The Boy Chums in the Florida Jungle
by Wilmer M. Ely · English · Gutenberg #43875 · 331,625 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Boy Chums in the Florida Jungle
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Boy Chums in the Florida Jungle
Author: Wilmer M. Ely
Illustrator: J. Watson Davis
Release date: October 3, 2013 [eBook #43875]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43875
Credits: Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOY CHUMS IN THE FLORIDA JUNGLE ***
[Illustration: LIKE LIGHTNING THE HUGE BOOM SWUNG AROUND, AND THE
AVALANCHE OF MUD DESCENDED AT THE PONY'S FEET. _Page 128._
_The Boy Chums in the Florida Jungle._]
The Boy Chums In The Florida Jungle
OR
Charlie West and Walter Hazard With the Seminole Indians
By WILMER M. ELY
AUTHOR OF
"The Boy Chums Cruising In Florida Waters"
"The Boy Chums In The Gulf Of Mexico"
"The Boy Chums On Haunted Island"
"The Boy Chums On Indian River"
"The Boy Chums' Perilous Cruise"
"The Boy Chums In The Forest"
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1915
BY A. L. BURT COMPANY
THE BOY CHUMS IN THE FLORIDA JUNGLE
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE BOY CHUMS 3
II. THE NEW VENTURE 11
III. INVESTIGATING 20
IV. BUNCOED 28
V. THE STRIKE 37
VI. LOYALTY 45
VII. CHARLEY HAS A NARROW ESCAPE 53
VIII. WALTER TAKES HIS FIRST LESSON IN RUNNING AN ENGINE 61
IX. BOB IS SENT HOME 69
X. WALTER AND THE ENGINEER GO A-HUNTING 76
XI. THE CONVICTS' CAMP 83
XII. CHARLEY GETS A NEW CREW 91
XIII. LOOKING AHEAD 98
XIV. SCOUTING 105
XV. THE FIRST BLOW 112
XVI. FIGHTING THE FIRE 120
XVII. THE CONVICTS 128
XVIII. THE MEDICINE MAN 136
XIX. THE OLD FORT 144
XX. THE HIDDEN VOICE 152
XXI. CHARLEY GETS A TELEGRAM 160
XXII. MOVING THE CAMP 168
XXIII. EXCITING EVENTS 176
XXIV. A CLEW 184
XXV. SICKNESS IN THE CAMP 192
XXVI. A MIDNIGHT RAID 200
XXVII. BURNING OUT THE JUNGLE 208
XXVIII. SHOOTING TO KILL 216
XXIX. THE SEMINOLE LAD 224
XXX. VISITORS 232
XXXI. MR. JONES BUYS THE OUTFIT 240
XXXII. THE MYSTERY SOLVED 248
THE BOY CHUMS IN THE FLORIDA JUNGLE
CHAPTER I.
THE BOY CHUMS.
"GOLLY! I'm getting powerful tired ob dis. Fish what just clusterers
'round youah bait an' won't bite at hit noways is jest trifling and
noaccount. I reckon dey's too ornery an' too finiky anyway to be fit to
eat. Well, here goes again, though hit ain't no use. I'se dun spit on
mah bait fifty times, an' rubbed hit twice with my rabbit's foot, but
hit doan' do a bit of good. Dey jes' look at hit an' grin like white
folks at a nigger's wedding." The little ebony negro who had spoken let
drop his daintily baited hook into the water again with a gesture of
disgust.
"Let me have a look at them, Chris," said another voice, and a white
face joined the black, as the two peered over the edge of the bridge
down into the crystal-clear depths of the water below.
The white boy straightened up after a brief glance into the azure
waters. He was tall and sturdily built, with lines of self-reliance
and determination upon his youthful face. His mouth widened into a grin
of amusement, as he watched the little negro peering anxiously down at
the circle of black-circle-eyed fish that crowded eagerly but warily
around the baited hook.
"You're fooling away your time, Chris," said the white lad. "Look
here." He chopped up a few pieces of bait and flung them over beside
the other's line. As they slowly sank there was turmoil and confusion
amongst the finny observers below. With swirl and splash they darted up
and seized upon the tiny fragments.
Chris wound up his line with a snort of disgust. "Dey are conjured,
clean conjured," he declared; "going clean out ob their way to get bait
when dar was plenty right afore 'em. Them's sure some fool fishes,
Massa Charles."
"You're wrong," said the other boy lightly. "They are mangrove
snappers, the foxiest fish that swims. Some one of them got hurt on a
hook some time, and his misfortune has become history among the tribe.
I guess that's what makes the black circles around their eyes. They
just keep worrying so about getting hold of another tempting morsel
with a hook attached that they don't eat half enough, and are fast
worrying themselves into nervous prostration."
The little negro snorted, and continued to wind up his line, while his
white companion paused to gaze with appreciation at the beautiful scene
spread out to his view. At the shore end of the high railroad bridge
upon which they stood was Jupiter, a tiny nest of white houses, almost
lost among the glossy green palms and vivid blazing tropical flowers.
Below them flowed the blue waters of the Laxahatchu River. To the west,
the river broke into a dozen parts, each flowing swiftly between as
many shoals and islands, and finally losing itself in the distance.
To the east, it joined the sea, scarce a mile distant, the breakers
meeting the river's waters in a tumbling mass of foam. A little below
the bridge, on the opposite side of the river from Jupiter, three
government buildings rose up from a high bluff--a wireless station,
a weather bureau office, and a towering lighthouse, built long, long
before the civil war. Beyond these, down close to the inlet, the lad's
eyes focused upon a long point, jutting out into the river, upon which
stood two small tents. From the inlet a rowboat, with two occupants,
was approaching the point with the long easy strokes characteristic of
experienced boatmen.
The lad turned to his black companion. "Come on, let's go back to camp,
Chris," he said. "The Captain and Walter are nearly there now."
"Better look to youah line. De slack's running out like mad, Massa
Charles," chided the little darkey. "Golly! I don't know what you
white chillens would do widout dis nigger. 'Pears like you white
chillens can't even fish widout Chris along to tell you-alls when you
got a bite."
But Charley had already sprung for the coiled-up line, which was
whizzing out at a rapid rate. Taking a turn around a post, he
endeavored to stop the hook's victim in its mad career, but, as the
long, heavy line tauted like a bar of iron, he realized that he stood a
chance of losing both line and fish, and he paid out the balance of the
line very slowly. It was not until the very end of the line was reached
that the fish suddenly changed its tactics and, turning short, rushed
for the bridge.
Charley yanked in the slack line swiftly and called to Chris to come
to his assistance. Near the bridge the fish turned again and sped for
the far-off inlet, both boys clinging to the line in a vain attempt to
check the outward rush.
"Golly!" panted Chris, as the line dragged slowly and burningly through
his grip. "Hit's lucky we ain't got this line tied to no post. Dat fish
would sure pull de whole bridge ober."
"Rats!" laughed Charley, as he grabbed out his pocket handkerchief and
hastily wrapped it around one hand to protect it from the burning line,
"isn't the bridge bearing the whole strain as long as we are standing
on it?"
"Course it ain't," maintained the little negro pantingly, "ain't my
back beginning to ache, an' my arms get lame, an' mah hands burn like
fire? Golly! You white chillens sho' don't use no logic or reason.
Maybe you ain't holdin' back hard enough to feel hit, but I'se sho'
getting de strain, not dis pesky ole bridge."
"Well, you will not have to bear it much longer," Charley grinned.
"Don't you notice that the strain is getting weaker all the time?
He's a monster, but he's evidently swallowed the hook clean down, and
that's why he is giving up so fast. We'll have the best of him in a few
minutes."
The lad's prophecy proved true, for, long before the end of the line
was reached, the fish began circling in ever-narrowing circles until,
at last, the two boys were able to tow it up slowly to the shore.
"Golly!" exclaimed Chris, as the fish's huge bulk came into view.
"Dat's de biggest an' ugliest fish I ever catched. What is hit, anyway?"
Charley glanced down at the short, thick, black body and the huge,
gasping, red mouth. "It's a Jew fish," he announced. "I guess it weighs
about 800 pounds, but that's not so very much, when you consider that
they sometimes grow to weigh over 1,800. Unlike most big fish, however,
they are very good eating. Wind up the fish line, and then cut out some
good big steaks. They will make dandy fish balls and chowder. While
you're doing that, I'll run up to the village and tell everyone to
come down and help themselves, then I'll bring the launch around from
the dock and pick you up."
Soon after his departure the villagers began to arrive in twos and
threes, but not before Chris had cut out several fine steaks from
the huge fish. By the time he wound up his line, washed the steaks
carefully and strung them upon a piece of cocoanut fiber, Charley hove
in sight in a little motor boat. He ran up as close as he dared to the
shore and stopped his engine. "Hurry up and climb aboard," he called,
"we want to get back to camp before dark."
Chris waded out, treading gingerly with bare feet over the oyster
shells that strewed the bottom.
"Hurry up," laughed Charley, "your feet are too tough to be hurt by
oyster shells."
The little darkey grinned as he clambered aboard. "Dat ain't de point,"
he protested. "I was reckoning dat some ob dem oysters might be alive,
an' I sho' would have hated to crush de life out ob dem."
Charley threw over the wheel and started up the motor, and the little
boat, whirling around, darted away for the distant point with its two
snow-white tents. A few minutes' run brought them close to it, and
Charley steered round into a cove, to avoid the tide wash, and ran the
boat up on the shore. The anchor was taken out and imbedded in the
sand. The motor was covered and everything made snug for the night.
Then the two boys strolled forward with their burdens for the tents.
Although it was not yet dark, a big fire of fragrant, spicy, mangrove
wood blazed before the tent. A little ways from it on blocks of
driftwood sat a boy of about Charley's own age, while close beside him
sat an elderly man with a heavy beard. The boy was opening oysters,
while the man was carefully breaking turtle eggs into a big pan beside
him, taking care to let only the yolks fall into the pan and throwing
away the uncookable whites.
"Hallo!" greeted Charley cheerfully. "What luck, Walt?"
