THE CHUMS HAVE TWO CALLERS.
"PERHAPS you can tell us how far we will have to go up this river
before we find a place where we can cross?" Charley said.
"I can do better than that. I can take you across. I have a canoe but a
little ways from here," replied the Indian lad.
"Good," exclaimed Walter, with pleasure. "That will help us out a lot.
We were dreading the trip around."
"We can cross as soon as you wish," offered the young Seminole.
"Let's sit a while and rest," suggested Charley, whose curiosity was
aroused by the manner and speech of the splendid young savage. "Are
there many of your people camped at the Big Cypress?"
"About one hundred. The Seminoles are becoming as the leaves in
autumn," said the lad, sadly. "There are only four tribes of us left.
One is camped at Fort Lauderdale, one at Indiantown, another tribe is
hunting in the Glades, and we are at the Big Cypress. Only four hundred
left of a once powerful race." His voice and face took on a deeper
tinge of melancholy as he said, "Soon we will all be gone and only be a
memory growing dim with the passing years."
"Oh, I guess, it's not as bad as that," said Charley, cheerfully. "The
Seminoles will gradually adjust themselves to civilization and begin to
increase once more."
"We are a homeless people," declared the lad. "Your race took all,
except this swamp. Here we have lived at peace where no white man would
live and now even it is being taken from us. Every week from the East
Coast, great canals, like rivers, creep further and further into the
swamp. And as fast as they creep in follow the whites with ploughs and
teams. Houses spring up over night. The forest and deer vanish, and
green fields take their place. Soon the great swamp will be no more."
"But surely that is good," Charley argued. "It is the onward march of
civilization."
"Civilization," echoed the Indian, bitterly. "Will civilization make my
people better? They are truthful, they are honest, they are cleanly in
mind and body. Will civilization make them better?"
Charley was silenced. Apart from education, he knew the Seminoles were
the superior of his own race in morals.
"No, civilization will not improve us, but it is coming to us. Nothing
can stop it. The white man rejoices at its advance, the red man is sad
and troubled. The great writer Kipling says,--
'The toad beneath the harrow knows
Exactly where each tooth point goes,
The butterfly beside the road,
Preaches contentment to the toad.'"
Our little party marveled at this strange youth, a savage, yet
educated, gentle mannered, and of a wisdom far beyond his years.
In reply to their questions, they learned that a noble white man, Dr.
Fish, was spending his life in the heart of the Everglades, striving
with all his might to do something for its unfortunate and deserving
people. Amongst other things, he was educating the younger members of
the tribe and trying to fit them for the inevitable struggle under the
new order of things. They learned that their new friend was one of his
pupils. That the lad was hunting for skins that he might earn the money
necessary to go to college and fit himself to help his race in their
distress.
Our little party were filled with admiration for the noble youth's
lofty ambition. They reflected sadly that there were woefully few white
boys fired by the same high ideals.
They would have liked to have tarried and talked longer with the
interesting lad, but the slanting sun warned them that they must be on
their way.
The young Seminole led the way to his canoe which proved to be a
cranky, clumsy craft dug out of a big cypress tree. Used as they were
to water crafts, they entered it with considerable doubt and care. As
soon as they were safely aboard, the lad shoved off and with a long
pole propelled the ungainly craft to the other side of the river.
"Follow the gulf," he directed, as they bade him good-by. "You ought to
be out of the forest by to-morrow night. You will meet more rivers, but
they contain no crocodiles so you will be able to cross them without
danger."
He shook hands gravely with each at parting, repeating quaintly the
words of a hymn the good missionary had doubtless taught him. As our
little party once more took up their weary march, the familiar words so
quaintly quoted by the solitary lad in the gloomy swamp kept thrumming
through their thoughts.
"God be with you till we meet again,
By His counsel guide uphold you,
With His sheep securely fold you,
God be with you till we meet again."
They tramped steadily the balance of the afternoon and at night made
camp on the edge of another large river. Here they were fortunate
enough in finding a large bed of big mussels or fresh-water oysters,
upon which they made a delicious supper.
Sunrise found them again on their way, eager to be out of the somber,
gloomy forest. They had already spent three days in its gloomy depths
and they were heartily sick of it and its crawling serpents. They
paused but a few minutes at noon to rest a bit, and to eat a few of the
mussels they had brought with them, then pushed on again.
"I believe we are nearly out of this hateful forest," Charley said, as
they waded along its edge. "It seems to me that the cypress are not
quite so dense, and, I fancy, I can get a glimpse of some trees of a
darker green ahead."
