"Well, that lets you out, Sam," he laughed. "Come inside my house, and rest. Tomorrow or the next day, there is work to be done. After that you can come back here, Sam, and loaf for the rest of your life. And if you still want a squaw to look after you, I'll see about it."

Osceola's house was in reality no different from the other shelters in the camp, except that it was larger, and more solidly constructed. They entered, and Osceola swung himself onto the central table, and the other two followed suit. A semi-circle of Seminole warriors squatted on the ground a few yards distant and talked together in low tones.

Presently two women came in, carrying a large kettle that swung on a stick between them. They placed this on the table, and from its open mouth protruded a single large spoon.

"When in Rome, you know-" smiled Osceola. "Help yourselves-take some, Bill, and pa.s.s it on. If you must have knife and fork and plate, they can be produced, but when I am with my people I like to conform to their customs. Hope you don't mind."

"The community spoon for me, old top," and Bill reached for it. "Is this the national dish?"

"I reckon so. It's a meat stew thickened with vegetables and meal. You ought to find it pretty good."

"I do," sighed Bill, blowing on a piece of hot meat. "This is the best grub I've tasted for a month of Sundays."

"An' could you all please hurry up an' pa.s.s dat spoon," Sam broke in eagerly. "My mouf sure am waterin' for dat stew and my stummick he say 'hasten, brother, hasten'!"

All three enjoyed the feast immensely and it is to be feared that as the stew grew cooler, fingers were quite as often in use as the common spoon. Although it was still broad daylight when they found the bottom of the pot, they turned in, on the table, and slept like logs, rolled up in blankets, until morning.

The early sun came streaming in through the open front of Osceola's house. It shone in Bill's face and woke him. He stretched, yawned and sat up. The young chief and Sam were going through the same motions at opposite ends of the table.

"Morning, men!" he saluted them, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Am I still dreaming, Osceola, or has your village grown during the night?

There seem to be three or four times as many people around."

The chief swung off his table bed. "There are probably five times as many," he answered. "The villages of my people are small, but there are many of them. Last night, while we slept, signal fires flashed the news of my return. Come along, and let's get a wash before breakfast.

Afterward, there will be a big pow-wow. I am going to put my plan up to the warriors. You can do likewise."

"But I can't speak Seminole," Bill reminded him as they started toward the sh.o.r.e.

"Don't worry, this conference will be held in English. You see," he explained, "our villages only run to a few families because an island can support only a few people. Over there, beyond those trees, you will find a clearing where our crops are raised; corn, squashes, sweet potatoes, sugar-cane and so on. As you may have noticed, chickens and razor-back hogs run about wild."

"Oh, yes, and in all the big cities of Florida, too," said Bill with a straight face. Then they both roared with laughter at Sam's perplexed frown.

"Humph! You tryin' to joke dis n.i.g.g.e.r," the darkey rolled his eyes, "but dat's over my head, suh, over my head!"

"You think it is now, but you'll see!" warned Bill with a twinkling grin. Then he joined Osceola in his morning ablutions.

An hour after breakfast, the men of the tribe gathered in the open s.p.a.ce between the sh.o.r.e and the village. They sat in a wide circle on the ground, with their squaws and children in the background. Bill and Sam, led by Osceola, were escorted to places in the center of this group. The young chief lighted a long pipe of tobacco, took a puff of the pungent smoke and pa.s.sed it to his white friend. Bill choked over the pipe, then handed it to Sam. From the old negro it went the round of the braves.

When the pipe was laid aside, a deep silence fell over the gathering, broken only by the raucous call of birds in the treetops, or the sudden splash of a leaping fish. This lasted for fully ten minutes, then Osceola arose and with quiet dignity began to speak. This time he used English, and in simple words, but with the art of the born story-teller that seems inherent in all tribes of North American Indians, he told the tale of his disappearance from the village.

First he spoke of his capture by the Martinengo gang, and how he had been taken to Sh.e.l.l Island. Then came his trip by plane with other prisoners to the gold diggings in the Cypress Swamp. In graphic language he told of his slavedom and of the pitiless cruelty of his taskmasters.