"Too good," said the boy on the block listlessly. "Every turtle in
the Atlantic must have tried to lay on the beach along here. Didn't
even have the fun of looking for a nest. They were scattered around
everywhere."
"And you, Captain?" asked Charley, with a grin at his chum's reply.
"Ran the skiff right up on a bed of oysters," the old sailor said
briefly. "All I had to do was lean over the side and pick 'em up with
my hand--big, nice, fat oysters, too."
Charley took a seat on a piece of driftwood, and silence fell upon the
three. Only Chris, with the high spirits of his race, stamped down the
fire into a bed of glowing coals, and prepared to make an omelette
of the turtle eggs, a stew from the oysters, and a big pot of coffee,
singing as he worked,
"Ham meat hit am good to eat,
Bacon's berry fine,
But gib, oh, gib me what I long for,
Dat watermilen asmiling on de vine."
Charley broke the long silence that had fallen on the three. "We are
getting to be three old grouches," he said calmly. "We have got the
best of health. We have got $5,000 cash in the bank. We have been
truckers, wreckers, pearl hunters, plume hunters, spongers, and,
lastly, net fishermen, and have gone through all kinds of hardships
and perils, and yet, after we agreed to take a long vacation trip and
rest up, here after only two weeks of it we are getting restless and
dissatisfied. Am I right?"
"You are," declared Walter Hazard heartily. "I admit it. I'm sick of
loafing. I want to get back to real work again."
"It's all right for a while, this lounging about from place to place,
but I reckon I've about got my fill of it," Captain Westfield admitted.
"I had a heap sight rather be working at something."
"I feel the same way," Charley agreed, "and I believe I've found the
very thing for us, but it's big--the biggest thing the Boy Chums ever
tackled. Come on. Chris has got supper ready. We will talk it over
while we eat."
CHAPTER II.
THE NEW VENTURE.
FOR a few minutes there was entire silence while the four devoted their
whole attention to the delicious meal Chris had prepared, and, during
this lull, the reader has time to observe and note more carefully
this little band of old friends, whom he has doubtless met amid many
adventures in the Boy Chum Series. They have changed but little since
he met them last in "The Young Net Fishermen." Charley West, the
strapping young fellow, who now sits on one side of the fire eagerly
devouring piping hot omelette and rich oyster stew, is the same old
Charley of yore, his face a trifle older and more alert, perhaps,
from the dangers and hardships through which he has passed, but with
the same old merry twinkle in his eyes. Walter Hazard, now grown
almost as husky as his chum, sits next to him, and close beside Walt
is gray-haired Captain Westfield, a sort of guardian father to them
both, a master of the sea, but rather helpless on land. He, too, is
little changed, while Chris, the little ebony darkey, wears the same
broad, good-natured smile as ever. But we must stop and listen to the
conversation now starting up, for upon it depends the future of our
four friends.
"Tell us what our next move is to be," Walter demanded.
"It rests with the rest of you as much as with me," Charley smiled.
"All I am going to do is to make the suggestion."
"Go ahead," said the captain impatiently, "we're waiting to hear it."
"Well," said Charley, "West of Jupiter about forty miles lays the great
lake Okeechobee. It's reported by explorers that there's a ten-mile
belt clear around the lake of the richest land in the world. Between
the lake and Jupiter there is only one little trading-post, called
Indiantown. All the way leads through swamps, prairies, and pine
barrens. There is a sort of road, but it is under water for about six
months in the year."
"All that's interesting, but what has it got to do with us?" said
Waiter impatiently.
"I'm coming to that in a minute," said Charley placidly. "Last year the
county commissioners passed a law for the building of a dirt road from
Jupiter to the lake, and a man named Murphy made a bid of 17½ cents a
yard for the dirt handled and he got the contract. He bought a steam
shovel with a 1½-yard bucket. He went to work and has got about ten
miles of the road completed. Now he wants to sell out his machine and
contract. Says his wife in Connecticut is sick, and he's got to go back
and stay with her. I saw him in Jupiter to-day, and he told me he would
sell machine, tents, a team of mules, and the contract for one-third of
what the machine alone cost him, $3,000. I didn't promise him anything,
but said we would ride out and look at it in the morning. It looks to
me like a good chance to establish ourselves in a good steady business.
There's about thirty miles of the road yet to build. And he says there
are plenty more contracts to be had for the asking. The machine can dig
one and one-half cubic yards of earth per minute, and, at 17½ cents per
yard, that's some money, I'm thinking. Besides it works nights as well
as days. Well, what do you think about it?"
Walter looked rather disappointed. "That sounds all right," he
admitted, "but there doesn't seem much chance of having any fun,
adventure or excitement out of such a job."
"Adventure, excitement!" echoed Charley. "Why, I don't know where
you'd be more likely to find both. Remember, we are going through an
almost unknown country. Right through the Indians' hunting grounds, and
through a country alive with snakes and game."
"Good," exclaimed Walter, with eyes shining. "I vote yes for the steam
shovel."
"I don't know about it," said the Captain doubtfully. "It ain't a good
plan generally to go into a business that you don't know anything
about."
"But we will soon learn," protested Charley vigorously. "If we buy,
Murphy has agreed to stay on for a couple of weeks until we get on to
the run of things."
"Well," consented the old sailor reluctantly. "It won't do any harm to
look at the critter, though I guess I won't be able to tell as much
about her as I would about a sea-going craft."
"Well, how about you, Chris?" Charley inquired.
The little negro grinned. "Golly, Massa Charley, I reckon I'm pretty
well satisfied as I is. Don't reckon you-alls ebber seed a nigger but
was willing to lay around in de sun all day an' do nothin' but eat an'
fish, but if you-alls are goin' into any foolish projectin's, I reckon
dis nigger will hab to go along to keep you outer trouble."
"Then it's settled," Charley declared with satisfaction. "We will get
an early start in the morning and drive out and see just how things are
going."
Thus settled, an early hour next morning found them on the way, drawn
in a rickety wagon behind a lean mule with a wicked-looking eye. There
was no danger of their losing their way for the machine-made road
stretched out before them a smoothed mound of earth flanked on each
side by deep ditches made by the removed dirt. At places the road was
raised a full four feet above the surrounding land, while at other
places it descended gradually to a mere two feet.
Charley viewed it with satisfaction. "That's the kind of work I want
to do," he said. "The kind of work that creates something, that helps
people, gives them employment, and makes them happy. Take that road,
for instance," he continued dreamily, "of course it is only a road, but
it will open up the way to thousands of acres of rich land, and give
thousands of people a chance to own a home and farm."
"Yes," agreed the Captain testily, who was hot and sweating under
the blazing sun, "and it will drive away the Indians from their last
hunting ground, and the people who will flock in will be Huns, Polacks
and Japs, and most of them will die off with the malaria, and the rest,
after they have raised their crops, will find it costs them more to get
them to market than they are worth. Say, Chris, can't you spread more
sail on that craft of yours? I allow that there ain't much breeze, but
surely it can do more than a mile an hour."
Chris, who was driving the melancholy beast, obediently leaned forward
and brought his tattered hat down on the mule's flank. "Get up, you
Clarence; wake up, you mule," he shouted--and Clarence woke up. What
had simply been before a saddened, downcast, plodding mule, became a
marvel of upstanding ears, bared teeth and flying hoofs. Charley landed
with a bump on the side of the road. Walter, close beside him, and the
Captain not far away, while Chris, disdaining solid ground, lit far
over in the ditch of stagnant water and mud. The cart, a battered wreck
in front, with one thill gone, still remained, while Clarence, still
enveloped in his harness and dragging the other thill behind him, with
leaping bounds was headed back for home.
Captain Westfield arose slowly and painfully, and felt gently of his
trousers' seat. "I reckon Chris crowded on a wee bit too much sail," he
said mildly.
Chris crawled out of the ditch, spitting out mud and water. "Golly,
dat Clarence sho' can move some," he exclaimed admiringly, as he gazed
after the vanishing mule. "Who would hab thought dat a little slap of
the hat could liven him up so?"
"I don't think it was that, at all," laughed Walter, as he regained
his feet. "I believe he took offense at being called Clarence, as any
self-respecting mule would--probably his real name is Maud."
"You fellows can laugh, if you see anything funny in it," stated
Charley reproachfully. "You wouldn't if you were me. You lit on the
sand or water, but I landed broadside on a slab of rock. Well, there's
no use trying to catch Clarence. He's singing 'Home, Sweet Home,' with
four feet. I guess we are as near the camp as we are Jupiter, so we
might as well go ahead."
So ahead they marched, looking more like a trio of hoboes than possible
investors in a big enterprise. A walk of a few miles brought them in
sight of a cluster of white tents, and they hastened their steps,
knowing that their destination was not far ahead. They paused at the
first tent, the largest of the cluster, and evidently the eating tent,
for they could see through the open flap two long tables with rude
seating benches running down the middle, and a heap of tin dishes
on a table in one corner. Outside a big, powerful, sweating negro
was kneading bread on a dirty-looking bench, upon which a protruding
stove-pipe from the tent was sending down fine flakes of soot.
"Mister Murphy's dun fudder up the road apiece by the machine," he
informed them in reply to their questions. "Be you gentlemen going to
stay for dinner?"
They told him that they were not sure as yet, and hurried up the road,
eager to be away from the odors of the camp.
"Golly," exclaimed Chris, "did you-alls notice de bench dat nigger
was makin' bread on? I'll bet dar was a solid inch ob dirt on de top
ob hit. Dat nigger's been scaling fish, chopping up meat, and making
bread on dat same bench for de past six months widout washin' hit up
once. Huh, if I was his boss I'd give him a licking for sho'."
