"They've jumped us!" Higgins' great neck was swollen with impotent
rage as he greeted Roger's return to camp.
"It's my fault, too. Take a good, swift kick at me. I fell down on
the job while you were away."
"What has happened?"
Higgins led the way to the edge of the elderberry jungle and pointed
out over the drained land. A dozen armed men, outlaws and fugitives of
the most vicious kind from Big Cypress Swamp, were scattered
systematically over the thousand-acre tract. Two men lay behind the
spoil banks at each of the main canal, their heads and rifle barrels
showing above the black-earth breastworks. The other men were placed
in pairs at strategic points. No one could set foot on the drained
land without being seen and subject to fire from two sides.
Through his glasses Payne studied the pair which guarded the end of the
main ditch near Deer Key. These were no city toughs who would try to
bully rather than fight, but lank-haired, sallow-faced killers from the
darkest part of Big Cypress Swamp; men who were desperate because of
the crimes they had left behind them, and to whom rifle fire was a
familiar argument. By the fashion in which they handled their weapons,
Roger saw they were hunters; and the grim way in which they kept watch
proved that they had come expecting a fight; to shoot and be shot at;
to kill and perhaps be killed.
"That's Garman's work; no one else could get that crowd out of the
swamp. How did it happen, Hig?"
"It happened because I'm all bone from the neck up. They used an old
trick, and I fell into the trap like a tenderfoot. A few of them came
hollering and shooting out of Flower Prairie, stampeding the boys. I
figured it to be a raid on the camp, and I hollered for Blease and we
ran for the tents. They played the bluff strong. Steamboat Bill got
it through the head while he was running for cover--you remember him,
the big, black fellow with earrings. Then they threw some lead into
the tents, and Blease and I had quite a time holding 'em off. Blease
got one of 'em; saw them carrying him away too dead to skin. Then we
heard three quick shots, repeated three times down on the muck lands,
and the shooting up here quit _pronto_.
"After a while it got through my thick head what had happened. Blease
and I took in on the gallop back toward the ditches, but we were too
late. They'd jumped it already, a whole army of 'em, and real hard
_hombres_. Shoot?" He held out his perforated sun helmet. "I pushed
that up on the stick for an experiment, and the guy that drilled it was
two hundred yards away."
"It was my fault," said Payne. "Garman was too smart for me. I played
right into his hand by going down there. He knew that's what I'd do,
and he had this gang waiting and shot them over here as soon as he saw
me coming."
"That isn't all," continued Higgins. "As soon as the boys saw
Steamboat Bill run against his bad luck they left the job and ran for
the brush like rabbits. Blease says they won't come back; they always
make tracks when white men start shooting."
"You mean there's only two of us here now?"
"Three. Old Blease has put on the war paint."
"Three isn't enough."
"Not by a dozen, it isn't. Did you learn what they're trying to do to
you?"
"They're trying to beat me out of the land by fixing up a false title.
Now they've got possession, and their scheme is to carry me from court
to court till I'm busted and tired out."
As he spoke he realized fully what this meant. Garman's wealth and
influence and the pomp and honor of Senator Fairclothe's position would
be arrayed against him. He had seen and heard enough to appreciate
that the vast territory of Southern Florida was in the hands of a set
of powerful, fearless plunderers, with Garman the arch plunderer of
them all. And it was organized, protected plundering.
A county sheriff was a petty pawn in the great game. A county judge
would be only slightly larger, and so on, up through state
legislatures, the governor, congressman, state supreme court judges,
and even up and into the sacred precincts of the United States Senate
in the person of Senator Fairclothe. How vast was the power of
Garman's plunder organization might be estimated by the degree of
ignorance in which the land-buying public throughout the country was
kept concerning the true situation in the district. Full-page
advertisements in Sunday newspapers created a golden dream in the
public mind concerning the Western Everglades; not one single news item
crept into print revealing the truth. Roger realized that for such a
power to crush him in a court test would require merely that the
machine created for such purpose be set in motion. He realized also
that the vicious nature of the desperados whom Garman had placed upon
his drained land and the desperate measures which would be necessary to
regain possession of his own.
Yet he found, a little to his own amazement, that he could look upon
the theft with entire calmness. The fact was that it did not seem to
concern him deeply. His emotions were a throb from the memory of
Annette in his arms. He recalled little else of the meeting. She had
been in his arms. And now his arms ached for her again with a
poignance which made all other things insignificant.
"Well?" said Higgins. "Going to let 'em do it?"
"Do what, Hig?"
"Going to let them drag you into court and beat you because they've got
possession of your land?"
