Part 23 (1/2)
”And I'm with you on that, Bill!”
Osceola ran up, accompanied by his band of painted henchmen, and immediately reeled off a series of fiercely shouted gutterals in Seminole.
”That will hold them for a while,” he added in English to Bill.
”There'll be no scalping if I can stop it.-Sam! Where's that n.i.g.g.e.r?” he raised his voice.
”Here I is, Ma.r.s.e Osceola. Here I is, suh. 'Fore de Lord, I ain't scalped a prizner!”
”Oh, shut up, and pa.s.s over that electric torch you've been carrying for me. I want to get an idea of the damage done here.”
”Yas, suh, boss! Here it am, suh.” Sam was still stuttering as he handed Osceola the flashlight. ”Truly, I ain't done no scalpin' tonight, Ma.r.s.e--”
”Keep still-or I'll scalp you!” The chief switched on the light. ”Well, if you caught the lads afloat,” he said to Bill, ”this is the last of the gang ash.o.r.e.”
”You mean they're all wiped out?”
”Well, hardly. Some are, of course, a good number, too. But the live ones are under lock and key in the jail.”
”But Osceola-did you find Dad?” Bill's voice was trembling with eagerness.
”Sorry, old man-he's not on the island.”
”What! Don't tell me he's dead?”
”No, no. Nothing like that. I captured the barracks boss, who seems to be a pretty sound egg. He says that Martinengo left for the workings in Big Cypress-it seems he is a trained pilot. He took your own plane, and forced your father to go with him.”
CHAPTER XVIII-BIG CYPRESS AGAIN
Three o'clock on the afternoon of the next day found the two young men standing on the concrete pier, watching the narrow entrance to the bay.
Beside them stood the old negro, Sam, an incongruous figure in his war paint, and armed to the teeth.
”Here they come!” cried Bill, as two wicked-looking destroyers, belching smoke from their squat funnels, glided into the harbor. ”The old U. S.
Navy is pretty prompt, once it gets started, eh? That isn't bad time at all from Key West!”
”Lucky we were able to reach them by phone. That second s.h.i.+p is letting go her anchor. The one in the lead seems to be making for this pier.”
”I told them there was plenty of water,” said Bill, and they waited where they were until the destroyer laid alongside and made fast. A young man whose smart white uniform bore the black and gold shoulder stripes of a lieutenant-commander ran lightly across the gangway. He was followed by a chief petty officer and a file of men carrying rifles.
Bill and Osceola stepped forward to meet them.
”Who's in command here?” inquired the officer.
”I am, sir.” Bill stood stiffly at attention. He did not salute. It is not Naval etiquette to do so unless one is in uniform, wearing one's cap.
”Mr. Bolton, I take it,” smiled the officer. ”My name is Bellinger. If it's okay with you, Mr. Bolton, I'll take over now?”
”Please do.” They shook hands.