A few minutes' walk brought them in sight of the big steam shovel,
which was doing the work of two hundred men with wheelbarrows. It
looked simple enough, a kind of short steel car, resting upon sections
of railroad track. Upon the car was mounted, on a kind of ratchet work
of iron, a swinging steel platform, from which projected out a long
tapering steel boom, at the end of which dangled from wire ropes a huge
steel bucket with wicked looking big teeth. Wire ropes an inch and a
half thick led down the boom and wound, coil upon coil, around the
big controlling drums on the platform below. Two gigantic cog-wheels
controlled the lowering and raising of the huge boom in front. Just
back of the big revolving drums and cog-wheels a second little platform
arose from the first. It was iron-hooded overhead, but in front it was
open, and behind the opening, with before him six huge brass levers,
stood a man controlling the movements of this mighty worker. Even as
the little party watched, the great shovel plunged down, straight down,
burying its great teeth in the rooty ground. The drag rope pulled it
in until it had gathered up a full load of earth. The boom lifted
slightly, the platform swung around, and the bucket dropped its load.
For five minutes Charley watched the operation repeated, with his
watch in his hand. "Murphy hasn't lied about that," he said. "They are
digging a bucket a minute, all right. Let's figure it out: One and
one-half yards a minute, that's 26 cents a minute; multiplying that by
60 minutes in the hour, makes $15.60 per hour, and 24 hours in the day,
makes $374.40 per day. That's going some, I guess."
"Whew," whistled Walter, "that's just like finding money."
CHAPTER III.
INVESTIGATING.
THE working of the powerful machine had been observed from a distance.
As the little party drew nearer, they could see more plainly the heaps
of mud and wet dirt left in the wake of the steam shovel. Five gigantic
negroes, with shovels and hoes, leveled off the piles, working slowly
and languidly over the task, their legs wet to the knees and their
bodies plastered with mud.
"Saws, all of them." Charley commented briefly, as they passed the
sudden, slow-working group.
"Saws?" echoed Walter questioningly. "I never heard of that race
before."
"They come from the Bahama Islands," Charley replied. "They all have
to ship for this country by way of the port of Nassau. So they get
their title from that port, but people on this side have shortened
the title down to 'Saws.' They are the finest built and laziest race
in existence, I believe. There, that's Mr. Murphy, right back of the
machine. He hasn't seen us yet. Whew! Just listen to him."
Mr. Murphy, a short, florid-faced man, was standing with his back
to them, cursing earnestly at two negroes, who guided the moving of
the sections of track and cleared away all roots and brush from the
machine's path. The negroes' faces were ashen with anger, but they
worked on sullenly, probably because the butt of a heavy revolver
protruded from the white man's pocket.
Mr. Murphy's face became wreathed in smiles, and he ceased his cursing
to greet the little party cordially.
"You've just got to cuss at them Saws occasionally," he apologized, as
he rubbed the sweat from his red face. "If you don't, you just simply
can't get any work out of them. Well, I'm glad to see you. I expected
you early and had given you up. Well, there's the machine, and you
can see for yourself what kind of work it does. I've got my contract
with the county commissioners back in my tent, but I'll show it to you
when we go back to dinner, so that you'll see everything is O. K. Any
questions you want to ask?"
"Sure," said Charley, with a smile. "We don't want to go into anything
blindfolded. First, what are your monthly expenses?"
Murphy wrinkled his brow in thought. "Let's see," he said. "We work the
engineers in shifts of 8 hours each. They get $85.00 a month and board;
that's $255.00. Then there's two shifts for the firemen and ground
men; that makes six men at $36.00 a month--a total of $216.00. Then, I
have to carry two bridge builders at the same wage, which makes $72.00
more. Then there's five graders, one cook, and one teamster, and a
dynamiter to blow up the trees ahead of the machine; that's eight more,
at $36.00, or $288.00. That brings my total payroll up to a little over
$800 a month. Then, there's the grub bill. It runs from $250 to $300
a month. Carbide for machine lights, feed for the mules, and other
extras will likely bring the total expenses for a month up to $1,200,
but that's a trifle compared to what the machine is earning, and $3,000
for the bunch is like giving it away. The machine alone cost $12,000,
and the tents, mules, wagons, and the motor truck would be cheap at
another thousand dollars." He pulled a big watch out of his pocket and
looked at the time. "Chuck's ready by now at the cook tent," he said.
"Let's go and have a bite, and I'll run you into Jupiter in the truck
afterward. We can talk business on the way."
In the cook tent they found one long table filled up with big, black,
sweating negroes. At the other smaller one were seated the teamster--a
white man--and the two sleepy-eyed engineers, off duty. The food was
plenty, but coarse and cheap in quality. Hungry as they were, the boys
partook of it meagerly, for they could not forget that dirty bench
outside, and the inside was foul from the sweating negroes crowded into
it. One thing they all noticed was the sullen silence that prevailed.
Even the white men at their own table had nothing to say, except to ask
occasionally for the passing of some dish they could not reach. The
boys were glad when the meal was at last finished and they were able
to get out again into the sweet, sun-purified air. Mr. Murphy remained
behind for a few minutes, arguing loudly with the two engineers.
"I don't like the looks of this outfit very much," said Walter, as the
four gathered together at the base of a pine tree. "The whole camp is
filthy--tents, cooking, men, and everything else. And everyone appears
so sullen and ugly, as though a little thing would start a fight going.
Of course, the price is dirt cheap, but I don't like the looks of
things."
"We can alter things in short order," Charley declared eagerly, for
he was letting his eagerness to seize this new opportunity cloud
his usually clear judgment. "Why, it won't take any time to change
things around. We can stop the machine for a day, and turn all hands
in on the job, make them scrub the tents good with soap and water,
and, after they are dry, pitch them all again in a different place.
A change of cooks, and Sunday to rest up in, will take away a lot of
that sullenness, I bet. I really believe that half of it is caused by
Murphy cursing the men so much."
"Maybe you're right," Walter admitted. "Anyway, I would like to learn
to run that steam shovel. I bet I could do it in a week."
"I don't ever want to have to climb aboard that critter," Captain
Westfield observed; "but I reckon I could stay on the ground and keep
the other fellows up to scratch. I ain't nowise anxious to go into the
business, but I leave it up to you, Charley. I've never had much to do
with shore business. Just do as you think best, boy."
"I leave it up to you, too, so far as I'm concerned," Walter agreed.
"I hopes you-alls do buy it," Chris said, earnestly; "I sho' wants to
do de cookin'; dat dirty nigger what's doing it now ain't fitting to do
hit, no way."
"All right," Charley agreed, reluctantly. "If it's left up to me to
do the deciding, I'll do it, though I had rather not take all the
responsibility. Well, I'm going to buy----"
He had no time to continue what he was going to say, for at that moment
Mr. Murphy stepped out of the tent and called to them. "Come around
here to the next tent; that's where my motor truck is housed."
Walter examined the motor truck carefully. It was almost new, but
it was evident that it had received rough treatment at the hands of
inexperienced drivers, but its main parts were still good and unworn.
"Well, what have you decided to do?" asked Mr. Murphy, as they all
clambered aboard the truck.
"We would like until to-morrow morning to talk it over," Charley said
cautiously.
"Sorry, but the way it stands, I've got to close up at once," said Mr.
Murphy briefly. "I've just got to get back home to my wife. I've got
another man on my string, and if you fellows don't want the business
I'll just run down to his place and see him to-night. I'm pretty sure
he'll take it."
"All right, then; we'll take it," said Charley promptly. "Machine,
truck, contract, and all equipment for $3,000."
"Agreed," said Mr. Murphy, equally prompt. "I'll give you a regular
bill of sale, covering everything, as soon as I get to Jupiter. We'll
get there in time to find a notary, I guess."
There was no further chance for conversation, for, as soon as it was
started up, the motor truck kept all hands busy trying to retain their
seats. The dirt road was full of hollows, bumps and ruts that sent the
truck's occupants bouncing and jarring from side to side, so that they
were not at all sorry when Jupiter was at last reached. Once arrived,
the notary was hunted up, and the transfer papers made out. "I'll
stay with you two weeks and show you how to run the thing," said Mr.
Murphy. "I ought to go at once, but I promised you I would stay, and I
will. I suppose you will want to pack up and not go back until morning.
So, I guess I'll take this check for $3,000 down to Palm Beach, and get
it cashed, and come back on the early morning train. There's a local
train due for Palm Beach in about five minutes, so I'll say so long
until morning."
The boys were up at the first crack of day, packing up their few
belongings, taking down their tents, and pulling out their little
launch and concealing it back among the bushes. By sunrise they were
at Jupiter, having rowed over in the skiff, which they hauled out
and left, feeling confident that it would not be molested until they
returned.
They found, upon inquiry at the little station, that the train would
not arrive until nine o'clock.
"Want tickets?" inquired the station agent, who had answered their
questions.
"No," said Charley. "We are waiting for Mr. Murphy. He's coming up on
the train to take us out to camp. We have bought out his machine and
contracts."
"Whew!" whistled the agent. "What did you pay him?"
"We got the whole outfit for $3,000," said Charley proudly.
"Good Lord!" murmured the agent. "Cash or check?"
"Check on the Bank of West Palm Beach," answered Charley less proudly.
The agent glanced at the clock. "Ten minutes of nine," he said
musingly. "The bank opens at eight. You have got a chance--just a bare
chance." He shoved over a pad of telegraph blanks. "Just wire the bank
to stop payment on that check."
"Why?" asked Charley, bewildered.
"Because, it's a rotten proposition," declared the agent earnestly;
"rotten all the way through. If you can stop payment on that check
you'll save losing $3,000, that's all."
Reluctantly Charley filled in a blank and shoved it over to the agent,
who clicked it off rapidly on the key. When he had finished he came
around from behind the partition. "It was none of my business, butting
in in that way," he apologized, "but I hate to see a man robbed of his
money."
CHAPTER IV.
BUNCOED.
"DO you mean to say that Mr. Murphy does not own the machine, the
contract, and all the equipment?" Charley asked.
"Oh, I guess he owns the stuff out there, all right," said the agent.
"The point is, that in a year's time he has only completed ten miles
of the road, and, if you have read the contract over carefully, you
will have noticed that it calls for the completion of the road in two
years, or the contractor is liable to forfeit the machine itself.
There remains thirty miles to do within a year. And that thirty miles
is far harder to do than the ground Murphy has gone over. He has lost
thousands of dollars upon the work he has done. I hardly blame him for
trying to catch a sucker."
