But Hubert and July, who were now twenty feet away, beckoned him frantically, and, thus urged, Ted reluctantly followed. The three then raced on their way, pursued by the now smiling Billy who apparently thought that some sort of game was proposed. Pa.s.sing the camp fire, July caught up a tin bucket of sliced venison, then darted along the winding path through the swamp cane toward the boat landing.

Racing along this same path a few moments later, Ted and Hubert halted suddenly at sight of the negro returning.

"De boats all gone," announced July. "Dem mens must 'a took 'em to go to dey traps in de swamp."

Ted did not share Hubert's deep disappointment and smiled at the giggling Billy in the moment of blank pause.

"Let's hurry back, then," he said, breaking the silence, "so they won't know what we tried to do."

The run to the boat landing and back, a distance of little more than two hundred yards, had scarcely consumed five minutes, and the four spectators were again on the scene of the fight before the combatants had noticed their absence. They were just in time to see Sweet Jackson strike the ground heavily beneath the weight of his antagonist, who now partly rose, placing his knee upon the breast of the vanquished.

"You got enough?" shouted Buck. "If you ain't, say so, and I'll give you a whole bellyful."

Sweet said nothing, but ceased to struggle, whereupon Buck let go his hold and rose.

"I'll git even with you yet, Buck Hardy," declared the defeated man with black looks after he had painfully gathered himself up and was limping off into the woods.

The victor disdained a retort, and, turning, walked back to the camp, where he was followed by the boys and the negro. At the noon hour Sweet Jackson had not reappeared and it was evident that the work on his "permeter" shelter would not be resumed that day.

a.s.sured of this by the time dinner had been served and his subsequent work about the camp had been finished, July proposed a job of another kind.

"Mr. Hardy," he said, "kin I take Cap'n Ted wid me to build dat turkey pen dis evenin' an' lef' Hubut yuh to play wid Billy?"

"Sure--if he wants to go," consented Buck. "I think I'll take 'em both on a deer hunt tomorrow."

On their way to the selected site of the turkey pen, about half a mile away in the pine woods near the border of the swamp, July broke a brief silence as follows:

"A colored lady tole me dem Germans eats people. You reckon dat's so?"

"Of course not," said Ted, "but they've done things in this war just as bad."

Having arrived at the chosen spot and cleared a s.p.a.ce about six feet square, July dug a trench from its center to a point some four feet without, baited it with sh.e.l.led corn and bridged it over with sticks. He then cut down a number of pine saplings and employed sections of these in building a pen about four feet high around the cleared s.p.a.ce, afterward covering the top with sections of the same and weighting them down with heavy "lightwood knots." Lastly a few grains of corn were dropped at intervals from the mouth of the tunnel to a point several yards distant, so that wild turkeys feeding in that neighborhood would be attracted toward the snare. July explained that when these wild fowl entered by way of the tunnel and ate up the bait they would merely struggle to break through the well-lighted cracks of the trap, forgetting entirely the shadowed path to freedom at their feet.

As he worked, receiving some a.s.sistance from the interested boy, the negro talked and asked questions about other matters.

"When de time come for you boys to run away," he said once, "maybe I'll go wid you."

"That would be fine," said Ted, "because you could show us the way."

"I gittin' tired o' dis job yuh in dis camp," July continued. "Dem white mens don't pay me all dey promus, and I don't like de way some of 'em cusses me aroun', speshly dat Sweet Jackson. Mr. Hardy pay me his part, but he can't collec' a cent o' my money fum some of 'em. If it wasn't for dat waw, I'd go out o' dis swamp wid you tomorrow. Cap'n Ted, if I was to go out wid you, you reckon dem draft-bode people would grab me right up an' sen' me to de waw?"

"They'd examine you and might send you to a training camp, and you might even go to France," answered Ted, "but I don't think they'd ever put you on the fighting line. You see, in this big war there's a lot to do besides fighting and the thing is to find out what a man can do best.

They might just make you a cook behind the lines, and pay you wages, too."

"Gee! dat 'ud suit me grand," cried July joyfully. "I'd love to cross de big water an' see all dere is to see--if only dey don't put me where dem Germans kin shoot me. You think I kin 'pend on dat, Cap'n Ted?"

"I don't know for certain, July, but I think so."

When they turned up at camp toward sundown, it was evident from their faces that both Ted and July were in a hopeful frame of mind. The one was glad because he had made two useful friends in a single day; the other was elated because he indulged in dreams of securing war adventure without incurring the risk of war's penalties.

VIII

Ted hoped that the war would be discussed around the camp fire that night, but he was disappointed. Sweet Jackson turned up only in time to eat his supper and went immediately to bed. The other men appeared to be unusually tired and followed as soon as they had smoked a single pipe.

Nevertheless Ted was nearer his heart's desire than he supposed.

About two o'clock in the morning a large animal prowled into or near the camp, doubtless attracted by the refuse of the deer's carca.s.s; and all hands were roused by the furious baying of the dogs. s.n.a.t.c.hing up their guns, the slackers to the last man sallied out and followed in pursuit.

