
Silently the dugout at last glided past the dangerous point, and a
moment later the captain's canoe also slipped gently by.
Charley gave a sigh of relief. They were safely past and could laugh
at any attempted pursuit in the clumsy dugouts the convicts possessed.
But that one unguarded moment of relief was disastrous in its result.
In a deep, careless stroke, his paddle struck a submerged log and the
slender blade snapped short off with a loud crack, the ticklish canoe
careened suddenly to one side, then righted again with a sullen splash.
At the sound the silent point quickly stirred with life. There was the
hum of excited voices and a blinding flash of flame lit up the
darkness, followed by the sharp crack of rifles and the hum of
bullets,--they were discovered.
"Give way all," shouted Charley, as he fumbled in the darkness for the
spare paddle, which he at last succeeded in finding. "Are you hurt,
Walt?" he called anxiously to his companion.
"Not a bit," answered his chum cheerfully, "but hurry up or we will be
getting another volley."
The canoe had drifted beyond the point before her way died out, but was
still less than a hundred yards from it. By the splashing of water the
boys could tell that the convicts were launching one of the dugouts in
pursuit. With vigorous strokes Charley sent their light craft flying
ahead; a few minutes and they would be out of rifle-shot and out of
danger, but again there was the crack of rifles and Charley called to
his chum with a voice hoarse with pain, "You'll have to take her, Walt,
they got me that time."
"Bad?" cried Walter anxiously, as they changed places.
"In the shoulder," weakly, "but don't mind about me. Shove her ahead
as fast as you can, the others have got quite a start of us, and we've
got to catch them."
For half an hour Walter paddled silently on, putting all his strength
into the strokes that sent the light craft leaping ahead, leaving the
pursuing dugout far behind.
"Charley," he called at last, "isn't it time we were up with at least
the chief's dugout?"
But only silence greeted his question, his plucky chum had fainted from
pain and the loss of blood.
For a few moments Walter let the canoe drift, while he pondered as to
what he should do. He felt sure that they had passed the captain and
his companions--but how? In the excitement of the pursuit he must have
passed unnoticed a point where the river branched and had taken the
wrong fork. There were, he knew, dozens of such forks to the river and
the mistake was one that might easily have been made under any
circumstances. The question now was what to do about it. To return
was to run the risk of falling into the hands of the convicts, and the
chance of finding the stream the others had taken was exceedingly
small. There might be a dozen tributaries between him and the
convicts' point, and how was he to tell which was the right one? In
desperation he crawled forward to his unconscious companion and
sprinkled his face again and again with water from the river.
At last Charley opened his eyes with a moan of pain.
"We're lost," shouted Walter eagerly. "I can't find the captain or
chief, what shall I do?" He bent his head to catch the feeble answer
from the wounded lad's lips.
"Keep on, keep on. When the river forks, take the largest stream,
and--" but Charley had fainted again.
With a heavy heart, Walter crept back to his place in the stern and
resumed the paddle. It was a terrible situation for a young,
inexperienced lad; lost on a great river in a frail canoe, pursued by
relentless enemies, and alone, except for a wounded, and perhaps dying
companion. It was enough to strike terror into one much older than our
boy hunter.
Throughout the long night the despairing lad paddled steadily on,
praying for the day to break. At last it came with a blaze of glory in
the east. When it grew light enough to see, he rose cautiously and
gazed around him.
The prospect was disheartening enough. The river had narrowed to less
than a hundred yards in width and wound and twisted amongst the waste
of marsh that stretched desolately ahead and astern as far as the eye
could see. To the east and west the marsh extended back at least a
mile before it met solid timbered land, here and there, and an
occasional long point jutted out until it met the stream. Although the
weary lad strained his eyes in all directions, not a sign could he see
of the other canoes or of any human life. With a sigh of despair, he
sank again to his knees and crawled forward to where his chum lay half
unconscious and moaning in pain.
Dipping his handkerchief over the side, he gently sponged Charley's
pale face with it.
The contact of the cold water seemed to revive the wounded lad. He
opened his eyes and attempted to smile, although his lips were
twitching with pain. "What a nuisance I am, old chap," he said faintly.
"Not a bit," declared Walter, cheerfully, overjoyed at his return to
consciousness. "Here, take a drink of this cold water, and then I am
going to have a look at your wound."