"But," Charley protested, "we saw the machine work. It digs over a
cubic yard of earth a minute, and, at 17½ cents a yard, that ought to
pay big money."
"It looks all right on paper," answered the agent wearily, "but
it doesn't figure out that way in fact. You have got to allow for
breakdowns, and a host of troubles you don't expect. The farther out
you get the more troubles you are going to have. I cannot tell you all
that may happen to you, for I do not know exactly, and, if I did, it
would be against the rules of the telegraph company for me to repeat
anything I have learned from messages that have come over the wire.
That is a rule an agent is honor-bound to obey. But I may, however,
give you a hint to be on your guard all the time. There are powerful
people and influences at work to stop that road-building."
"But why should anyone wish to stop it?" asked Charley, whose face
began to wear an anxious expression.
"That I do not know," answered the agent. "All I know is that you will
not be allowed to build that road in peace. How far its enemies will go
to stop it, and what their motive is, I cannot say. But, if I were you,
I'd be on the watchout for trouble right from the start."
"Cheerful news," commented Charley grimly.
"It isn't very joyful tidings, I admit," said the agent. "I would
hate to tackle the job under such circumstances. The work itself is
uncertain enough to keep any man worrying, without any trouble from
outside. Now you have all the warning I am permitted to give you, and,
if I may, I would like to ask you what are you going to do about it?"
"Do?" echoed Charley, throwing back his shoulders. "I coaxed my
companions into this deal, and it's up to me, with their help, to pull
out clear."
"Go to it," said Captain Westfield, approvingly. "We have still got
$2,000, and we'll back you up to the last cent. If we go broke, it will
not be the first time we've been that way."
"You've voiced my sentiments," agreed Walter, quickly.
"Dis nigger's sho' got to go wid you white chillens," Chris joined in.
"Don't know what you'd do widout dis nigger to look out for you-alls."
The agent observed this demonstration of loyalty with increased
interest. "If you all stick by each other like that, you will do better
than Murphy has, at any rate," he observed. "I'll help you all I can,
but I'm afraid that will not be very much, but, perhaps, I can drop
a hint now and then that will be of help to you. Well, there goes my
telegraph call. Guess it is an answer to your telegram to the bank."
In a few minutes he reappeared with the written message:
"Your message too late; check cashed a few minutes
after eight."
"BANK OF WEST PALM BEACH."
"I gossiped a little with the agent at Palm Beach," he said. "Murphy
left there on the southbound a few minutes ago. He bought a ticket
to Havana. Sorry, boys, I did my best for you, but it was too late.
Well, I hope you will have better luck than Murphy did. Drop in on me
whenever you feel like it. I have got to get some waybills ready for
the morning freight, now, so will have to get busy."
The little party thanked him for his kindness and, strolling down to
the dock, sat down to discuss the new turn of affairs.
"What a chump I am!" exclaimed Charley bitterly. "Here I've gone and
dragged you fellows into a hopeless proposition, when common sense
should have led me to investigate carefully. It was too good a bargain
not to have some string fastened to it. One can't get something for
nothing in this world."
"Maybe you were a mite hasty, lad," admitted the Captain; "but shucks,
we all make our little mistakes. Maybe we can do better than Murphy did
with that big land turtle. It appeared to me that Murphy wasn't just
the kind of a man to handle a lot of negroes, especially Saws. I could
see there was a pile of dissatisfaction in that camp, and, when there's
trouble in the forecastle, the ship is never worked right."
"Golly, I don't blame them niggers for looking sullen and working no
account when dey has to eat grub de way dat cook fixes it up. I reckon
I could fix up some dishes dat would sho' make them open their eyes."
"I believe there are several things that could be done to that machine
which would make her work a lot better," Walter remarked thoughtfully.
"I would like to work on the machine firing, if necessary, until I
learned how to run her. That's the way we will fix it. Chris can
be cook, I'll be engineer, the Captain overseer, and you, Charley,
business manager."
Charley forced a grin. "I'm afraid my ability as business manager
is at a discount now, but, if you fellows care to trust me again, I
believe I will profit from the lesson I've just learned, and, with your
help, will pull our hot chestnuts out of the fire. I believe it can be
done. The first thing now is to get back to our white elephant. Do you
suppose you can run that truck back to camp?"
"I believe so," said his chum doubtfully. "I used to run a car a little
at home, but it was a different make."
"Well, go ahead, and see about it," Charley said. "The Captain and
Chris will help you get our stuff aboard. I am going to make a round
of the stores and see whether Murphy owes all of them. It is likely we
will have to lay in supplies every week."
Charley found his surmise correct. Every merchant he met was clamorous
to collect overdue bills on Mr. Murphy's camp. It was here that
Charley's steady, if slow and interrupted, study of the law stood him
in good stead. "You can't collect from us, and there's no use you're
getting mad over it," he said coolly to each infuriated merchant. "You
took a chance on Murphy, and got stung, the same as we have, and you've
got to stand it the same as we have. If you get any of your money back
it will have to be from Murphy. If we had been notified beforehand
about your claims against Mr. Murphy, then we would have seen to it
that the bills were settled before we paid over the purchase price. We
have not benefited in the slightest by the things Mr. Murphy bought of
you, and you cannot expect us to pay his debts."
It was a frank, manly, straightforward statement, but the merchants
received it with wrath, sore over the losses they had sustained, and
treated the lad with many threats and charges of underhandedness, even
going so far as to accuse him of being in collusion with Murphy in an
attempt to defraud them. By the time the last merchant was visited
the lad was convinced that he could expect no credit or sympathy in
Jupiter. The knowledge did one good thing for him, however. It stirred
up every bit of his fighting spirit, and, when he rejoined his friends
at the truck, it was with the determination to make good on his
unfortunate venture, if it were possible for a human being to do so.
Walter looked up at him with beaming face. "I can run it all right,"
he declared, "and it's in pretty good shape, too, though it's been
frightfully misused."
"Good," said his chum cheerfully, as he climbed aboard. "Run me down to
the station first. I've got to send a telegram, and then we will go out
to camp."
"I've come back to ask some more questions," he grinned to the
friendly agent. "What's the name of a good wholesale grocery house
in Jacksonville? I want one that does not deal much with the local
merchants here."
"James K. Riley & Co. are the best I know of," said the agent promptly.
"Their prices are very low, but they demand spot cash, so retail
merchants do not trade with them much."
Charley wrote a few lines on a telegram blank and shoved it over to
him. "Will you rush that through for me?" he asked.
The agent grinned as he read the telegram:
"JAMES K. RILEY,
Jacksonville, Fla.
Please send at once your price list of staple groceries.
WEST, HAZARD, WESTFIELD & CO."
"Merchants here didn't exactly fold you to their bosoms, when they
learned that you were Murphy's successor?" he asked.
"Not so you could notice it," Charley admitted, with a smile. "One
can't blame them much for being sore, but, of course, we have got to
look out for ourselves."
"Sure," assented the agent, "you're making a wise move at that, kid.
It's a 250-mile haul from Jacksonville here, and the freights will be
high, but, even so, you'll get your stuff 20 per cent, cheaper than the
merchants here would charge you. The charge on this message will be a
quarter."
Charley paid over the twenty-five cents and hurried out to the truck,
where his companions were impatiently awaiting him. As they whirled out
on the dirt road leading to the camp he explained to them what he had
been doing.
"You did just right," approved the Captain. "There can't be more than
one captain to a ship, and I reckon you have got to be captain of this
one until she sails into port or is wrecked on the rocks. You have got
more business sense than the rest of us. I don't reckon because you
made one slip that you are going to keep on making them. We will back
you up with the last dollar we've got in the bank, won't we, lads?"
"Sure," said Walter heartily.
"Sho'," Chris agreed solemnly.
"Thanks," said Charley simply. "I'll do my best. Now, Walt, I wish you
would show me how to run this truck. I've got a hunch that I'm going
to have to use it a whole lot the next few months, and now's as good a
time as any to learn."
Fortunately the truck mechanism was very simple. And in half an hour
Charley had so far mastered the principles of the different levers that
he felt sure that he could run it if necessity demanded.
"There's one thing more to do before we reach camp," Charley said, when
his lesson was finished. "We ought to unpack our pistols and have them
handy in our pockets. I don't expect trouble, but it is just as well to
be ready for it. I guess there are some pretty tough characters in that
bunch. I noticed, big man as he is, Murphy had a couple of big pistols
strapped on him when he was in camp."
The pistols were gotten out of the pack and carefully oiled and
reloaded. They were late purchases and looked as small and harmless as
toy pistols, but their appearance was deceiving. In reality they were
automatics of the latest make, deadly accurate, and each, when loaded,
carried 11 steel-jacketed bullets, that could be discharged in as many
seconds. When slipped into a coat pocket they made only a slight bulge.
By the time they had all pocketed their weapons they came in full sight
of the camp. Charley stood up and viewed it with a puzzled frown on his
face.
"Something's gone wrong," he announced.
CHAPTER V.
THE STRIKE.
THE camp was soon plainly in view of all, and the reason for Charley's
exclamation apparent. Although it was not nearly noon, groups of
negroes were gathered around the various tents, and the big steam
shovel lay far ahead, motionless and deserted, with no hint of smoke
trailing from its smokestack. The only sign of activity about the camp
was the sweaty cook, once more engaged in the seemingly endless process
of molding bread on the dirty bench outside the tent.
Walter stopped the car, and Charley jumped out nimbly. None of his
anxiety showed in his manner. He strode up to the negro.
"Do you make bread every day?" he inquired lightly.
"Sho', Cap," responded the big negro. "De niggers want hit fresh every
day."
"Humph," commented the lad. "If I were you, I'd bake up enough at a
time to last two or three days. Then you would have more time to keep
things neat and clean, as they should be in a camp of this kind."
"Massa Murphy nebber found no fault wid my way ob doing things,"
objected the negro.
"Well, we are not Mr. Murphy," Charley said curtly. "We have bought him
out. We are the owners of this thing now, and we want our food clean.
Remember that. Now, tell me, which are Mr. Murphy's and the engineers'
tents?"
"Right ober dar 'mongst dat little clump of pines. De furst one is Mr.