An hour's more wading proved his guess correct. Palmettoes, satinwoods,
bays, and even pines, began to be mingled with the cypress. The color
of the water changed gradually from its fresh blackness to the salt
tinge of greenish-blue, and, at last, they came to a stretch of sandy
beach which they hailed with joy for their feet were getting tender and
sore from the constant wading.
Long before dark, they were clear of the dismal, floating forest and
made camp on a high, sandy bluff by the side of a clear, purling
little brook. Their supper was a feast; roasted buds of the cabbage
palmettoes, black bass fresh from the creek, oysters, clams, crab
claws, and for dessert, huckleberries which grew in profusion around
them.
When it was finished, they stretched out on the beds they had made of
dry, fragrant sea moss before the glowing fire in more hopeful spirits
than they had been in many days. They were lying thus chattering
contentedly when they received an unexpected visitor. He came as
silently as an Indian. They neither saw nor heard him until he stepped
into the fire's glow. He was a man of about forty years of age, dressed
in buckskin and was of rather engaging appearance. His name, he said,
was Watson, and he was a hunter and trapper.
From him they learned they were but a day's journey from Tampa, and
that a good beach extended the whole distance.
The stranger stayed for at least two hours. He seemed to take an almost
childish interest in their account of their misadventures and took an
interest, that was pathetic, in all they could tell him of the news of
the world outside. Events which had occurred two and three years before
seemed to be news to him. Yet he appeared an educated, brainy man.
He stayed until the little party's yawns could not longer be
suppressed, then departed as silently as he had come.
"Whew," sighed Charley, when at last he was gone, "I would as soon
entertain a rattlesnake as that man."
"Why?" Walter said, in surprise. "I thought he seemed bright and
pleasant."
"Is it possible you have never heard of that man, Watson? I thought
everyone in Florida knew of him."
"I have never heard of him, either," said Captain Westfield. "Who is
he? Tell us about him."
"It's a horrible tale, yet pathetic, too, in a way," said the lad,
thoughtfully. "From what I have often heard, we are now in what is
sometimes called 'Murderer's Belt.' I have heard it referred to many,
many times, but I had forgotten all about it until I heard that man's
name. In this fringe of country bordering on the Everglades, it seems
that there are some forty or fifty men hiding out. They are men wanted
for serious crimes, murder in most cases, for nothing but the dread
of being hung would induce men to lead the lives they are forced to
live. They live solitary lives. The Indians will have nothing to do
with them and they fear or mistrust each other too much to associate
amongst themselves. Each one is as alone in the world as though he were
in solitary confinement. They get their living with their traps and
rifles. That's all they get out of life, just a living and freedom.
An army could not capture one of them, except by surprise, for at the
first alarm they plunge into the swamp where none but an Indian could
follow them. I don't suppose that man Watson has even spoken to a human
being in years until to-night. Only our apparent harmlessness induced
him to seek speech with us, I believe. For Watson is the king murderer
of the lot. He came to Florida some years ago from Georgia, with the
law officers in close pursuit. It had been discovered up there that he
was the author of a string of mysterious murders. Brutal, cold-blooded
murders that had been going on for years. Some forty or forty-five
years in all, I believe. The officers caught up with him at Tampa, but
he killed two, wounded the third, and escaped into 'Murderer's belt.'
With him was a young brother, who, so far as could be learned, had
taken no part in his crimes, but the two seemed to stick together from
mutual affection.
"Contrary to the usual custom in 'Murderer's Belt,' the two did not
play it alone together as they should have done, but met and made
friends with a man by the name of Cox who was about as hardened a
character as Watson. The three hung together for a while, but one day
there was a little quarrel and Cox shot the boy through the heart. He
intended to kill Watson also and thought he had done so but the bullet
glanced off on a button and Watson recovered his senses after a while
to find his brother dead and Cox gone. They are both now seeking each
other in the 'Belt.' Watson will try to kill Cox at sight to avenge
his brother, and Cox will try to kill Watson the first chance he gets
to keep from being killed. Neither can appeal to the law for they are
both outside the law. It's a case of man against man or rather murderer
against murderer. Think of what their lives must be. Every hour, day
and night, trying to kill or keep from being killed. Not seeing each
other, but knowing every minute that the other is seeking him with
murder in his heart, expecting death from behind every tree and bush."
"Massa Chas," said Chris, with a shudder, "youse gibbin' me de creep.
Please not dat kind ob talk an' let's go to sleep."