Bill Bolton Flying Midshipman Part 21

"Yes, I thought of that. But it's a bigger and harder job than the workings. Over in the cypress swamps we can come down on the stockade at night and surprise them. Sh.e.l.l Island is quite another proposition.

There's only one entrance to the place,-the bay. And the Martinengos keep it well guarded. The rest of the coastline is one continuous palisade of unscalable cliffs."

"But that's where you're wrong!" cried Bill. "There is a spot where the cliffs can be climbed-_and, not even the Martinengos know of it!_"

Osceola looked his amazement. "How did you get on to it?"

"Through Sam. He was a house servant, he tells me, for the bosses on Sh.e.l.l Island for several years. Gradually he became a trusty. They gave him the run of the island, and while off duty one day he discovered this place in his rambles. He says that there is a small, sandy beach at the foot of the cliff, and that any active man can climb up or down without a great deal of trouble. He has done it himself, so he ought to know."

"Well, that throws a little different light on the picture. I'd certainly like to clean out that nest of cutthroats-but it's a big job.

I hadn't contemplated doing anything like that. My plan was to free those poor devils who are slaving in the Big Cypress-but--"

"Why not do the thing up brown, while we're at it? Of course, I needn't tell you my main motive is to release my father. And incidentally to be revenged on the brains of this outfit-the Martinengos. By Jove, man, I've hardly dared think about Dad-let alone mention him-when I picture him in that filthy dungeon--" Bill's voice broke and he clenched his fists on his knees.

"Naturally, Bill, I understand that. And I am with you every bit of the way. But I feel that we must reason it out very carefully-we dare not fail, either way."

"But how can we? With Dad free and Sh.e.l.l Island in our hands, we could clean up the other place properly!"

Osceola shook his head thoughtfully. "It's a long, long hike from the island to the gold workings-twice as far from there as it is from here.

Even if we are able to capture the island, some of the men are sure to slip through our hands, get away in one of the planes, perhaps and by the time we travel on to Big Cypress, that gang there will have been warned, they'll be ready and waiting for us. The chances are, in that case, we'd be cleaned out. A surprise attack is one thing, Bill, but a pitched battle with trained gunsters-I'd simply be throwing away the lives of my men who trust me. No, I can't see it."

Bill slid off the table and stood facing his friend. "But you are leaving Dad out of the picture!"

"What do you mean?"

"Dad has influence in Was.h.i.+ngton. The President is a personal friend of his. Our job is to clean up the island. Then he will get the U. S.

government to step in-and they will attend to the Big Cypress business themselves. You see? I should have told you this in the beginning, but I guess I was sort of hazy when I got thinking about Dad."

The Seminole clapped him on the shoulder. "That," he said heartily, "is a bird of another color, Bill! And I was worried about my men. Your plan is approved and accepted without question! Now, let's forget the whole business until my Seminoles come back here. I don't think I've ever been quite so tired as I am at this minute. Just remember that those workings are not any health resort. I'm all in-and I'm going to sleep until I'm called for dinner."

"And I'm going to do the same thing. Isn't that a hammock over there between those palms? Me for it. You may find a wooden table comfortable to retire on, but as Sam says-'Unh-unh! Not _me!_' Your hospitality is lavish-but after last night I ache from head to foot. Does the mighty chief mind if his humble servant retires to the hammock?"

"If I had a shoe I'd throw it," laughed Osceola. "For goodness' sake, take the hammock, and anything else you want. On your way-I'm sound asleep!"

Sunrise two days later saw a flotilla of Indian dugouts drawn up on the sh.o.r.e of the Seminole's island. The squaws of the little community had been up half the night cooking, and now the warriors were busily consuming what would probably const.i.tute their last hot meal for some time to come.

There were about sixty braves all told. Gone now were their brightly colored tunics and head-dresses. The entire band had stripped to a loin-cloth, and the face and body of each man was painted in designs of his own fancy. All heads were shaven clean except for the scalp lock, which was decorated with a single feather of the red heron. Each brave carried a rifle, knife and tomahawk.

After they had eaten their fill, Osceola lined them up on the sh.o.r.e and spoke a few words to them in their own language. Bill stood beside him and viewed the little army with keen interest. Never had he seen such a fearsome group. They brought to mind pictures of the frontier days in the old West. If these fellows were really as fierce as they looked, he thought it boded ill for the Martinengos and their gunmen.

When Osceola had finished his harangue, the band of warriors commenced to board their canoes.