With his hunting-knife, Walter cut away the bloody shirt from the
shoulder and exposed the gaping hole to view. It was still bleeding
slightly, but he noted with satisfaction that the bullet had passed
completely through the fleshy part of the shoulder without touching the
bone, a painful wound, but not a fatal one. He washed it clean with
river water and bound it up with strips from his own shirt. "You'll be
all right in a few days," he declared cheerfully. "Now just lay quiet.
I am going to paddle in to the nearest point and start a fire and make
you some broth."
Walter's heart was lighter than it had been in many hours as he again
resumed his paddle. Day had brought fresh hope and courage. Charley
was getting along far better than he had dared to hope during the
night. He soon would be well enough to take command, and then, thought
Walter, they would soon find their friends. He had great confidence in
Charley's ability to get them out of their present predicament.
Suddenly Walter paused in his paddling and sat staring at the point,
which was now scarce a hundred yards distant. A thin wisp of smoke
curled up above the thick growth of palmettos with which the point was
covered.
"Charley," he called softly, "there is someone on the point; they have
just started up a fire."
"Better sheer off and give it a wide berth, then," counseled his chum.
"If it were the captain or the chief, you would see the canoes."
"But the boats may be pulled up among the mangrove bushes," Walter
objected. "If it should be the captain and Chris, just think what our
passing by them would mean. We might never see them again, Charley. I
am going to have a look."
"All right," agreed his chum, "but be very careful, Walt."
The fire was located well in on the point, and Walter steered to land
some distance out from it. A few strokes of the paddle sent the light
canoe gliding in amongst the mangrove bushes that fringed the shore.
Climbing out upon the curious gnarled roots, Walter pulled the canoe
far enough in to effectually screen it from sight. Next he examined
his pistols to see that they were properly loaded, and with a parting
word of cheer for his chum, he made his way slowly and cautiously over
the intervening roots to the shore.
He soon found that it was no easy task he had set himself. Between
himself and the fire fifty yards away, intervened the heaviest growth
of timber he had ever seen; palms, sweet gums, satinwoods, and pines
mingled in close and wild confusion, while the ground beneath them was
a matted mass of vines and creepers.
For a moment Walter hesitated. Some of the vines and creepers, he
knew, were poisonous. To touch them meant sores, swellings, and
suffering. But it was only for a moment he paused. The thought of how
much might depend on his errand drove him on. Tearing two strips from
his already tattered shirt, he wrapped them around either hand, and
dropping on hands and knees he cautiously wound his way towards the
fire.
His progress was slow and painful. Dangling brier vines drew blood
from arms and face, and sharp thorns repeatedly lacerated hands and
knees. At each move forward he had to pause and remove the dead
branches and twigs from his path lest their cracking should betray him
to the campers. At last, however, he could catch the sound of voices,
and wriggling forward with infinite caution, he reached a place from
which he could get a glimpse between the trees at the group gathered
around the fire.
The sight was not reassuring. Near the blaze a half dozen of the
convicts lay lounging at their ease, while another one was busily
engaged in making coffee and frying bacon. The neighing of ponies in
the background told the watcher how they had arrived at the point
before him. They must have ridden most of the night to have covered
the distance, and Walter felt a sinking of heart as he realized the
determination of their pursuit. The conversation that came to his ears
did not tend to reassure him.
The convicts were evidently tired and in bad humor, and a hot argument
was raging.
"I tell you it's all foolishness, this losing sleep and wearing
ourselves out," declared a tall, thin, pasty-faced individual. "Here's
my plan: just break up into parties of two or three and each party
strike out for a different town and catch a freight out of the state.
I 'low we're just wasting time and making trouble for ourselves by
following up them chaps."
"Bill Salino, you've got as little sense as courage," declared a man
whom Walter recognized as the leader of the gang. "The time for
scattering and getting out of the state has gone by. There will be men
watching for us at every point, and to be caught means hanging for all
hands now. We've got to lay quiet here for six months or so until they
give up watching for us. We're safe enough here unless them chaps get
away and bring the Indians or a sheriff's posse down on us; and they
won't get away if I have to follow them into the heart of the
Everglades," he declared vindictively.