THE SEMINOLE LAD.
THE two lads next visited the hospital tent, where they found the fever
patients much improved but the three machine men suffering greatly from
their burns, while Bob Bratton and the wounded Spaniards were resting
as comfortably as could be expected. The boys did all they could to
make the sufferers comfortable, then sauntered out for a look at the
burned jungle. Here they met with a scene of utter desolation. Many
trees and stumps were still burning, but the larger part of the jungle
had been swept clean. The shallow pools of water had been dried up by
the intense heat, leaving exposed an expanse of black mud fissured
by cracks. Of the former multitude of snakes that had infested the
place they saw not one. Returning from the destroyed jungle, the lads
searched over the scene of battle of the night before. They found blood
on the ground in several places, indicating that all their bullets had
not been wasted. Before entering the tent, Charley paused and took a
last look around. Several Spaniards, under the Captain's direction,
were throwing up a solid breastwork, close to and surrounding the camp.
The machine was working steadily, and the slow moving ox carts were
crawling back from the distant timber with their loads of wood. The
Indian camp had been outside of the fighting zone the night before.
With a sigh, the wounded lad entered his tent and throwing himself on
his cot, gave way to his despair. Try as he might, he could see nothing
but ruin for himself and companions. There was little hope of getting
another crew for the machine. The departing Spaniards would carry the
story of their disasters in with them, and it would be impossible to
induce others to come out. A negro crew might be secured, but it would
take time, and the lad knew the colored race well enough to know that
they would not stick in the face of danger.
The crew's wages would take almost the last dollar they had in the
bank, and if the County insisted, as he feared it would, on their
rebuilding the destroyed bridges, the reward for the convicts, the
money they had found in the old fort, and what was due on the digging
they had already done, would be swept away to the last cent. In no
direction could he see any hope. In spite of all his efforts and
careful planning, their mysterious enemy had triumphed, and he and his
companions were ruined. He did not blame the Spaniards for quitting.
The work was hard enough and dangerous enough to bear, without the
added risk of being shot in the dark.
At last, worn out by his gloomy reflections, the lad fell into a fitful
slumber from which he was awakened by Walter, who was pale of face and
excited.
"What's the matter?" Charley demanded as he sat up on the edge of the
cot. "You look as though you had seen a ghost."
"I hate to tell you," faltered his chum, "but I knew you would have to
hear about it, so I ran ahead to break the news to you myself."
"Out with it," Charley said. "I'm strong enough to bear anything now."
"You know the Indian lad that drives one of the wagon teams--the boy
Willie John is so proud of--they just found him dead on his load of
wood--shot through the heart."
"The fiends," said Charley, "to shoot a poor, innocent, harmless child.
They shall pay for it. Pay for it dearly." He threw aside the tent flap
and strode out, Walter by his side babbling over the details of the
tragedy.
"You ought to have seen Willie John's face when he found him," he said.
"It was like a demon's for a minute, then it became like stone."
Charley made his way out to the Indian camp, where the Spaniards and
the Americans were already gathered. The squaws were breaking up camp,
while Willie John sat in one of the wagons holding the dead lad in his
arms.
"Willie John, Willie John," said Charley brokenly. "We never thought
anything like this would happen. We never dreamed those fiends would
fire on you or the lad."
"Me understand," said the Seminole without emotion. "You no to blame.
Bad pale-faces in wood did it."
"We will see that they are punished for it, Willie John," Charley
promised, with tears in his eyes. "We will do all in our power to bring
them to justice."
"Me understand," said the Seminole, and added simply as he gazed down
at the lad in his arms: "Him was good boy. Him no smoke, no drink
wyomee. Him save every little bit of money he get so by and bye him go
to school all the same as pale-face boy. Him was very good boy."
The boys watched the lumbering, slow moving wagons out of sight with
unashamed tears in their eyes. Then Charley turned to the machine men.
"Rake out your fire and make everything snug on the machine," he said
quietly. "There will be no more work for there will be no more wood."
When the machine men, their task done, had gathered with the others at
the camp, the lad addressed them again.