Billy ran after them, and Ted, Hubert and July were left standing over the fire, now stirred to a bright blaze.

The eager hunters were hardly two hundred yards away when Hubert looked across the fire at Ted and said:

"Now's our chance to get off in the boats. We could do it--if July would go with us. You said he was thinking of it."

"Yes, I been thinkin' 'bout it," admitted July, his manner doubtful and hesitating, "but on account o' dat waw I ain't made up my mind yit."

"And, anyhow, in the middle of the night is a bad time," said Ted.

"We're not ready either."

At this moment they heard the sound of footsteps and a voice shouted: "Buck says you boys come, too, and see the fun. And, July, you better bring some vittles."

The young man who had hurriedly returned on this errand had halted as soon as he was within call, and now waited impatiently to be joined by the boys and the negro, evidently afraid that he might miss seeing the game run to earth. His "Hurry up" was so frequent and so insistent that the boys joined him without a moment's delay and July, shaking his head, followed without the "vittles."

The cause of the excitement, which proved to be a bear, had beaten a hasty retreat toward the center of the island, and there, being hard pressed by the dogs, climbed a tall pine. By the time the hunters reached the spot the animal was at rest among the cl.u.s.tering boughs at the very top. Nothing could be done now until daylight, and the men proceeded to make themselves comfortable. Several fires were built, forming a circle around the tree, in order to make sure that the bear would remain where it was in case the watchers should fall asleep.

Then July and two men were sent back to camp to bring food and corn beer of the slackers' own brewing. The besiegers threw themselves down in comfortable, lounging att.i.tudes around the largest fire and were disposed to have a merry time during the three hours of waiting. Ted and Hubert seated themselves on the gra.s.s near Buck Hardy and watched with absorbed attention all that took place. The treeing of a bear in a tall pine at such a time of night was remarked upon as a very unusual occurrence, and several declared that they had never seen the like.

"I tell you the old Oke-fi-noke is the place to run up on curious things," said Buck Hardy musingly, after the men sent to camp had returned with their loads. "I've seen a heap o' strange things in this swamp. I reckon you boys wouldn't believe me if I was to tell you I saw a catfish whip a moccasin in h-yer one time."

The men laughed incredulously, but demanded the particulars. Buck took a drink of corn beer from a gourd pa.s.sed him by July, and then asked his nearest neighbor, Al Peters, for "a chaw o' tobacco," before he proceeded to satisfy their curiosity by telling his story. It was, in substance, that he had once seen a moccasin spring upon a catfish in a shallow lagoon of the swamp and promptly get "whipped." That is to say, disastrous consequences resulted from the snake's attempt to swallow its prey. For the fish immediately "popped" its formidable fins through the reptile's throat, and all efforts on the part of the latter to disgorge its victim proved futile.

"That moccasin reared mightily and was as lively a snake as you ever laid eyes on," Buck declared with a laugh, "but it bit off more'n it could chaw that time."

He wound up by saying that the snake crawled off rapidly out of sight; but several hours later, returning past the same neighborhood, he found it lying dead, the tail of the fish still protruding from its mouth and the fins visibly transfixing its neck. Finding that the catfish was still alive, Buck took the trouble of liberating it, then watched it revive in its native element and finally swim away in the lagoon.

Buck's listeners had expected a jest, but they seemed to accept the story as matter of fact--no one presuming to give expression to doubts, if any were felt. This was the beginning of much spinning of Okefinokee yarns, some of them even more remarkable. Finally Buck turned to Ted and said:

"Well, kid, what's the strangest thing you've seen in the Oke-fi-noke?"

The boy would have liked to reply that the strangest, most unaccountable, most infamous sight he had seen in the great swamp was a party of able-bodied young men who, instead of serving their country by training to fight the Germans, were deliberate and confessed slackers and fugitives from the law of the land. But he hesitated to go so far and only said:

"I haven't seen as much of it as the rest of you, but the strangest story about it I ever heard was the one my Uncle Walter said the Indians used to tell a hundred years ago."

"Let's hear it," invited several.

So Ted related the old Indian legend which pictured the remote interior of the Okefinokee as a high and dry land, and one of the most blissful spots of earth, where dwelt beautiful women called daughters of the Sun.

Some warriors of the Creek nation, lost in the interminable bogs and jungles, and confronted with starvation and despair, were once on a time rescued and lovingly cared for by these radiant creatures. And ere the lost warriors were led out of the confusing labyrinths and sent on their way, they were fed bountifully with dates, oranges, and corn-cake. There may have been other good things to eat, but Ted's memory could vouch only for the dates, oranges, and corn-cake. He remembered that his uncle had spoken skeptically about the dates and disrespectfully of the corn-cake, which latter, though a good and useful thing in its way, was too "common" for celestial ladies who, in all other tales of the same type, were in the habit of feeding on ambrosia. Uncle Walter conceded, however, that the maize was probably regarded by the Creek Indian as one of the most precious gifts of the G.o.ds and, therefore, not unworthy of a place in this legend of the daughters of the Sun who dwelt in the great Okefinokee.