CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE CHUMS HAVE TWO CALLERS.
"PERHAPS you can tell us how far we will have to go up this riverbefore we find a place where we can cross?" Charley said.
"I can do better than that. I can take you across. I have a canoe but alittle ways from here," replied the Indian lad.
"Good," exclaimed Walter, with pleasure. "That will help us out a lot.We were dreading the trip around."
"We can cross as soon as you wish," offered the young Seminole.
"Let's sit a while and rest," suggested Charley, whose curiosity wasaroused by the manner and speech of the splendid young savage. "Arethere many of your people camped at the Big Cypress?"
"About one hundred. The Seminoles are becoming as the leaves inautumn," said the lad, sadly. "There are only four tribes of us left.One is camped at Fort Lauderdale, one at Indiantown, another tribe ishunting in the Glades, and we are at the Big Cypress. Only four hundredleft of a once powerful race." His voice and face took on a deepertinge of melancholy as he said, "Soon we will all be gone and only be amemory growing dim with the passing years."
"Oh, I guess, it's not as bad as that," said Charley, cheerfully. "TheSeminoles will gradually adjust themselves to civilization and begin toincrease once more."
"We are a homeless people," declared the lad. "Your race took all,except this swamp. Here we have lived at peace where no white man wouldlive and now even it is being taken from us. Every week from the EastCoast, great canals, like rivers, creep further and further into theswamp. And as fast as they creep in follow the whites with ploughs andteams. Houses spring up over night. The forest and deer vanish, andgreen fields take their place. Soon the great swamp will be no more."
"But surely that is good," Charley argued. "It is the onward march ofcivilization."
"Civilization," echoed the Indian, bitterly. "Will civilization make mypeople better? They are truthful, they are honest, they are cleanly inmind and body. Will civilization make them better?"
Charley was silenced. Apart from education, he knew the Seminoles werethe superior of his own race in morals.
"No, civilization will not improve us, but it is coming to us. Nothingcan stop it. The white man rejoices at its advance, the red man is sadand troubled. The great writer Kipling says,--
'The toad beneath the harrow knows Exactly where each tooth point goes, The butterfly beside the road, Preaches contentment to the toad.'"
Our little party marveled at this strange youth, a savage, yeteducated, gentle mannered, and of a wisdom far beyond his years.
In reply to their questions, they learned that a noble white man, Dr.Fish, was spending his life in the heart of the Everglades, strivingwith all his might to do something for its unfortunate and deservingpeople. Amongst other things, he was educating the younger members ofthe tribe and trying to fit them for the inevitable struggle under thenew order of things. They learned that their new friend was one of hispupils. That the lad was hunting for skins that he might earn the moneynecessary to go to college and fit himself to help his race in theirdistress.
Our little party were filled with admiration for the noble youth'slofty ambition. They reflected sadly that there were woefully few whiteboys fired by the same high ideals.
They would have liked to have tarried and talked longer with theinteresting lad, but the slanting sun warned them that they must be ontheir way.
The young Seminole led the way to his canoe which proved to be acranky, clumsy craft dug out of a big cypress tree. Used as they wereto water crafts, they entered it with considerable doubt and care. Assoon as they were safely aboard, the lad shoved off and with a longpole propelled the ungainly craft to the other side of the river.
"Follow the gulf," he directed, as they bade him good-by. "You ought tobe out of the forest by to-morrow night. You will meet more rivers, butthey contain no crocodiles so you will be able to cross them withoutdanger."
He shook hands gravely with each at parting, repeating quaintly thewords of a hymn the good missionary had doubtless taught him. As ourlittle party once more took up their weary march, the familiar words soquaintly quoted by the solitary lad in the gloomy swamp kept thrummingthrough their thoughts.
"God be with you till we meet again, By His counsel guide uphold you, With His sheep securely fold you, God be with you till we meet again."
They tramped steadily the balance of the afternoon and at night madecamp on the edge of another large river. Here they were fortunateenough in finding a large bed of big mussels or fresh-water oysters,upon which they made a delicious supper.
Sunrise found them again on their way, eager to be out of the somber,gloomy forest. They had already spent three days in its gloomy depthsand they were heartily sick of it and its crawling serpents. Theypaused but a few minutes at noon to rest a bit, and to eat a few of themussels they had brought with them, then pushed on again.
"I believe we are nearly out of this hateful forest," Charley said, asthey waded along its edge. "It seems to me that the cypress are notquite so dense, and, I fancy, I can get a glimpse of some trees of adarker green ahead."
