Part 3 (1/2)

Chris and the captain had ridden up to the boys, and they with Walter, stood staring at Charley in silent wonder.

”It's easy to see,” explained the young woodsman. ”When a gopher goes down his hole, he simply draws in his flippers and slides, but when he wants to get out he has to claw his way up. You'll see the first hole has the sand pressed smooth at the entrance, while the sand in the other hole shows the mark of the flippers. That third hole is easy, too; you can see the c.o.o.n tracks if you look close, and you will notice that the claws point outward. The last hole is equally simple, you can see the trail of the snake's body in the soft sand and those little spots here and there made by his rattles show which way he was traveling.”

The captain brought his hand down on his knee with a hard slap. ”I reckon I can handle any s.h.i.+p that was ever built,” he said, ”but I'm a lubber on land, boys. Charley's our pilot from now on, an' we must mind him, lads, like a s.h.i.+p minds her helm.”

”If I'm going to be pilot, I'll make you all captains on the spot,”

laughed Charley, as he spurred forward again into the lead.

”Do those wonderful eyes see anything more?” mocked Walter, as he once more ranged alongside.

”Don't make fun of me, Walt,” said his chum, seriously. ”What I have done is nothing. It's just noting little things and putting two and two together. You can easily do the same if you will train yourself to observe things closely.”

”Do you really think I could?” asked Walter, eagerly.

”Certainly you can, and now for the first lesson. Look closely at all the bushes as we pa.s.s them and see if you notice anything out of the way.”

They rode on in silence for a few minutes, Walter scanning the scrub in pa.s.sing with a puzzled expression growing upon his face.

”Well, what do you make of it?” Charley asked.

”I don't know what to make of it,” Walter confessed. ”Every few hundred feet there are branches partly broken off and left hanging.

Queer, isn't it?”

”Look closer and see if you can notice anything peculiar about those branches.”

”They haven't been broken off very long, for they are not very much withered. I should say it was done about ten days ago.”

”Good,” exclaimed Charley, approvingly, ”notice anything else?”

”Yes,” declared Walter, his wits sharpening by his success, ”although those boughs seem to be broken accidentally, yet all are caught in amongst other twigs so that each one points in the same direction--the way we are going. What does it mean, Charley, if it means anything?”

”My color is wrong to tell you all that those broken branches mean, but I can tell you a little. About ten days ago a party of Indians pa.s.sed through this way bound in the same direction we are. They expected another party of their people to follow later so they marked the way for them as you have seen. If I were a Seminole, I could tell from those broken twigs the number of the first party, whither they were bound, what was the object of their journey, and a dozen other things hidden from me on account of my ignorance of their sign language.”

”Indians, Seminoles,” said Walter, bewildered, ”I had almost forgotten there were any in the state.”

”There isn't, legally. Years ago the United States rounded them all up and started to transport them out west to a reservation. But at St.

Augustine a few hundred made their escape and fled back to the Everglades, where they have lived ever since without help or protection, and ignored by the United States government.”

”What kind of a race are they?” asked Walter, curiously.

”The finest race of savages I ever saw,” declared Charley, warmly; ”tall, splendidly-built, cleanly, honest, and with the manners of gentlemen--look out!” he shouted, warningly.

Walter's horse had reared back upon his haunches with a snort of terror. Walter, though taken by surprise, was a good horseman, and slipped from the saddle to avoid being crushed by a fall.

A few feet in front of the frightened pony lay coiled a gigantic rattlesnake, its ugly head and tail raised and its rattles singing ominously. Two more steps and the pony would have been upon it.

”Don't shoot,” pleaded Walter as Charley drew his revolver. ”I know where I can sell that skin for $25.00, if there's no holes in it.”