"Where in the world is Sam?" Bill asked the chief as they walked toward the handsome dugout that was Osceola's private property.

"Here I is, suh!"

A painted savage broke from the embrace of a squaw twice his size and girth, and came running up to them.

"Good Lord, Sam! Where are your clothes?" The chief stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment.

"Ise a Seminole brave, now!" proudly announced the darkey. "Lil Eva, she done fix me up last night!"

"Little Eva!" exploded Bill. "That squaw must weigh two hundred and fifty!"

"Yas, suh! Fine woman. We gwine to git married when I come back from killin' off dem gangsters. She say dat I'm her fightin' man now-an' I b'leeve I cert'nly do look like one." He admired his painted chest, grinning from ear to ear.

Bill and Osceola looked at one another and roared with laughter. "Well, it's okay with me, Sam," declared the chief. "Hop aboard with your armory. It's time we were on our way. Lucky there are some blankets in the canoe," he added as he shoved off and sprang in after them, "you'll probably need several before we get through with this picnic."

The chief's dugout, with Bill, Sam and Osceola wielding the paddles, shot swiftly down the waterway. The flotilla of canoes closed in single file behind. At last the expedition was under way.

The journey south through the Everglades seemed but a repet.i.tion of their former trip to Bill. The same endless stretches of sawgra.s.s, intersected by lily-choked waterleads swept out to a low horizon.

Occasional islands covered with a dense jungle of brilliant green provided the only variation in the monotonous landscape. The sun swam in cloudless skies, pouring down a heat that burned Bill's flesh and sapped his vitality. The others, if they minded the terrific discomfort, appeared to ignore it. But Bill was thoroughly glad when at the beginning of the third day, they left the Everglades behind and paddled slowly down the broad bosom of a winding bayou.

That night the little army camped on the sh.o.r.e near the mouth of this arm of the sea.

"We'll rest up tomorrow and plan the details," said Osceola, as they sat by their campfire that evening. "Sh.e.l.l Island lies out there-about fifteen miles away. So far, so good. I, for one, am going to turn in now."

"Call me at noon," grunted Bill. "This may be my last sleep on earth-and it's going to be a good one."

CHAPTER XVII-THE ATTACK

For some hours earth and water had been bathed in the semi-darkness of a misty night when the Seminole canoes issued from the broad mouth of the bayou. The stench of the mangrove swamps behind them still hung heavy in the lifeless air, and as they advanced, a thick gray fog crept in from the sea. Soon the trailing folds of vapor rolled in opaque clouds along the water, and hovered, damp and billowing, over the moving flotilla.

Osceola shouted an order in Seminole and a moment later, the bow of a canoe nosed beside the stern of the leading dugout.

"Stop paddling!" he commanded, and his two companions obeyed. "I told the men to close up in single file," he explained to Bill and Sam. "It is easy to go astray in a fog like this."

"You said a mouthful," returned Bill. "And the first thing you know we'll be heading back to the mainland. There's not a compa.s.s in the whole outfit."

"Don't worry about that. I'll see that we get to Sh.e.l.l Island all right."

"Well, you've got your hands full," retorted his friend. "How do you expect to guide us? I can't see three feet overside."

"By instinct-an extra sense, perhaps, you would call it. No man of my race ever loses his b.u.mp of direction."

From the fog behind them came the hoot of a nightbird.

"All set-let's go!" Osceola dipped his paddle. "No talking, please, from now on. Voices carry a long way over the water, you know."

For the better part of the next three hours, the long line of dugouts forged ahead through the heavy blanket of sea fog. Once more, the journey seemed endless to Bill. His nerves were tingling with the thought of the night's work ahead. Would Osceola be able to guide them to the island? The chief paddled steadily onward, seemingly never at a loss as to the direction his little craft should take.

Gradually this confidence was imparted to the white lad. They would succeed ... they must. Yet these Seminoles were but untrained aborigines at best. Would they be able to overcome the white men, professionals, only too well versed in all the exigencies of gang warfare? To the Seminoles this expedition meant merely a matter of revenge, an insult to wipe out. To Bill it meant the life and liberty of his father. They must succeed, he told himself desperately, for the twentieth time-they _would_ succeed.

The fog grew less dense. A few straggling wisps of mist played round the line of canoes and were gone. From out the murk came the dull roar of surf breaking on a rocky sh.o.r.e. Then suddenly the grayish white of cliffs loomed up straight ahead.