Outwardly calm, the warriors of his tribe sat listening with faces devoid of all expression. Yet if one looked closely, one saw clenched fists and tightened muscles, and could realize that this stoic behavior was but a poise that was part and parcel of their tribal training.

Actually these Seminoles resented keenly the insult which had been placed upon their young chief. Sometime in the future their deeds would prove their loyalty-now, he must not be interrupted, he had more to tell.

Osceola then went on to describe the coming of Bill, the feeling of the overseer, their subsequent escape and the crash of the amphibian.

"My white brother who sits beside me here," he concluded, "downed the man who struck me, thereby risking not only death for his act, but the terrible torture of the lash. He is an officer in the White Father's great navy, a flyer of airplanes, a person of importance among his own people; yet he did that for a Seminole he had known less than a day.

Without his knowledge of flying, escape from the Great Cypress would have been impossible: and again, when death at the hands of those gangsters stared us in the face aboard the flying ship, he arranged for the safety of this black man and myself while he stayed behind to battle with them. That is why I take him by the hand now and thank him in the name of the once-great Seminole nation!"

"How! how!" chanted the warriors, while Osceola bent down and grasped Bill's hand.

"Now," he continued, his thrilling tones chaining the eyes of his audience to him, "what are we going to do? Are we going to sit quietly on our islands, and let these devils incarnate continue to enslave our brothers and other defenseless people? Have we become women now that the number of our braves is small? Have we forgotten the deeds of our heroes in the past? Are we content to stand aside, content to let this sc.u.m from the big cities offer insult day by day to our once proud nation?

Answer me-are we men-or something more pitiful than the weakest of women?"

"We are men!!" shouted the braves, a hundred hands beating the air while their voices rang resonantly in the stillness. "Lead us, Great Chief. We will follow!"

"Good. Go to your homes now. Come back here on the third day from this.

Let every man come armed for battle and let him come with food that will last for a week. Go now my brothers, warriors of the Great Seminole Nation-I have spoken."

Without a word, the men got to their feet, collected their wives and children, and launched their dugout canoes.

"Now let's hear your plan of campaign," suggested Bill, as he and Osceola stood watching the departing flotilla. "That was some speech you made just now, even though you did lay it on a bit thick about me. I'm keen to know exactly what you intend to do, now that you've got your little army in back of you."

CHAPTER XVI-THE ADVANCE

"I told those chaps of mine not to come back here until the third day,"

said Osceola, "because they will need a couple of days at least to prepare for an expedition of the kind I have in mind."

"I shouldn't think it ought to take them that long-what have they got to do?"

"Oh, paint themselves for battle, for one thing. Have a war dance or two, and a lot of the same. You must remember that my people are only semi-civilized. The only way that anyone can control them is to let them go their own way, when it comes to tribal customs, that do no one any harm. Buck that sort of thing-and you are out of luck-good and plenty!"

"What do you mean?"

"Simply that if I tried to 'convert' them, they'd have little use for me-dead or alive."

"You mean they'd do away with you?"

"Literally, yes." Osceola laughed at the expression on Bill's face. "But don't worry-I understand them, and so long as I let them alone, they'll love me. Anyway, you and Sam and I can do with a couple of days' rest, you know, before we start out for the Big Cypress."

"I agree with you on that. Gee, this sun is getting hotter than hot. How about going up to your abode? I haven't sprung my idea yet."

"Why, that's so, old man. Certainly, come along-I want to hear what you've got to say."

Once in the dim shelter of the chief's house, the two sat cross-legged on the central table and Bill opened the conversation.

"Where's Sam?"

Osceola shook his head amusedly. "Gone off to see how the squaws make that stew. We don't need him. Spill the good old beans, Bill."

"Well-your plan is to take your fighting men across the Glades and clean out the diggings, isn't it?"

"That's right. Of course the details must still be arranged, but we have plenty of time to work them up before we start. Have you any suggestions to make?"

"Why not tackle the island first?"