"It takes thinking over," mused Roger.
"It takes fighting, that's what it takes," retorted Higgins. "We've
got to roust those hard guys out of there before they take root and put
up buildings. Some one's got to chase out to Citrus Grove and burn the
wires up for about twenty tough fighting men to be delivered at Citrus
Grove as quick as the trains will bring 'em. Twenty fighting men, and
twenty riot pump-guns, and a dark night, and I'll kick that bunch off
the place and have the place back in your own hands by daylight."
Roger laughed sharply.
"What's the matter?" demanded Higgins, "got a better idea?"
"Higgins, if you think Garman has left our back door open you don't
half appreciate what the man is. When were the ox teams due?"
"Whew!" Higgins whistled. "That's so; this is the day for 'em to show
up. They've been due since daylight."
"And they've never missed their weekly schedule so far. Ox teams are
slow, Higgins, but they're darn sure."
"You think Garman's cut us off then?"
"Higgins, if you'd studied Garman half as hard as I have you'd know he
wouldn't fail to do just that thing."
At dark Blease came noiselessly to Roger's tent to substantiate this
deduction.
He had followed craftily after the party which he and Higgins had
driven northward from the camp, and had found them encamped on Coon
Hammock, across the ox trail, a scant mile from the camp.
Roger lay on his cot that night calmly appraising his situation. To
the south of the camp Garman's henchmen were in possession of his land.
To the eastward lay the trackless waters of the Everglades through
which only the Seminoles cared to find a way; on the west--the only way
out was through Garman's grounds which meant there was no way at all.
Northward there was the ox trail, now closed, and the ghastly mud of
the Devil's Playground.
Garman's trap was quite complete. Roger wondered when Garman would see
fit to bring its jaws together.
But Garman had contemplated and prepared a sport more pleasing to him
than this. The trap did not spring; day after day passed, and the
situation remained the same. The men on the muck lands guarded against
trespass by day or night. The moon was losing its radiance of nights,
but sufficient light still prevailed to make an attempt to cross the
ditched track plain suicide. In the north the men on Coon Hammock
followed the same policy. No attack was made, but neither was there
opportunity for any one to pass unobserved or unharmed.
One of the negroes, weary of hiding in the swamp, tried it and came
staggering back to the camp with a bullet hole in his foot. Roger
reasoned that Garman's cat-and-mouse tactics were calculated to break
his nerve or to provoke a fight which could have only one result.
Failing in this the trap had but to be maintained and the inevitable
result would be surrender.
On the first night when a slight cloudiness, promised considerable
darkness Roger slipped out of his tent trained and primed for the
ordeal of a passage through the Devil's Playground to Citrus Grove. He
crossed the open space of Flower Prairie while a cloudlet hid the moon.
In the uncertain light a course through the jungle was not to be
thought of. He looked up, and, encouraged by the gathering clouds,
slipped through his fence onto the sand prairie and ran northward.
If he could reach unobserved the timber at the southern end of the
Devil's Playground he felt he would be safe. As he ran he prayed for
the clouds to hold together until he reached the dark wood. His prayer
was answered. He made out a trail running into the timber and plunged
into the darkness. The darkness lasted but a little while, however.
Roger heard the whinny of horses on the trail ahead. The clouds
suddenly parted and the moonlight seemed to light the forest like day.
He was in an open space in the forest, and Garman and Mrs. Livingstone
and Annette were sitting their horses facing him a few paces away.
"I figured it almost to the minute!" said Garman. "Almost to the
minute I figured when you were due to start through the Devil's
Playground, Payne."
He laughed shortly at the young man's amazement. "Didn't know I knew
about that, eh, Payne? Well, I didn't until you bought that land from
the Cypress Company. Then I knew you'd found a new way out and I had
it looked up. No go now, Payne; the Devil's Playground is closed for
traffic."
Annette was sitting straight and firm in her saddle. She turned on
Garman with no fear or faltering in her attitude.
"Is this what you brought me out here for?" she asked, so sharply that
Mrs. Livingstone cried out protestingly:
"My dear!"
Garman lowered his head ominously and the taunting smile on his lips
turned to a threat as he returned her look. Even by the faint
moonlight the sudden leap of anger and the desire to hurt were apparent
in his countenance. He controlled himself.
"Yes, dear," he purred dangerously, "it is."
Annette met his gaze fearlessly. "Is there to be any more of the
exhibition?"
"Not unless you irritate me, dear. Don't ride away. Gaze upon Payne's
young, star-eyed face, my dear. Look upon it well; let it soak into
your soul's memory, as it is now. It is your last chance. Next time
you see him his face will not be the face of star-eyed youth at all!