Murphy's."
Charley strolled over to the little tent and entered it. It was small
and dirty, and the dirt floor was littered with whiskey bottles, all
empty. Charley viewed them with a grim smile. "No wonder Murphy lost
out," he murmured. "A man cannot put up a good fight and entertain
John Barleycorn at the same time." There was a rude box desk in one
corner of the tent, littered with letters and papers. Charley seated
himself beside it and overhauled its contents quickly. This done, he
walked out of the tent's squalor into the open air once more. He next
drew back the flap of the first engineer's tent, and peeped inside,
but the tent was deserted, as was also the second, save for disordered
cots and black, greasy clothing, flung here and there. In the third
tent, however, he found a young man, stretched out on a cot reading
a magazine. Unlike the other tents, this was neat and cleanly, and
the dirty working clothes of its occupants were hung up on a line
stretching across the tent. "Hello," he greeted Charley boyishly.
"Back again are you?"
"Yes," agreed Charley, as he noted the other's self-reliant, boyish
face. "I ought to have to apologize for not ringing your bell, or
knocking at your front door, but I didn't see either."
"That's all right," laughed the youth, as he sat up on the end of his
cot. "Take a seat on the other end. That's my seat of honor for my
visitors."
"What's your name?" Charley inquired.
"C. P. McCarty," replied the youth, with a grin. "I'm ashamed to
confess that the C. P. stands for Clarence Percy, but don't call me
either, for I see red when I get good and mad."
"One of the engineers?"
"Oh, we get called that sometimes by courtesy. Really, we are what you
might term runners. No one of us three is really a licensed engineer.
Say, what might your name be?"
"Charley West, one of the new owners of this business."
McCarty threw back his head and chuckled. "Whew!" he whistled, "just
to think I've been talking flippant to a new boss for the last ten
minutes."
"Never mind that," Charley grinned. "What I want to know is what's the
matter here? Why is the steam shovel not running? Where are the other
two runners?"
"Answer to question number one and two the same--general strike of all
hands," replied McCarty briefly. "Yesterday was pay day. We have had
no pay, any of us, for two months. Strike came when I went on watch. I
tried to stop it, but it was no good. Can't say as I blame the niggers
much. I'm kind of sore myself. It's bad enough living in a crowd like
this, working in mud and water, living on bum, dirty grub, and, when
you can't get your wages promptly, when you have a family to support,
it's pretty tough. As for your third question, the other two runners
have taken the dog and gone quail hunting."
"I see," said Charley absently. "How long have you been on the job?"
"Six months," said McCarty briefly. "I'm not an engineer, but I've
worked around machinery ever since I can remember, and I've dug out
more dirt on this job than the other two runners put together, if I do
say it, and I could have done double if I had had a good crew back of
me."
"I found Mr. Murphy's payroll in his tent," Charley observed. "I notice
that, for the past two months, the men have been working only a little
over half the time. How does that happen?"
"Accidents to the machine," said McCarty laconically. "I can't explain
them, but they keep happening right along. Strange part of it is, they
don't happen on my watch. Maybe that's just my good luck, but I have a
feeling that there's something wrong somewhere. I don't know as there
is anything wrong going on, but I've kinder got a hunch there is."
"How about the other two engineers? Are they all right?" Charley asked.
"Now, I'm not going to snitch on my mates," said McCarty decidedly. "I
may like them, or I may not, that has nothing to do with the matter."
"I think it has," said Charley coolly. "You owe a duty to your
employers far above any ethical or fancied duty to your mates, as you
call them. You are working for us, and we are the ones you look to
for your pay. I'm going to give you a check for your wages due this
afternoon. After to-day your salary will be $100 a month, and you'll
be chief engineer or runner on the job. There are conditions attached,
of course. You are to give me fully reports on everything pertaining
to your department; and, second, you will have to teach my chum,
Walter, how to run the machine. You will have to look after the machine
carefully, and, as soon as a part becomes worn in the least you must
notify me, so I can have a new part ready as soon as the old one gives
out. That's my proposition. Take it, or reject it, as you please."
McCarty reflected for a moment. "You're right," he said at last, "a
man cannot serve two masters, and I have no reason to love either of
the two engineers. They have bullied and slanged me as much as they
dared ever since I've been on the job. It's hard to judge a dredge man,
for they are the hardest class in the world. I guess it's the work and
the men they work for that makes them so, and, when it comes down to
real meanness and hardness, Bully Rooney and One-eye McGill stand at
the lowest of the list. I know it sounds like a sneak, knocking his
friends behind their backs, but I don't mean to be sneakish about it.
You can tell them just what I've said. That I believe they have caused
most of the hang-ups on this job--that but for them this job would have
paid expenses, at any rate."
Charley smiled. "I'm going to have a little talk with them," he
admitted, "but I am not going to tell them anything you have said. I
am grateful to you for what you have told me, and I believe we are
going to make this thing pay. By the way, can you tell me of any good
engineer that a man could depend upon to do the right thing?"
"There is Bob Bratton, of Miami," said McCarty, brightening, "he is
as white as they make them; but," he added despairingly, "the best
engineer in the world can do but little with a poor crew."
"I'm going to tend to that part of it," Charley said, with a smile.
"You do your part, and I'll see that the crew does theirs. Well, go
ahead and finish your story. There will be no work done on the machine
to-day. Glad to have had this little chat with you. So-long. I'll make
out your check this afternoon."
He stepped out of the tent into the clear sunshine again, strangely
cheered by the fact that he had found at least one man in the gang upon
whom he could depend.
At the cook tent he found Chris industriously scraping the dirt off the
bench, and vigorously scolding the big negro, who was standing idly by,
with a look of dismay on his ebony face.
"I'ze plum ashamed of you," Chris was saying. "I nebber thought dat a
Bahama nigger could be so plum nasty and dirty. I'se sho' ashamed of my
country when I see things like dis going on. Say, what island are you
from, nigger?"
"Eluther," said the negro sullenly.
"Elutheria," echoed Chris, "right next to de Spanish Wells Island, whar
you could hab learned all manner ob things from all dose white people
what lives there. Nigger, I'se sho' ashamed ob you."
Charley grinned, as he turned to the Captain, who was facing the rest
of the negroes, who had been drawn to the spot by the loud talking.
They were a rough-looking lot of humanity, pitted by smallpox on their
faces, and their bared arms and chests marked by old knife cuts and
pistol wounds. But they were almost giants in size, broad-shouldered,
and muscular-backed men with the narrow hips that mark the true athlete.
Charley paused to choose his words before addressing them.
CHAPTER VI.
LOYALTY.
"WHERE do all you boys come from?[A] I've been pretty well over the
Bahama Islands, but I can't quite place you chaps," Charley said,
smilingly. "What island are you from, anyway?"
"I reckon most of us men are from Andros and Abacco Islands. Thar's
four or five from Little Abacco or Green Turtle Key."
"I have never been ashore at Andros or Abacco Island, but I know
lots of fellows from Green Turtle Key. Will those of you from Green
Turtle Key please step to one side?" Five grinning negroes separated
themselves from the crowd.
"I understand that you boys have quit work and gone on a strike because
your wages have not been paid. Well, inside of two hours I will have
your checks made out, and you can go. We will not need you any longer.
"Hold on, you fellows from Green Turtle Key," he said, as they began
to move away with the crowd. "I can't carry you all in at one trip.
The truck can't do it on a dirt road. I want you fellows to stay over
to-morrow, and I will take you in the next day, and I want you to work
cleaning up this camp. Of course, we will pay you extra for the work,
but it must be done well. Captain Westfield, here, will show you what
we want done."
The five negroes began to grumble, but the lad silenced them with a
word. "If you are in such a hurry to go, you can walk in," he said. The
negroes were not anxious to walk in, so they gave a grudging consent.
"Gee," whispered Walter, who had been listening closely. "How can we
afford to pay them? They say there is two months' pay due them, and
that will about eat up the balance of our funds."
"We have simply got to pay them," Charley grinned. "The labor alien law
is strict, and they could tie up the machine with liens and render us
helpless. Things are not quite as bad as they look. I've been looking
over Murphy's papers, and I find that this month he had dug 10,000
yards so far. He could not collect the money on it until the county
engineer comes out and measures it up, and that will not be until the
end of the month, so we will get the $1,750 coming in."
"But look what shape we are putting ourselves in," said Walter
anxiously. "We can't work the machine without men."
"Don't worry about that," said Charley cheerfully. "I'll tend to
getting new and better men. What I would like you to do is to stick
right close to McCarty and learn everything you can about the machine.
He'll be glad enough to show you. I want you to master it, so that you
will know how every part of it works, and can let me know, so that I
can have a new part ready when the old one gives out."
"Good," Walter exclaimed. "I would rather fool around machinery than do
any other work. Say, where's McCarty's tent? I want to have a talk with
him."
"Wait until after dinner," Charley counseled. "He's enjoying himself
now."
"But what am I going to do, Charles?" protested Captain Westfield. "I
don't see where I come in."
"I want you to be general overseer over the ground men, graders, and
teamsters. You see, Captain, we want to push the work as fast as we
can, and with as few accidents as possible. I am going to increase the
men's wages, but they have got to earn their money. Take the graders
we watched yesterday. Two good men could have done the work those five
were doing. Now, if you will help me, we will get up our two tents a
little farther up the road. To-morrow I wish that you would see that
every tent is taken down and scrubbed with soap and water with a good
dose of carbolic acid in it. When they are dry, have them pitched
again, not far from that little bunch of spruce there. We will pitch
our own tents among the spruces."
McCarty and Walter came to their assistance, and in a short time the
two tents were pitched in the thicket of glossy green and the dirt
floors carpeted thickly with fragrant pine needles. This done, Charley
brought over from Murphy's tent the box with its collection of papers.
The payroll was already made out, so all the lad had to do was to make
out the checks and, as soon as it was done, the negroes filed in, one
by one, signed their names to the pay sheet, and received their checks.
Some of them would have liked to have stayed and worked on, but the lad
was sick of their dirtiness and laziness, and wanted no more of them.