"You have all seen what has happened to-day," he said quietly. "A
bright, innocent, harmless child murdered simply because he was working
for us. We hardly deserve the name of human if we do nothing to avenge
his death. It is getting too near night to do anything to-day, but I am
going to call for volunteers to go with me to-morrow morning to either
capture his murderers or wipe them out of existence. Who will go with
me?"
His chums and the two engineers stepped promptly to his side, and the
Spaniards followed one by one.
"Good," said the lad, with a sad smile. "We will start at daylight."
There was no singing or laughter in the camp that night, for each man
carried to his tent with him the reflection that the morrow might see
him as dead as the Indian child they were going to avenge. There were
plenty of men to act as guards for the night now that the machine was
not working, so Charley retired early to his tent and soon fell asleep.
At daybreak the guards awoke him and his companions as they had been
ordered to do, and reported that the night had passed off without
alarms. Chris soon had breakfast ready and over cups of strong steaming
coffee their plans for the expedition were made.
When the sun arose ten Spaniards and seven Americans armed with guns
and pistols filed out of the little camp and silently tramped away for
where a distant smudge of smoke showed the location of the gunmen's
campfire. Only enough more remained behind to guard the camp.
The little party of avengers advanced with caution. They marched in
a twisting line so as to always keep a hummock or a bunch of spruces
between them and the distant camp smoke so that their approach would
not be noticed. As they slowly drew nearer double caution was observed,
but at last they came upon an open stretch of prairie which they must
cross to reach the thicket in which the gunmen's camp was located.
"Here is where they take the alarm," commented Charley, as they emerged
out upon the open prairie.
But the little party crossed the open stretch without any sign of life
from the gunmen.
"They have either moved or are sound asleep," he said. "Get your guns
ready. Don't fire unless I give the word. Follow me, and make as little
noise as you can."
The little party filed into the thicket, the chums and engineers in
the lead and the Spaniards following close behind. At the edge of the
cleared camping place the little party halted in horrified amazement.
They had come to avenge the killing of the Indian lad, but another
avenger had come before them. Sprawled upon the ground in all manner of
attitudes, lay eighteen men--all dead.
"Lord!" breathed McCarty softly. "Who could have done it?"
"There is only one answer to that question," said Charley gravely.
"Those whose right it was to do it, if the taking of human life is ever
right. Look at those heads."
The others shuddered with horror as they gazed upon the reddened skulls
from which the scalp locks had been skillfully removed. Aside from that
nothing had been touched, guns still lay where they had fallen and
tents and supplies were undisturbed.
"The Seminoles," exclaimed Walter, and his chum nodded assent.
Two men were sent back to the camp for shovels, and when they returned
graves were dug in the sandy soil and the dead men laid to rest. A
search of their clothing and belongings gave little clew to the strange
men's identity, but from the quantity of tablets and powders found upon
them, and their dissipated appearance, the boys decided that they were
members of that deadly drug-crazed band of New York gunmen.
Their sickening task finished, the little party headed back for camp.
"I am glad, after all, that it is not by our hands that they fell,"
Charley said to his chums as they tramped along. "To take life, even in
the heat of passion, is a terrible thing."
"Aye, aye, lad," said Captain Westfield reverently. "The Good Book
truly says, 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.'"
The little party arrived back in camp by noon. Much to their surprise,
they found Willie John back again with his wagons busily engaged in
making camp.
"Me come back, haul more wood," explained the Seminole simply.
During dinner there was great chattering and whispering at the
Spaniards' table, and after the meal was over Bossie, always their
spokesman, approached Charley.
"Spanish _hombres_ (men) no want to quit now," he said in his quaint
English. "They likee boss, they likee grub, likee job. They no be shot
at nights any more. They want to stay on job now. They think it much
more better."
"All right, Bossie," replied the lad listlessly. "We can only work half
time now until the mules come and I can go in and get the electric
light."
"I will be glad when this job is over," he told Walter. "The violence,
trouble, and bloodshed have destroyed all my interest in the work. The
gunmen will bother us no more, but I am wondering already where the
enemy will strike next. The gunmen were only tools."
"Cheer up," said his chum, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "The
darkest hour is always just before the dawn."