CHAPTER XIII.
THE BATTLE.
From the point burst out a sudden cloud of flame and smoke. Six of thecanoes in the lead and six in the rear of the long procession came to asudden halt. Of their occupants, some crumpled up where they had stoodlike bits of flame-swept paper. Others pitched forward in the bottomof their crafts, while still others stood for a minute swaying fromleft to right like drunken men, to finally crash over the sides likefallen trees, taking their cranky crafts over with them in their plungeof death.
Only for a second was there confusion amongst the remaining canoes.Before the volley could be repeated, they had drawn closer together.Each Indian had dropped his pole, and seizing his rifle crouched low inthe bottom of his craft, his keen eyes searching the point.
"They're heroes, that's what they are," cried Charley, his eyesflashing and cheeks aflame, "they are as good as dead if they stay, andyet they will not flee."
"Suicide, I call it," said the captain harshly, to conceal his emotionof horror and admiration. "But there's one there who is going to savehis skin. See that young lad who was in the first canoe. He is polingaway now that his companion has fallen."
"But not willingly," said Charley, who had been watching the littleby-play, "did you see him pick up his gun? He wanted to fight, but therest shouted and made signs to him till he put it down. I've got it,"he exclaimed, "it was the chief in that canoe. They are trying tocover his retreat, poor fellows. They are what I call men."
There had been no cessation in the fighting while the captain andCharley were talking; flame and smoke continued to burst out from thepoint in almost a continuous stream, while those in the canoes were notinactive. Where an arm or leg showed to their hawk-like eyes, theirrifles cracked sharply, to be generally rewarded with a howl of painfrom some cutthroat who had been winged. But there could be but oneend to such a battle. The convicts were well protected behind bigtrees, while the flimsy sides of their canoes afforded the brave littleband of Seminoles almost no protection. Still they fought stubbornlyon, answering shot with shot until the point and canoes were shroudedin a fog of smoke.
"They see the young Indian, they see him," cried Charley in an agony ofsuspense. "Look, look, they are all shooting at him."
The young Indian had passed out of the smoke pall, but his flight hadnot been undetected; some of the convicts, with an eye out for justsuch escapes, had drawn back to higher ground where they could seeabove the smoke which hung close to the water. These at once gave thealarm, and a shower of bullets began to rain around the dugout.
The Indian lad stood stoically at his poling, not even glancing back,and paying no more attention to the hail of bullets than if they wereso many flies. The little Seminole seemed to bear a charmed life,bullets struck the pole he was handling, and again and again they sentout splinters flying from the sides of the dugout itself, but still heshoved steadily ahead.
"By the ghost of the Flying Dutchman," shouted the captain, "he isgoing to get away from them. Two hundred feet more and their bulletswon't hurt if they hit."
"He's hit," cried Charley, a second later; "watch him."
The Indian lad had given a sudden, involuntary start and one hand wentto his head, he sank to his knees, struggled to rise, then slowly andgently slipped down; a huddled heap in the bottom of his canoe, whilean exultant yell rose from the convicts' camp.
Charley's face was white and haggard, but his voice was steady and coolas he turned to the captain. "Please go to my saddle-bags. You'llfind two rockets there. Set them both off; that will bring Walter, andwe will have need of him soon. I am going after that Indian and bringhim in dead or alive. You and Chris had better mount guard again atthe wall; those cut-throats will be here soon."
One look at Charley's face convinced the captain that remonstranceswere useless, so, with a hearty squeeze of the lad's hand, he turnedaway to his duties.
Charley unmoored one of the canvas canoes and, taking his place in thestern, with a mighty shove of the paddle drove it far out into thestream.
"Massa Charley, my own Massa Charley, going to be killed," wailedChris, giving way to his fears and grief with the emotionalism of hisrace.