Dinner followed close upon the completion of this task, and all
gathered around the long tables upon which Chris had already impressed
somewhat of cleanliness, and had cleaned up some of the rubbish which
had littered the floor. The grinning negroes sat down to a dinner such
as they hadn't eaten in many a day--plain and simple, but wholesome and
well flavored and well cooked.
They had hardly begun to eat when the engineers entered, bearing a
big bag of quail and followed by a panting pointer dog. They sat down
quietly at the boys' table, and sullenly began to eat. Charley noted
their faces with dissatisfaction. He knew, from what he had seen of the
class, that dredge men are a hard, cruel, overbearing class, but these
two shocked him in their sheer coarseness and brutality of expression,
and from each emanated the strong odor of cheap whiskey. If not drunk,
they were apparently on the verge of drunkenness.
Charley waited until the last negro had filed out of the tent, then he
turned to McCarty. "You might introduce me to your mates," he said,
with mild sarcasm. "They are so highly trained, socially, that it seems
that they will not speak without an introduction."
McCarty grinned with delight at his new boss.
"This," he said lightly, "is Bully Rooney; the one on the left is
One-eyed McGill. Mr. Rooney, Mr. McGill, meet your new boss, Mr. West."
"If he's the new boss, he can just understand one thing," growled
Rooney, "I'm not going to have any greenhorn fooling around the machine
when I am working on it."
"Nor me, neither," growled his companion.
"You will not be troubled at all in that way," Charley assured them
smilingly. "I'm going into town in the truck between two and three
o'clock, and, if you can get your things packed up, I'll take you
in. Your checks are ready, and I'll give them to you as soon as you
sign the payroll. I do not want a man in our gang whom I cannot trust
absolutely. And I will not have one that drinks. Drink leads to
carelessness, and carelessness leads to accidents. I imagine that's why
the machine has been broken down so much."
A scowl of rage showed on Rooney's face. "That snip of a McCarty has
been shooting off his mouth too much."
"Murphy's papers told me all I needed to know," said Charley quickly,
but McCarty spoke up coolly and on his own behalf:
"And I've told him about the same thing, and ought to have told him
more. I should have told him that the machine has been losing money
ever since you two came on the job. That nearly all the dirt that has
been thrown out has been thrown out on my shift. That not a week has
passed without the machine suffering some breakdown that, in most
cases, could have been avoided. Lastly, I could, and should have told
him, that there will not be a cent of money made on this job until it's
rid of you two skulking, booze-fighting man-killers."
Bully Rooney's face grew black with anger, and he launched himself like
a clumsy bear at the slight McCarty. The youth, his Irish-blue eyes
sparkling with anger, drew back his fists for a swinging blow at the
other, but Charley promptly stepped in between the two with his little
automatic in his hand.
"Here, that's about enough of this," he exclaimed. "If there's any
fighting to be done in this camp hereafter, we will do it--understand
that. Now you two go to your tents and pack up what belongs to you, for
I start for town at three prompt."
The two sullenly departed for their tents, muttering angrily as they
went, and Charley turned to McCarty.
"I wish you would take Walter down to the machine with you this
afternoon and show him all you can about its workings. I would also
like you to make out a list of what new parts may be needed soon, and I
will order them at once. If you know or can think of anything that will
help to make the machine dig more dirt, I wish you would suggest it to
me, and we will go over it together. If it's feasible, we'll adopt it
at once."
"I can suggest two or three things, right now," said McCarty, eagerly.
"First, our pump is all on the bum. Its valve is all worn out. It
needs repacking, and it needs a bigger intake pipe. We have to fill
the boiler six times in twenty-four hours, and it takes an hour each
time. If it had been tended to properly it would not take over fifteen
minutes at a time to fill up the boiler; as it is, we lose a clear
five hours' work a day on that one item alone. Then, there's the wood.
It is always piled on the left side of the track, so that we always
have to swing the machine around and wait for the ground men to load
it on, and, of course, we do no work until they get through, which
generally takes them 15 minutes, while, if it were placed on the other
side, the machine could keep right on while the men were loading.
There's another hour lost a day."
"Six hours' waste out of twenty-four," Charley exclaimed. "Get the
measurement of that valve and intake pipe at once, and I'll get
them when I go in this time. As for the wood business, that belongs
in your department," he said, turning to the teamster, a lanky,
humorous-looking Missourian; "what have you got to say about it?"
FOOTNOTE:
[A] A form of address generally used in the South when white speaks to
black.
CHAPTER VII.
CHARLEY HAS A NARROW ESCAPE.
"I AM not the boss of this outfit," said the Missourian, with a smile.
"I do what I am told to do. Rooney and McGill ordered me to pile the
wood on that side, so I've been doing it. I reckon Rooney and his
partner figured it out that they would get a little more rest that way.
Let's have a look at the mules, if you can spare the time."
"Sure," said Charley gladly. "I want to get in touch with every part of
the business as soon as possible."
"I always build them a corral whenever we make a new camp," observed
the Missourian, as he led the way to the pen where he kept the mules.
"Hold on!" he shouted, as Charley stooped to pass under the bars. "If
Pansy and Violet don't just happen to like your appearance, they are
likely as not to kick the soul out of you."
Charley withdrew in haste. "My, but they are beauties for mules."
"Finest team I've handled," declared the teamster, with a grin. "I
kinder like to have them a little savage with everyone. It keeps
strangers from fooling with them. They have life and plenty of sense.
I could not do my work with a poor team of mules. This work is terrible
on animals."
"And on men, too, I guess," Charley agreed. "I want to say that
hereafter your wages will be $2.00 per day as long as we satisfy each
other. Now, how is your work? How much wood have you got ahead for the
machine?"
"Not much," admitted the teamster ruefully; "perhaps enough for a day
and night, if the machine runs like it usually does."
"That's not enough," Charley said decidedly. "There should be at least
a week's wood ahead all the time. In case a mule gets sick, or goes
lame, don't you see that the machine would have to lie up until we
could get another team? It looks to me like this dredging business
is like links in a chain. If any one man, from teamster up, fails to
do his part in the work, why, the whole machine has got to go out of
business until the defect can be made good."
"I'm doing my best," the teamster protested. "Most of my wood has to
be cut and hauled over a mile to the machine, and the route I have to
take to get to it is generally a winding one, for I have to pass around
all ponds and bog holes. It takes careful driving to avoid bogging down
your team and losing it."
"Well, then there is one weak link we have got to strengthen right
away," said the lad cheerfully. "I will not be back from town until day
after to-morrow, but, when I come, I will bring a good man to help you.
He can do the wood chopping while you do the hauling; meanwhile, keep
on with your work, so as to get ahead while the machine is idle to-day
and to-morrow. Another thing I would mention is that I want to get
things so systematized that it will not be necessary to do but little
work on Sunday. I want that as a day of rest for all hands, so far as
possible."
The lanky Missourian reached out and grasped Charley's hand. "I'm right
with you, lad, clean up to the hilt. You've got the right ideas. A body
of men will do as much in six days as in seven, besides being more
contented, healthy and cheerful."
"Well, I must get back to camp. I've got several things to see to
before I start for town," Charley said.
"Hold on!" yelled the teamster, as the boy was turning away. "For God's
sake don't move your feet!"
Startled, Charley looked down. In moving forward he had placed his
right foot squarely upon the head of a huge snake, while his left foot
was lying across the reptile's big body. It was only by summoning all
his self-control that the lad kept from jerking impulsively ahead
or to one side, a course which would surely have resulted in instant
death. In fact, death was threatening as it was. The boy could hardly
retain his position as the powerful reptile began to twist back and
forth beneath his feet. Luckily, where he stood the ground was soft,
and the parts of the snake upon which he stood were deeply imbedded in
the soft sand, but, even with that in his favor, it was only a question
of seconds before the repulsive reptile wriggled free. Charley drew his
automatic and fired down at the huge, writhing, black body between his
feet. The first shot penetrated the middle of the snake, and, firing
slowly and carefully, Charley cut roughly through the middle of the
snake's body. As its struggles grew less, the lad leaped far ahead and
looked back. The snake was still struggling vigorously, but, with its
body nearly severed, it could do nothing but swing its head viciously.
"You did that pretty neat, lad," said the teamster cheerfully. "I was
afraid you would try to jump. You've shore got pluck."
Charley grinned. "It was simply a bad case of being too scared to
move. Well, let's climb on the wagon and get back to camp. Say," he
continued, as the teamster whipped up the mules he had harnessed up
while talking, "do you have many of those moccasins out here?"
"Not many right here," grinned the driver, "but on these strips of pine
lands there is not supposed to be any. I suppose our crew kills from
twenty to twenty-five a week. Sometimes we kill them all curled up nice
and comfortable in our bunks. But, pshaw! that ain't nothing to the day
it will be five or ten miles farther out. I drove out there once and
it's a sure bet the wheels and mules' hoofs killed over a hundred going
and coming."
"Whew!" Charley whistled, "that's not very pleasant to hear, but, here
we are at camp, and I've been too excited over this trip to ask your
name."
"It's Jim Canody--'Languid Jim' they generally call me," grinned the
teamster.
"You can go back to work, then, Jim," said Charley. "Do your best, and
I'll have a good man to help you soon. Drive in by the cook tent and
I'll jump off there."
"Well, Chris," he inquired, "how are you getting on?"
The little negro grinned. "Dis ain't going to be no cinch, Massa
Charles," he said. "Cooking and cleaning up for twenty-five men is
goin' to be a mighty big job for one small nigger. 'Sides, if you
work a night crew hit means a whole lot more work putting up midnight
lunches. Dat's a lot of extra work."
"I see you have got to have an assistant," Charley agreed.
"Dat's so," acquiesced Chris, "but he's going to be mah helper, and I
want to pick him out."
"Give me a description of the kind of help you want, and I'll try to
get it," Charley grinned.
Chris reflected. "I'd like a nigger jes' 'bout my size," he said
musingly. "'Cause he won't be noaccount 'less I can make him do as I
tell him. I'd like him to be a yellar nigger, too. 'Cause a yellar
negro is much more timid, and shows de dirt much quicker dan a
coal-black nigger. Hit's a lot moah easy to keep him clean. Dis nigger
don't want no noaccount nigger trifling around dat he can't lick."