An hour's more wading proved his guess correct. Palmettoes, satinwoods,bays, and even pines, began to be mingled with the cypress. The colorof the water changed gradually from its fresh blackness to the salttinge of greenish-blue, and, at last, they came to a stretch of sandybeach which they hailed with joy for their feet were getting tender andsore from the constant wading.
Long before dark, they were clear of the dismal, floating forest andmade camp on a high, sandy bluff by the side of a clear, purlinglittle brook. Their supper was a feast; roasted buds of the cabbagepalmettoes, black bass fresh from the creek, oysters, clams, crabclaws, and for dessert, huckleberries which grew in profusion aroundthem.
When it was finished, they stretched out on the beds they had made ofdry, fragrant sea moss before the glowing fire in more hopeful spiritsthan they had been in many days. They were lying thus chatteringcontentedly when they received an unexpected visitor. He came assilently as an Indian. They neither saw nor heard him until he steppedinto the fire's glow. He was a man of about forty years of age, dressedin buckskin and was of rather engaging appearance. His name, he said,was Watson, and he was a hunter and trapper.
From him they learned they were but a day's journey from Tampa, andthat a good beach extended the whole distance.
The stranger stayed for at least two hours. He seemed to take an almostchildish interest in their account of their misadventures and took aninterest, that was pathetic, in all they could tell him of the news ofthe world outside. Events which had occurred two and three years beforeseemed to be news to him. Yet he appeared an educated, brainy man.
He stayed until the little party's yawns could not longer besuppressed, then departed as silently as he had come.
"Whew," sighed Charley, when at last he was gone, "I would as soonentertain a rattlesnake as that man."
"Why?" Walter said, in surprise. "I thought he seemed bright andpleasant."
"Is it possible you have never heard of that man, Watson? I thoughteveryone in Florida knew of him."
"I have never heard of him, either," said Captain Westfield. "Who ishe? Tell us about him."
"It's a horrible tale, yet pathetic, too, in a way," said the lad,thoughtfully. "From what I have often heard, we are now in what issometimes called 'Murderer's Belt.' I have heard it referred to many,many times, but I had forgotten all about it until I heard that man'sname. In this fringe of country bordering on the Everglades, it seemsthat there are some forty or fifty men hiding out. They are men wantedfor serious crimes, murder in most cases, for nothing but the dreadof being hung would induce men to lead the lives they are forced tolive. They live solitary lives. The Indians will have nothing to dowith them and they fear or mistrust each other too much to associateamongst themselves. Each one is as alone in the world as though he werein solitary confinement. They get their living with their traps andrifles
. That's all they get out of life, just a living and freedom.An army could not capture one of them, except by surprise, for at thefirst alarm they plunge into the swamp where none but an Indian couldfollow them. I don't suppose that man Watson has even spoken to a humanbeing in years until to-night. Only our apparent harmlessness inducedhim to seek speech with us, I believe. For Watson is the king murdererof the lot. He came to Florida some years ago from Georgia, with thelaw officers in close pursuit. It had been discovered up there that hewas the author of a string of mysterious murders. Brutal, cold-bloodedmurders that had been going on for years. Some forty or forty-fiveyears in all, I believe. The officers caught up with him at Tampa, buthe killed two, wounded the third, and escaped into 'Murderer's belt.'With him was a young brother, who, so far as could be learned, hadtaken no part in his crimes, but the two seemed to stick together frommutual affection.
"Contrary to the usual custom in 'Murderer's Belt,' the two did notplay it alone together as they should have done, but met and madefriends with a man by the name of Cox who was about as hardened acharacter as Watson. The three hung together for a while, but one daythere was a little quarrel and Cox shot the boy through the heart. Heintended to kill Watson also and thought he had done so but the bulletglanced off on a button and Watson recovered his senses after a whileto find his brother dead and Cox gone. They are both now seeking eachother in the 'Belt.' Watson will try to kill Cox at sight to avengehis brother, and Cox will try to kill Watson the first chance he getsto keep from being killed. Neither can appeal to the law for they areboth outside the law. It's a case of man against man or rather murdereragainst murderer. Think of what their lives must be. Every hour, dayand night, trying to kill or keep from being killed. Not seeing eachother, but knowing every minute that the other is seeking him withmurder in his heart, expecting death from behind every tree and bush."
"Massa Chas," said Chris, with a shudder, "youse gibbin' me de creep.Please not dat kind ob talk an' let's go to sleep."