The ghost of Crookleg did not in any way disturb Cris Carrol, either
sleeping or awake.
The worthy backwoodsman believed that he had done a highly meritorious
action in for ever disposing of that malevolent individual.
"The infernal black skunk, to be cuttin' his capers over the bodies of
brave men who had laid down their lives in a war he, and sich as he,
brought about! It were no more nor an act of justice to send him to
everlastin' perdition, and, if I never done a more valuable thing to
society than stickin' three inches of cold steel atween his two
shoulder-blades, I think I desarves the thanks of the hul community."
This consolation Cris indulged in whenever he thought of that terrible
episode upon Tampa hill.
He had returned a few days after the massacre and had found the dead
decently buried.
Wacora had commanded it to be done.
The charred ruins of Rody's house, however, recalled the memory of that
eventful night.
For some time after his last visit to Tampa Bay, Cris Carrol had not
been seen.
Neither the pale-faces nor the redskins had been able to discover his
whereabouts.
The truth is, that the backwoodsman was glad to get away from scenes
where so much violence had been done to his feelings.
As he had said, he _couldn't_ fight against the Indians, and he
_wouldn't_ take up arms against the whites.
"It ain't in human nature to shoot and stab one's own sort, even when
they're in the wrong, unless they'd done somethin' agin oneself; an'
that they hain't done as regards me. I'll be eternally dog-goned if I
think the red-skins are to blame for rising agin oppression and tyranny,
which is what old Rody did to them, to say nothin' agin him now he's
dead, but to speak the truth, and that's bad enough for him. No, they
war not to blame for what they did, arter his conduct to them--the old
cuss; who, bad as he war, had one redeemin' feature in his karactur, and
that war his angeliferous darter. Where kin she have gone a hidin'?
Thet puzzles this chile, it do."
Cris was unaware of Alice's capture and imprisonment.
As suddenly as he had taken his departure from Tampa, Cris returned to
the same neighbourhood. He expected the war to be transferred to a more
distant point, and wished still to keep out of the way.
"It's the durned'st fightin' I ever heard on," said he to himself;
"first it's here, then it's there, and then it ain't nowhere, till it
breaks out all over again, where it was before, and they're as far off
the end as I am from Greenland. Durn it, I never knowed nothin' like
it."
On his return to Tampa, he found the country around altogether deserted.
Most of the buildings and the planter's house had been destroyed, even
his own wretched hut had been burnt to the ground.
"This is what they call the fortun' of war, I 'spose?" he remarked, as
he stood gazing at the ruins. "Wal, it war a ramshackle, crazy ole
shanty anyhow, and I allers despised four walls an' a roof at the best
o' times--still it war `home.' Pshaw!" he added, after a moment's
silence, "what have I to grow molloncholly about, over sich a place as
this--calling it `home,' when I still have the Savannas to hunt over an'
sleep upon. If thar's such a place as home for me that's it, and no
other."
For all his stoicism, the old hunter sighed as he turned from the
blackened spot which marked the site of his former dwelling.
He paused at the bend of the road, where Crookleg had first met Nelatu,
to gaze again at his ruined home. Not only paused, but sat down upon
the self-same rail that the negro had perched upon, and from gazing upon
it, fell to reflecting.
So absorbed was he in his contemplation, that contrary to his usual
custom, he took no note of the time, nor once removed his eyes from the
subject of his thoughts.
He did not perceive the approach of a danger.
It came in the form of four individuals who had silently and stealthily
crept close to the spot where he was sitting. Before he knew of their
proximity, he was their prisoner.
"Red-skins!" he exclaimed, struggling to free himself.
His captors smiled grimly at his vain efforts.
"By the eternal! I'm fixed this time! Darn my stupid carcase for not
havin' eyes set in the back o' my head. Wal, you may grin, old
copper-skins, it's your turn now--maybe, it'll be mine next. What are
you a-doin' now?"
Without deigning a reply the Indians bound his arms securely behind him.
That done they made signs to him to follow them.
"Wal, gentlemen!" said Cris, "yur about as silent a party as a man might
wish to meet, darn me, if you aint. I'm comin'."
"Much obleeged to you for your escort, which I ked a done without.
Thanks to your red-skin perliteness for nothin'. Go ahead, I kin walk
without your helpin' me. Where are ye bound for?"
"To the chief," answered one of the men.
"The chief! What chief?"
"Wacora."
Cris uttered an emphatic oath.
"Wacora, eh? If that's the case, I reckon the days o' Cris Carrol air
drawin' to a close. The fiercest and most 'vengeful cuss of them all,
I've heard say. Lead on, I'll go along with ye willin, but not
cheerful. If they kill me like a man I'll not tremble in a jint; but if
it's the torture--there, go ahead. Don't keep the party waitin'."
Brave heart, as he was, he followed them with as bold and free a step to
what he believed to be his death, as if alone, and at liberty on the
Savanna.
The Indians without exchanging a word, either among themselves or with
him, proceeded in the direction of Oluski's town.