Charley grinned. "I'll try to get you one like you wish. Now, I want
you to make up a list of everything you need for the next sixty days."
"Golly! Massa Charles," exclaimed the little negro. "I can't do dat,
noways. I might figure out what it would take to feed one man, but
I can't calculate on twenty-five men for sixty days. Dat's too big
figuring for one little nigger."
"Well, just figure on one man for thirty days," said Charley, amused,
"and I'll figure on the other twenty-four men."
"Golly," exclaimed Chris, "youah sure got a head on you, Massa Charles.
I don't see at all how's you going to figure dat out."
"Get out your list," said Charley, "and some time I'll tell you how
to do it. Don't put down any fancy thing--only just what will make
substantial hearty grub, like rice, pork, beans, coffee, salt, canned
milk, sugar, flour, dried fruits, macaroni, and, I guess, canned meats,
until we get out to the hunting ground. Hurry up, now, and get up that
list. It's time I was going now."
Leaving Chris to his strenuous labors of figuring out what one man
could eat in thirty days, Charley gave a few instructions to the
Captain about cleaning up the camp, and then sauntered over to the
engineers' tent. With only a "Hello" he threw open the flap. Bully
Rooney, half-dressed, rose up from his cot and jerked a rifle from its
slings.
"Better put that down," Charley advised him. "Before you could get
that thing into action I could riddle you with my automatic." Rooney
reluctantly obeyed.
"Now, I didn't come in here for a row," the lad continued. "I came
in to tell you that the car is ready for town. I'm going to leave in
fifteen minutes. Better hustle and get your things together."
"I ain't going," said Rooney sullenly. "I've been working by the month,
and I've got to have a month's notice or an extra month's pay."
"You are going. We will not have you on the ground--and that's pat,"
Charley declared. "If you and your partner stay on, we will see that
you eat none of the company's grub. You can just stay here and starve,
for all we care. Make up your mind quick--five minutes of that fifteen
minutes have gone."
"We'll go," growled Rooney, "but let me tell you, young fellow, we will
sue you as soon as we strike town."
"That's good," said Charley, with cheerfulness. "We have got nothing to
lose, because you've got no legal grounds for a suit; besides which,
I don't believe either you or McGill dare to go to court. I really
believe that neither of you dare face the showing up of the foul things
you have done on this job. Now you both get a move on you. If you are
not ready when starting time comes I'll leave you and bring out the
sheriff to move you when I come back."
Before the time arrived to go, McGill and Rooney were stowing their
hastily packed luggage in the car, and the negroes, with their few
tattered belongings, were trying to find a place for themselves in the
crowded truck. Then, with Charley at the wheel, the truck was headed
around for Jupiter, and they were off.
CHAPTER VIII.
WALTER TAKES HIS FIRST LESSON IN RUNNING AN ENGINE.
"I DON'T like the idea of Charley going in alone with that gang,"
Captain Westfield said uneasily. "It's a bad crowd he's got along with
him, and they may make him trouble."
"I don't think they will," said Walter, as the two stood watching the
truck out of sight. "They have all got their checks, and have got no
reason for making trouble. I guess Charley can take care of himself.
Did you see how fast he was driving the car--almost too fast? If those
engineers are not just plain fools, they will not touch him, for, if
he let go that steering wheel for a second or two, the car would turn
turtle into the ditch and all hands be killed or hurt."
"Well," said the Captain, with relief, "if that's the case, I'll quit
worrying and get out those Saws to get down the tents that are empty."
"And I'll go back to the machine," Walter said. "I want to learn all
about it as soon as I can. McCarty seems to be a mighty fine fellow,
and he is going to show me how to run it."
McCarty was waiting for him at the machine. "Now the first lesson is
going to be a dirty one," he said. "We will have to crawl under the
car, so you can see how each part works."
Shedding their coats, the two wriggled under on the wet ground and,
lying on their backs, McCarty pointed out the various cog-wheels that
worked the car and the swinging table.
"Gosh!" exclaimed McCarty suddenly. "Look at that!"
Startled, Walter looked to where the other was pointing. In one of the
deep, sharp niches, into which the long teeth of the ratching descended
when the platform was in motion, was wedged a round, yellow stick, of
some eight inches in length.
McCarty pulled out the strange object and looked at it musingly. He
broke off a bit of it, and, crumbling it up in his hand, examined it
closely. "That stuff must have been put in there just before I went on
duty night before last," he said. "Gosh! It's lucky the nigger struck
on me before I started up the machine."
"Why?" Walter asked. "What is that stuff, anyway?"
McCarty threw him the stick. "Catch it," he said; "that's dynamite of
the strongest grade."
Walter held the stick gingerly, as though he was afraid it might go off
at any minute.
"Don't be afraid of it," laughed McCarty. "It doesn't go off so very
easy. It needs a sudden, hard jar, or a cap and fuse, to explode it. If
I had swung that thirty-ton platform around on top of that stuff the
machine would likely have been pretty badly smashed up, and maybe some
of us killed."
"Who could have put it there?" Walter asked.
"Hard to say. Someone who wanted to put the machine out of business,
of course. To be frank, however, it all points to Rooney, who had the
shift before mine. He blew the whistle for me when his shift was up,
and I left from the camp at once. We passed each other about halfway,
so no one else would have had much chance to put anything in there,
between his departure from the machine and my arrival. However, it
has done no harm, so there's no use worrying about it now, but we had
better look good, and see if there's any more of it scattered around."
A close search, however, failed to reveal any more of the dangerous
explosive, so the two boys crawled out from under the car and mounted
the swinging steel platform, where McCarty showed the other which part
of the cog-wheels they had seen below each lever controlled. There
was a lever to move the car back and forth on its tracks like a steam
engine, a lever to put on brakes, one to control the two-ton steel
bucket, and another to raise and lower the long steel crane.
"Best way for you to learn to run it is to come on as fireman," he
advised. "It's a hot, dirty job, and long hours, but you've got to
learn the steam part first before you can become a good runner. You've
got to know enough about a steam engine to tell if your fireman is
doing his part right--to know whether he is carrying too much or too
little steam, and whether he keeps water enough in the boiler all the
time. A careless fireman can easily blow up a boiler and wreck his
engine, so it pays to keep an eye on your fireman."
"All right. I'll come on as a fireman," agreed Walter, cheerfully.
"That's right," approved McCarty. "It's the only proper way to learn.
Here's another thing to think of: Suppose you went on to that machine
to-morrow as a runner. You know now how it works, all about the levers,
etc. But, take one example. The first thing you may have to do is to
move back on another section of track. A section of track is only
fifteen feet long, and the part of the car that rests on it covers
twelve of the fifteen feet. The section next is butted up against
the one the car is on, but is not fastened to it. Across the ends of
the two sections the ground men place two six-foot pieces of iron
rail, to catch the center wheels of the car. Now, everything is ready
for moving, and the ground men signal, 'Go ahead.' You start ahead.
Suddenly the ground men, who are watching cry, 'Hold, hold.' When you
have heard that cry you know the car is not hitting that second section
right. You have to stop that machine, and stop it, not in a second,
but in a fraction of a second, or your machine will be off the track
and buried in the sand; or, perhaps, even skidded into the ditch, and
likely lost to you forever. Do you suppose a green man, with all that
array of levers before him, could act quick enough to save his machine
and crew? Why, running a steam locomotive is easy compared to running
one of these things. Well, I guess we have gone over everything, and we
might as well go back to camp. In the morning we will come out and fire
up and take a few lessons in actual practice in firing and handling
some of the simpler levers."
"Good!" Walter exclaimed. "Say, what's that haze off there in the west?
Isn't it smoke?"
"Indian fires," said McCarty. "They burn off parts of the prairies
every six months so as to get fresh pasture for their stock.
Appearances are deceptive out here. The air is so clear that one can
see objects very far distant. Now, how far off would you say that fire
is?"
"About ten miles off," Walter guessed.
"It's more than twice that far," declared the other. "It's a queer
country we will be entering soon, and I'm thinking we'll see some queer
things before we get through this job. But, here we are at the camp.
My, that supper smells good."
They found the Captain driving the negroes at their task with all the
authority an old shipmaster can display.
"Gee," exclaimed McCarty, "I never saw those niggers work like that
before. Why, they've got all the empty tents down and one of them
washed up. I wonder how he did it."
"Oh, the Captain can handle men, all right," said Walter proudly. "That
has been his business all his life, handling tough crews of sailors."
The old skipper knocked off his men for the night and joined the two
lads. "Well, I've got a good start for to-morrow," he said, with
satisfaction. "We'll have everything finished up by to-morrow night.
Say, those Saws ain't half-bad workers when you handle them right."
"Negroes are no good out on this kind of work. A nigger wants to be in
or near a town," McCarty declared positively. "He wants to be where he
can get out nights and 'rambles,' as he calls it. He don't like to stay
long on a job, anyway. If he's not paid every Saturday night, he quits.
If he is paid, he's pretty likely to quit, too, for he will have $8 or
$9 in his pocket, and, as long as he has a dollar he does not believe
in work. I remember hearing once this dialogue between a white man and
a nigger:
"White Man--'Say, boy, do you want to earn a quarter?'
"Negro--'No, sah, boss; I'se dun got a quarter.'"
Chris beating on a tin pan drew them all to the cook tent, where a
good supper awaited them. The sun went out of sight while they were
eating, and darkness followed immediately, as there is no twilight in
Florida. Lanterns were lit, and, while the Captain and Walter lent the
overworked little negro a hand in cleaning up, McCarty, who had moved
his tent close to the Captain's, built up a big fire in front of the
tents, and hunted up a few boxes for seats. Here the Captain and Walter
soon joined him, while Chris wandered over to visit with his countrymen.
"I always like to sit by a camp fire evenings, when I am out on a
job like this." McCarty said. "It seems to take away some of the
loneliness, and makes things seem more cheerful. Just listen for a
minute to the din, will you?"