The captain shook him vigorously. "Shut up," he said, roughly, partlyto hide his own feelings, "Charley's comin' back without a scratch.The good Lord, I reckon, don't make lads as true and white as he to bekilled off by a pack of jail vermin. Come to the wall as he told usto. Maybe we'll get a shot at those murderers before the day is done.Come along an' stop that blubberin'," and he grabbed the soft-heartedlittle darky by the arm and dragged him to the post.
The convicts were quick to see and interpret Charley's action, andtheir guns were quickly turned upon his frail craft. As he drew nearerthe drifting dugout and came within range, a perfect hail of bulletssplashed the water into foam around him. He did not falter orhesitate, but with long clean strokes of the paddle, sent his lightlittle craft flying towards his goal. Perhaps it was this very speedthat saved his life. Bullet after bullet pierced the thin canvas sidesand one struck a corner of his paddle, tingling his arm and side likean electric shock. A few minutes of this furious paddling brought himto the bow of the dugout. Seizing its rawhide painter, he fastened theend to a seat in his own boat. Then taking the paddle again, he headedback to the point. The leaden hail fell as thickly as ever, but bycrouching low he was shielded somewhat by the high sides of his tow.His return progress was now slow, but gradually he worked the twocrafts out of the range of the convicts.
Walter had lost no time in getting back to camp at the call of therockets, and was waiting at the water's edge to receive his chum.
"Haul both boats in and make them fast," Charley ordered as he wearilypaddled in.
Walter waded out knee deep, and seizing the bow of each boat as it camein reach, drew it up on the shore, and taking the painter, quickly madethem fast to a nearby pine.
"We have got some heavy, quick work ahead of us," Charley said quicklyenough to forestall the volley of eager questions on the tip of hisexcited chum's tongue. "Every minute counts now. I dare not calleither Chris or the captain away from their posts. Help me into thelean-to with these poor fellows, then get your gun and join thecaptain. Those murderers may be over here any minute now. They arebound for their own safety to let no witness of their horrible crimeescape."
As he rose from his cramped crouching position, Charley got his firstglance of the interior of the dugout and his face grew dark with angertowards those who had brought this thing to pass.
Prone on his face in the bottom lay a magnificent specimen of savagemanhood. His height, when standing, could not have been less than sixfeet three. His shoulders were broad and clothed with great, powerfulmuscles. His body sloped away gracefully to a slim waist and straight,muscular limbs--the ideal body, striven for by all athletes. His dresswas that usual to Seminoles on a hunt--a long calico shirt belted in atthe waist, limbs bare, moccasins of soft tanned deer-skin, and ahead-dress made of many tightly-wound crimson handkerchiefs boundtogether by a broad, thin band of polished silver. In the turban, nowdyed a richer hue from the blood flowing from the warrior's shoulder,was stuck a large eagle feather, the insignia of a chief. At his feet,where he had crumpled down under the enemy's bullets, lay the Indianlad in a huddled heap. It did not need the tiny eagle feather in thediminutive turban to convince Charley's observant eye that it was acase of father and son, a chief and son of a chief.
All that we have taken so long to describe, Charley had taken in at oneswift glance.
"Both are still living," he declared. "Run to the lean-to, Walt, andget a blanket. We will have to drag that big one up to the camp. Itwill be pretty rough, but it's our only way. We cannot carry him."
In a minute Walter was back with a thick, strong horse-blanket, whichhe spread out on the turf close to the water.
It took every ounce of strength the two lads possessed to lift theheavy body from the dugout to the blanket, then each
taking a forwardend of the blanket, they drew it gently after them sled-wise up to thelean-to, avoiding rough places as much as possible. There, they had toexert themselves to the limit of their strength to lift their burdenfrom the blanket to one of the couches.
Their second trip was easier. The Indian lad, though showing promiseof great future strength, was still only a stripling, and they bore hislimp body in their arms without difficulty.
Boy Chums in the Forest; Or, Hunting for Plume Birds in the Florida Everglades Page 13
