T. C. Bridges
Martin Crusoe (30) (A Boy’s Adventure on Wizard Island)

XXX. In the Heart of the Glades

Four people paddled a large canoe up a narrow waterway fringed on either side with tall gray saw-grass. The water, smooth as glass, reflected the crimson rays of a blazing sunset. Overhead a flight of snowy flamingos winged their way, while big fish rose with heavy plopping splashes.

“It’s mighty hot,” remarked one of the paddlers. It was Mr. Ladd. He stopped paddling, mopped his forehead and rolled himself a cigarette. “Guess we’ve earned a stand easy,” he said.

Martin, whose face and arms were burnt to the color of an old saddle, looked at Willard, who was sitting sullenly in the stern of the canoe.

“How far have we to go?” he demanded.

Willard pointed to a clump of tall palms which were just visible across the desert of swamp and saw-grass which made up the Florida Everglades. “That’s the island,” he said.

Ladd dropped his cigarette as if it had been a hot coal, and snatched up his paddle.

“That’s Manatee Island, is it? Great snakes, why didn’t you say so before?”

“No one asked me,” answered Willard sulkily.

The look Ladd gave him was not a pleasant one, but he did not speak again. He dipped his paddle deep, and, as the other three followed suit, the canoe went away as if she had an engine in her, leaving a boiling wake behind.

The clump of palms rose quickly into sight, the saw-grass opened, and showed a wide lagoon with an island about a mile across lying in its center.

Martin could hardly breathe for excitement. This was Manatee Island, the lonely scrap of land deep in the heart of the great Everglades, in which, according to Willard, Martin’s father had been left a prisoner in the hands of a band of Seminole Indians.

If he were still alive he and his son would meet within another five minutes.

Ladd stopped paddling again and stared towards the island, shading his eyes with his hand from the glare of the setting sun.

“Say, Vaile,” he remarked, “there’s a bunch of Indians down by the landing. But I see no white man among ’em.”

The Seminoles of the Everglades are a poor and rather cowardly lot who live by fishing. On Manatee Island there were only about twenty all told, and, so far from offering any resistance, they crowded round the canoe, begging for tobacco and cartridges.

Ladd knew how to talk to them. Martin stood by, positively shaking with anxiety as the American ordered them to produce their prisoner.

The chief, a long-haired person who looked as if he had never washed in his life, but who was called by the high-sounding name of Tigertail, looked doubtful.

“What you give me if I bring you white man?” he asked.

“I’ll give you the worst hammering you ever had in your life if you don’t take us to him double quick,” retorted Ladd; and his hand went to his pistol pocket.

Tigertail took the hint.

“All right. You come this way,” he answered sulkily.

He led the way back from the beach by a narrow path overhung by enormous live oaks. Great trails of Spanish moss hung from the branches, cutting off the light so that it was almost dark beneath. The ground was wet and swampy, and had a sour, unpleasant smell.

They came out into an open space where one of those strange old shell mounds rose among the trees. Here were some rough huts in which the Indians lived. Tigertail led them to one of these.

“Him white man live here,” he grunted.

Martin dashed forward, and flung aside the curtain of skins which covered the door.

A man rose from an old packing-case. He was dressed in rags. His hair was quite white, and so was his untrimmed beard. He stood staring at Martin, as though he saw a ghost.

“You, Martin?” he gasped.

“Dad!” cried Martin, grasping both his father’s hands. “Oh, Dad! What have they done to you?”

Mr. Vaile recovered a little.

“Martin, is it really you? But I knew you would find me.”

“It’s a miracle I ever did, Dad. That blackguard Willard wired me that you were dead.”

“I thought as much,” returned Mr. Vaile grimly. “Yet I always felt that you would come in search of me. It was only that which kept me going at all. Where is Willard?”

“Outside with Captain Krieger and Mr. Ladd. But I forgot, you don’t even know who they are, and there’s no time to tell you now. What we’ve got to do is to get you away from this beastly place just as quickly as ever we can.”

“I can assure you I am quite ready to go,” answered his father, with the ghost of a smile.

Martin put his strong young arm round his father, and led him out.

“Here he is!” he announced joyfully. “This is Captain Krieger, father, and here is Mr. Ladd. I owe a lot to both of them.”

Martin saw, by their faces, how shocked they were at the appearance of Mr. Vaile. And he himself, seeing now in a stronger light the wreck of the fine man that his father had been only a few months ago, felt his blood boil.

He swung round on Willard.

“This is your doing, you blackguard!” he said fiercely.

Ladd wisely interrupted.

“We promised not to prosecute, sonny,” he remarked mildly. “That was as far as our undertaking went, as I remember. But, see here, there ain’t reason why we shouldn’t leave him right here where he’s left Mr. Vaile all this time—Hi, stop him!” he broke off, and sprang forward; for Willard, with a sudden howl of terror, had turned and bolted out of the glade, and Ladd, quick as he was, was not quite quick enough to catch him.

“After him!” shouted Ladd. “He’s making for the boat. If he reaches it first he’ll get away.”

His words were cut short by a scream. There was the sound of a heavy fall.

Ladd and Martin, racing forward, almost fell over Willard, who lay in the path writhing in agony.

“I’m snake-bit,” he groaned. “A rattler got me.”