Part 4 (2/2)
”It's their moulting season,” he explained simply.
”Why you doan tell me dat place full of water, dat gra.s.s cut like knife, an' dat ole mister crane wasn't no good nohow,” Chris demanded, hotly.
Charley gazed at the pathetic, wretched, little figure and his conscience smote him.
”I told you not to go, Chris,” he said gently, ”but you would do it.
This time there was plenty of time to explain to you that what you thought was merely a plot of gra.s.s was really a saw-gra.s.s pond, and that sand-hill cranes are not fit for use this season of the year; but suppose that a danger suddenly threatened us. Is it likely, Chris, that I would always have time to stop and explain just why I wanted you to do this or that?”
But Chris was suffering too much pain and humiliation to be soothed by Charley's explanation. With a snort of anger he dug the spurs into his pony's flanks and soon was far ahead of the rest of the party. In a few minutes he came tearing back to them, his face s.h.i.+ning with excitement.
”River ahead, river ahead,” he shouted.
”It's the St. Johns,” declared Captain Westfield, scarcely less excited. ”There's no other river in these parts.”
Although they spurred forward their jaded steeds the animals were so worn out that it was dusk before they reached the river bank, and they went into camp immediately.
After the supper was over, Chris approached Charley, who was sitting apart from the rest, grave, silent, and evidently buried in deepest thought. The little darky began awkwardly, ”Ma.s.sa Charley, Ma.s.sa Cap say you de leader an' he going to do just what you say widout axin' no questions, Ma.s.sa Walt say same ting, an' I guess Chris better say same, now. Golly, I jus' reckon dis n.i.g.g.e.r made a big fool of hisself over dat bird.”
But although he answered Chris lightly and kindly, Charley was not elated over his unsought leaders.h.i.+p. Vague suspicions were flitting through his mind, and his new responsibility was weighing heavily upon his young shoulders. As the evening wore on he still sat silent, buried in thought. The captain was reading aloud from an old newspaper he had brought along. Suddenly Charley straightened up, and a swift glance pa.s.sed between him and Walter.
CHAPTER V.
THE 'GATOR HUNTERS.
The captain was laboriously spelling out the scare-head articles by the flickering firelight.
”Desperadoes at large.”
”Last night twelve convicts, all of them life prisoners, escaped from E. B. Richardson's turpentine camp near Turnbull. The escape was effected by their overpowering the guards while their supper was being served them. One guard was killed and the balance were gagged and tied up to posts in the barracks. The revolters stripped their prisoners of arms, ammunition and what money they had. Next they broke into the commissary, taking a large amount of clothing and provisions and wantonly destroying the rest. They then made their escape on horses belonging to the guards. As soon as their absence was discovered, bloodhounds were put upon the trail which led towards the interior.
The dogs were soon completely baffled, however, for the fugitives had evidently taken to water whenever they came near a pond or creek. This ruse, as well as the whole uprising, is believed to have been the headwork of 'Indian Charley,' one of the escaped prisoners, who, it will be remembered, was drummed out of his tribe and sentenced by the courts for the murder of a white settler last spring. Small outlying settlements will rejoice when this body of hardened desperate men are once more in the grasp of the law.”
”I've got it!” exclaimed Charley, so suddenly that the captain looked up in mild surprise.
”Got what?” he inquired.
”A pretty bad attack of sleepiness,” Charley said with a.s.sumed lightness. ”I feel all done up to-night. Guess I'll turn in.”
But although he was first to turn in, it was along in the wee small hours of morning before slumber crept in on his tired brain.
He was awakened by Walter shaking him vigorously.
”Get up, you lazy rascal, get up. The sun is half an hour high, and breakfast is ready. Get up and gaze upon the beautiful St. Johns.”
”What does it look like?” inquired Charley, sleepily, as he buckled on his heavy leggins and strapped on his pistol belt.
”For a dismal, wretched, man-forsaken stretch of country it beats anything I ever saw,” Walter exclaimed in disgust. ”The river itself is about a half mile wide, but it twists, turns, and forks every few yards so as to puzzle a corporation lawyer. The sh.o.r.es for half a mile back from the water are nothing but boggy marsh, with here and there a wooded island. Ugh, the sight of it is enough to make a man homesick.”
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