Preserve the memory, Annette!"
"Have you quite done?" she said.
"I? Certainly, my dear." Garman was nettled at her self-mastery.
"Mrs. Livingstone, perhaps Annette has a word or two she wishes to
speak to Payne. Shall we ride on and give them a moment alone?"
"I am sure Annette can have nothing to say to this Mr. Payne," replied
Mrs. Livingstone quickly.
"Don't you be so sure of that," said Garman curtly. "Youth calls to
youth!"
Annette's riding crop fell suddenly upon her mount and she went past
Roger on the gallop out onto the prairie.
"Youth calls to youth!" repeated Garman staring after her with angry
eyes. "Mrs. Livingstone, don't you remember when you were young; when
you had ideals and hopes of realizing them, and you could love, nobly
and purely, without thinking of money?--ha, ha, ha! Must you really
follow Annette? Really!"
He pulled his horse close to Roger.
"Well, Payne, how do you like my rat pit? Hard to get out of, eh?
Don't waste your time trying; I've made sure you're going to stay put."
"I've been thinking," said Roger calmly, "that perhaps the best act of
my life would be to pull the gun inside my shirt and shoot you through
the head right here."
"Don't talk nonsense; you can't; you're too civilized. Besides--Hi,
there!--Look behind you, Payne."
Roger laughed without turning.
"No, you don't get the drop on me with that old trick, Garman."
"Speak, you back there--what's your name--Harney?"
"Yes, sir," said a muffled voice in the shadows behind Roger. "Ed
Harney--Joe Harney's brother. I've got him covered."
"Ho hum!" yawned Garman. "I must follow the ladies. Especially,
Annette--magnificent, tender, fiery little Annette!--Damn her!
Something has happened; she's bold, defiant! She needs taming. Great
sport, woman taming--in the swamp. Good night, Payne. Pleasant
dreams!"
A cloud bank floated across the moon, plunging the woods into Stygian
darkness. Out on the sand of the prairie the thud, thud, thud of
Garman's galloping horse grew fainter and died away. A rift in the
clouds revealed the moon for an instant. Roger whirled round, seeking
to see the man who had called himself Harney. The clouds closed up
again, the woods were black; and a Southern whippoorwill chuckled
foolishly. Ahead, on the trail which he must follow to reach the
Devil's Playground, Roger heard the footsteps of three men, and knew
that Garman had taken all precautions to make good his assertion that
the Devil's Playground was closed to traffic.
The anger which was in his heart craved an outlet. He moved toward the
hidden men, then paused. They were three to one; in the dark a fight
would be folly. Nothing would please Garman better than for him to
plunge blindly into a hopeless battle. As Roger thought over the
situation his anger rose and clarified. He realized now what a poor
figure he had cut face to face with Garman, and he understood why.
Garman had dominated him, and made him appear the baffled victim of
Garman's superiority. Garman had dominated him, had played with Mrs.
Livingstone till she rode away, helpless, outraged. But Annette had
outfaced him, and Garman knew it!
"Something has happened!"
Roger recalled Garman's words, and a thrill shot along his spine.
Garman did not dominate Annette; he did not hold her helpless by his
hypnotic presence as formerly. Something had happened. Roger feared
to think what, though hope whispered to him; and he turned back to camp
not at all crest-fallen because the secret way through the Devil's
Playground was closed. He came into camp with an easy, swinging step,
such as no defeated man should display, and Higgins, appraising him as
he listened to Roger's brief statement of the case, said:
"Hm. Then you know about it, do you?"
"About what, Hig?"
"About Willie High Pockets!"
"What! Willy been here?"
Higgins' thick brows met in a puzzled frown above his eyes.
"Payne, do you mean to tell me that you go out and find we're shut in
like rats in a pit and come back here stepping high, without knowing
about our friend Willy?"
"I don't know anything but what I've told you, Hig! Garman has got us
shut in. Got us hopelessly cooped up. That's all I know."
"Well, you're a gamer bird than I thought, then. But why so frisky?"
"I figure he's got us about licked," replied Roger, ignoring the
question. "We've got one chance in a million. We'll have it out with
those birds on the muck land to-night after the moon is down. We may
roust 'em. We may not."
"By God!" swore Higgins swiftly. "I'm almost sorry Willy High Pockets
showed up. Your idea is the one I've had in mind for days. A fine
fight we'd have given them, too. And now that darned Injun cones along
and spoils it. We can't try it now."