BOB IS SENT HOME.
IT was strange sounds coming out of the mists that had drawn the lads'
attention. They were not kept long in suspense as to the nature of
the noises, for it soon became plain that they were human voices, one
shrill and piercing, the other deep and guttural. Nearer they drew,
until out of the white vapor loomed a huge, grotesque object, which
gradually resolved itself into a big covered wagon, drawn by four gaunt
oxen. In the front of the wagon sat an Indian woman, urging the weary
beasts on with whip and shrill cries. Behind the wagon walked a huge,
powerful Indian, closely followed by a mass of pigs, cattle and goats,
which were urged on from the rear by a pack of mongrel dogs, of all
sizes and colors. With much squealing of pigs, barking of dogs, and
cries from the squaw, this strange equipage came to a stop in front of
the camp.
The two boys advanced to the road to meet the visitors.
"Hello," Walter greeted them.
"Hello," returned the Indian. "No can get by big machine?"
"No," said McCarty, "I'm afraid you can't. Machine right in road, deep
ditches both sides, plenty mud. Back one mile is a road that circles
around the machine. You understand?"
The Indian nodded comprehension. "No can find road at night. Me camp
here."
"All right," Walter assented. "When you get unhitched, come over to
camp fire and have something to eat."
The two boys rummaged around in the cook tent and got out a can of
salmon, one of corned beef, and a box of crackers, which they carried
out to the camp fire. The Indian was there awaiting them. "She unhitch
oxen," he explained.
Walter grinned. "Indian man no work?" he inquired.
"No work," agreed the Seminole.
"Your squaw?" asked the interested lad.
"No, sister," and a gleam of interest shone on the Indian's impassive
face. "You want squaw?" he demanded.
"No," said Walter hastily, while McCarty laughed.
"Sister strong, work good, cook good, too," recommended the Seminole
seriously.
"Why don't you get a squaw yourself?" McCarty demanded.
"Sister got tongue sharp as knife point," admitted the Indian sadly.
"She and squaw would fight and fight and fight with their tongues, and
there would be no peace in the camp for its master."
Her task performed, the Indian girl now approached the fire. She was
pretty for an Indian. Like all Seminole girls, she wore a waist of
bright colors, a skirt of calico of many hues, and beaded moccasins on
her feet. She was frankly unembarrassed and smiled around at her hosts
in evident friendliness.
Walter opened the cans and handed them and the crackers to the girl.
"No meal cooked in big tent," he explained. "To-morrow morning have
plenty hot grub."
The two ate silently and hungrily, and as soon as they had finished
departed for their wagon with a brief "Good-by."
"They never even said thanks," McCarty commented.
"An Indian never expresses his gratitude in words," Walter explained,
"but they never forget a favor done them. If we ever happen near that
fellow's camp, he will bring in some present, such as venison or pork.
Well, it is time we were turning in. The Captain has been asleep for
hours."
Chris awoke all hands next morning at daylight by beating on a tin pan.
He had breakfast all ready by the time they were washed and dressed.
The Seminoles had already hitched up their oxen, and, seated by the
cook tent, were patiently waiting for the promised meal.
The boys invited them to seats at their own table, and were surprised
to note that they seemed perfectly at ease, handling knife and fork.
The meal was quickly dispatched, and the Indians, with a brief
"good-by," departed to pick up the road they had passed in the night,
and the boys hastened out to the machine, while the Captain, with his
negro helpers, resumed the work of cleaning up the camp.
Walter quickly picked up the knack of firing, and, after he had
mastered its principles, McCarty, standing by his side, permitted
him to handle the two levers that controlled the great steel bucket.
Simple as it looked to be when he watched McCarty do it, Walter soon
found that it required both quickness and coolness to handle only these
two levers out of the many before him. He repeated the operation of
raising, lowering, digging, and dumping several hundred times, gaining
more quickness, sureness, and certainty with each operation.
"You're going to learn quickly," McCarty said. "I am sorry, but we can
do no more to-day. If you'll look back at your water gauge you'll see
that there are only a few inches of water left in your boiler. Filling
it is too big a job for us to tackle alone, so you might as well rake
out your fire, and we will go back to camp."
"I say," he continued, as Walter threw open the furnace door and raked
out the blazing billets of wood with an iron rake, "it's only nine
o'clock. What do you say if we go off on a little hunt for the balance
of the day? It's likely to be the last chance we will have in many
months."
"I'll go you," Walter agreed. "That is, provided the Captain does not
need any help."
They found the Captain with his task nearly completed. "No, you can't
help me any," he said. "The niggers will have everything done by noon.
Go on and have your fun, lads, but be careful, and be sure to get back
by dark."
The boys sought their tents, and got out their guns and game bags. By
the time they were ready Chris had a lunch wrapped up for them, and
they struck out into the open woods, with Bob, the dog, gamboling in
front of them.
"Why, you have brought your rifle along with you," Walter exclaimed,
noting his comrade's gun.
"Yes; one shotgun is enough," said his friend; "and I am in hopes that
we may run on to some big game. I've seen plenty of signs of deer
lately."
"I'll be contented if I can get a good bag of quail."
"Oh, you'll get them, all right," said McCarty confidently. "The woods
are full of them, and Bob is as good a bird dog as there is in the
State of Florida. Look, he is at it already."
As if to justify the compliment paid him, Bob had stopped in front
of a little oak thicket, and stood with head thrust forward and tail
sticking straight out. He waited patiently in this attitude for the
lads to approach.
"Get your gun ready, and I'll scare them up for you," McCarty said.
"If you are not used to shooting on the wing just aim at the flock and
blaze away when they rise."
He picked up a heavy stick and threw it into the thicket. With a
whirling of wings a big covey of quail rose up from its center.
Walter fired one barrel after the other into the middle of the flock.
"Good!" exclaimed McCarty. "You got a dozen at least. Watch where the
balance light. Here, Bob, fetch 'em out."
The dog rushed forward, but stopped at the edge of the thicket.
"Fetch 'em out, Bob; fetch 'em out," encouraged the lad, but the dog
turned back with drooping tail.
"There's something wrong in there," declared McCarty; "something the
dog is afraid of."
"Well, I'm going in and get my quail," Walter said. "I'm not going to
be cheated out of the first quail I ever killed."
"Hold on," said McCarty, "there's no telling what you may run up
against. The thicket isn't over fifty feet across. Let's set fire to
both sides of it, and one of us stand by each end. We ought to be able
to kill whatever it is as it comes out."
"Good," Walter agreed. "I'll take my stand by this end, and you can
take yours by the other."
In a few minutes the thicket was ablaze on both sides, while the two
lads, with guns cocked, stood eagerly waiting the appearance of its
occupant.
The thicket was all of small growth, and in a few minutes the fire
had swept it clear to the ground, leaving only here and there a few
smouldering stalks of thicket growth. The dead quail lay scattered
around on the ground, unhurt except for a slight singing of feathers.
"I guess Bob got a wrong hunch that time," Walter said, as he picked up
his quail, of which there were thirteen.
"I'll bet on Bob every time," said McCarty. "There was something in
here that he was afraid to tackle, and I'll bet if we look around long
enough we'll find some trace of it."
"Look out!" said Walter. "There it is, right in front of you."