There was no need to listen--the din could not be ignored. The croaking
of millions of frogs, the honk of sand-hill cranes, and the screeching
of innumerable owls rose up from the darkness about them.
"Sounds like they were all saying their prayers at once and getting
ready to go to sleep," said Walter, with a laugh.
"And that's just what they are doing," said McCarty. "Step outside of
the circle of firelight with me, and take a look around."
The three stepped out a few paces from the fire and gazed about them.
It was pitch dark, but all around them glowed millions of tiny lights,
flittering here and there.
"Just fireflies," explained McCarty. "But watch. See that thin white
mist rising from the ground?" As they watched, the white vapor rose
higher, grew denser, and shrouded the land with a ghost-like shroud.
The fireflies disappeared, the frogs ceased croaking, the owls' hooting
died away, and all was still.
"Night has drawn its sheet over them, and they have gone to sleep,"
said McCarty whimsically.
"Hark!" exclaimed Walter. "What's that?"
"Hanged if I know," said McCarty, puzzled. "It's coming closer all the
time, whatever it is."
CHAPTER IX.
BOB IS SENT HOME.
IT was strange sounds coming out of the mists that had drawn the lads'
attention. They were not kept long in suspense as to the nature of
the noises, for it soon became plain that they were human voices, one
shrill and piercing, the other deep and guttural. Nearer they drew,
until out of the white vapor loomed a huge, grotesque object, which
gradually resolved itself into a big covered wagon, drawn by four gaunt
oxen. In the front of the wagon sat an Indian woman, urging the weary
beasts on with whip and shrill cries. Behind the wagon walked a huge,
powerful Indian, closely followed by a mass of pigs, cattle and goats,
which were urged on from the rear by a pack of mongrel dogs, of all
sizes and colors. With much squealing of pigs, barking of dogs, and
cries from the squaw, this strange equipage came to a stop in front of
the camp.
The two boys advanced to the road to meet the visitors.
"Hello," Walter greeted them.
"Hello," returned the Indian. "No can get by big machine?"
"No," said McCarty, "I'm afraid you can't. Machine right in road, deep
ditches both sides, plenty mud. Back one mile is a road that circles
around the machine. You understand?"
The Indian nodded comprehension. "No can find road at night. Me camp
here."
"All right," Walter assented. "When you get unhitched, come over to
camp fire and have something to eat."
The two boys rummaged around in the cook tent and got out a can of
salmon, one of corned beef, and a box of crackers, which they carried
out to the camp fire. The Indian was there awaiting them. "She unhitch
oxen," he explained.
Walter grinned. "Indian man no work?" he inquired.
"No work," agreed the Seminole.
"Your squaw?" asked the interested lad.
"No, sister," and a gleam of interest shone on the Indian's impassive
face. "You want squaw?" he demanded.
"No," said Walter hastily, while McCarty laughed.
"Sister strong, work good, cook good, too," recommended the Seminole
seriously.
"Why don't you get a squaw yourself?" McCarty demanded.
"Sister got tongue sharp as knife point," admitted the Indian sadly.
"She and squaw would fight and fight and fight with their tongues, and
there would be no peace in the camp for its master."
Her task performed, the Indian girl now approached the fire. She was
pretty for an Indian. Like all Seminole girls, she wore a waist of
bright colors, a skirt of calico of many hues, and beaded moccasins on
her feet. She was frankly unembarrassed and smiled around at her hosts
in evident friendliness.
Walter opened the cans and handed them and the crackers to the girl.
"No meal cooked in big tent," he explained. "To-morrow morning have
plenty hot grub."
The two ate silently and hungrily, and as soon as they had finished
departed for their wagon with a brief "Good-by."
"They never even said thanks," McCarty commented.
"An Indian never expresses his gratitude in words," Walter explained,
"but they never forget a favor done them. If we ever happen near that
fellow's camp, he will bring in some present, such as venison or pork.
Well, it is time we were turning in. The Captain has been asleep for
hours."
Chris awoke all hands next morning at daylight by beating on a tin pan.
He had breakfast all ready by the time they were washed and dressed.
The Seminoles had already hitched up their oxen, and, seated by the
cook tent, were patiently waiting for the promised meal.
The boys invited them to seats at their own table, and were surprised
to note that they seemed perfectly at ease, handling knife and fork.
The meal was quickly dispatched, and the Indians, with a brief
"good-by," departed to pick up the road they had passed in the night,
and the boys hastened out to the machine, while the Captain, with his
negro helpers, resumed the work of cleaning up the camp.
Walter quickly picked up the knack of firing, and, after he had
mastered its principles, McCarty, standing by his side, permitted
him to handle the two levers that controlled the great steel bucket.
Simple as it looked to be when he watched McCarty do it, Walter soon
found that it required both quickness and coolness to handle only these
two levers out of the many before him. He repeated the operation of
raising, lowering, digging, and dumping several hundred times, gaining
more quickness, sureness, and certainty with each operation.
"You're going to learn quickly," McCarty said. "I am sorry, but we can
do no more to-day. If you'll look back at your water gauge you'll see
that there are only a few inches of water left in your boiler. Filling
it is too big a job for us to tackle alone, so you might as well rake
out your fire, and we will go back to camp."
"I say," he continued, as Walter threw open the furnace door and raked
out the blazing billets of wood with an iron rake, "it's only nine
o'clock. What do you say if we go off on a little hunt for the balance
of the day? It's likely to be the last chance we will have in many
months."
"I'll go you," Walter agreed. "That is, provided the Captain does not
need any help."
They found the Captain with his task nearly completed. "No, you can't
help me any," he said. "The niggers will have everything done by noon.
Go on and have your fun, lads, but be careful, and be sure to get back
by dark."
The boys sought their tents, and got out their guns and game bags. By
the time they were ready Chris had a lunch wrapped up for them, and
they struck out into the open woods, with Bob, the dog, gamboling in
front of them.
"Why, you have brought your rifle along with you," Walter exclaimed,
noting his comrade's gun.
"Yes; one shotgun is enough," said his friend; "and I am in hopes that
we may run on to some big game. I've seen plenty of signs of deer
lately."
"I'll be contented if I can get a good bag of quail."
"Oh, you'll get them, all right," said McCarty confidently. "The woods
are full of them, and Bob is as good a bird dog as there is in the
State of Florida. Look, he is at it already."
As if to justify the compliment paid him, Bob had stopped in front
of a little oak thicket, and stood with head thrust forward and tail
sticking straight out. He waited patiently in this attitude for the
lads to approach.
"Get your gun ready, and I'll scare them up for you," McCarty said.
"If you are not used to shooting on the wing just aim at the flock and
blaze away when they rise."
He picked up a heavy stick and threw it into the thicket. With a
whirling of wings a big covey of quail rose up from its center.
Walter fired one barrel after the other into the middle of the flock.
"Good!" exclaimed McCarty. "You got a dozen at least. Watch where the
balance light. Here, Bob, fetch 'em out."
The dog rushed forward, but stopped at the edge of the thicket.
"Fetch 'em out, Bob; fetch 'em out," encouraged the lad, but the dog
turned back with drooping tail.
"There's something wrong in there," declared McCarty; "something the
dog is afraid of."
"Well, I'm going in and get my quail," Walter said. "I'm not going to
be cheated out of the first quail I ever killed."
"Hold on," said McCarty, "there's no telling what you may run up
against. The thicket isn't over fifty feet across. Let's set fire to
both sides of it, and one of us stand by each end. We ought to be able
to kill whatever it is as it comes out."
"Good," Walter agreed. "I'll take my stand by this end, and you can
take yours by the other."
In a few minutes the thicket was ablaze on both sides, while the two
lads, with guns cocked, stood eagerly waiting the appearance of its
occupant.
The thicket was all of small growth, and in a few minutes the fire
had swept it clear to the ground, leaving only here and there a few
smouldering stalks of thicket growth. The dead quail lay scattered
around on the ground, unhurt except for a slight singing of feathers.
"I guess Bob got a wrong hunch that time," Walter said, as he picked up
his quail, of which there were thirteen.
"I'll bet on Bob every time," said McCarty. "There was something in
here that he was afraid to tackle, and I'll bet if we look around long
enough we'll find some trace of it."
"Look out!" said Walter. "There it is, right in front of you."
CHAPTER X.
WALTER AND THE ENGINEER GO A-HUNTING.
A FEW feet in front of McCarty lay a little mound of soft dirt, thrown
up by a gopher when digging its hole down deep into the earth. It was
the stirring of this mound of sand that had called forth Walter's
exclamation.
The boys watched, fascinated, as the sand trembled more violently, and
a big, flat head, with lidless eyes, reared itself above the dirt. At
sight of the repulsive-looking head, both boys fired, and the head
dropped back, nearly severed from its body.
"Gracious!" exclaimed Walter, as they pried the rest of the body from
the sand with their gun barrels. "Did you ever see one like it in your
life?"
"I never saw such a monster before, and I don't believe anyone
else ever did," agreed McCarty, as he gazed down at the beautiful,
diamond-marked body of the huge rattlesnake, for such it was.
Walter measured the body with his gun barrel, while McCarty counted the
rattles at the tip of the tail.
"It's eight feet two inches long," Walter announced. "No one will ever
believe that we killed a rattle of that size."
"Well, here is one way to convince them," said McCarty, as, with his
knife he severed the rattles from the body. "They can't doubt that it
was a whopper. Here's twenty-four rattles and a button, which shows
that it was twenty-four years old."
"My, but I would like to get that skin off," Walter said, longingly.
"It's a beauty, but I'm afraid to skin it."
"Yes, it would be risky," agreed McCarty, who, like his companion,
was well versed as a hunter. "It may have bitten itself when the fire
was going over it. But come, let's move on. The sport is only just
beginning. Did you notice where that covey of quail settled?"
"Yes," Walter said, "they went down in that bunch of spruce over there.
Bob is nosing them up already."
The lads followed up the sniffing dog, and out of the rise Walter got
seven more birds. "That makes twenty," he observed. "That's enough for
supper, and there is no use killing more than we can use. I've got some
buckshot cartridges. Let's try and find some bigger game. You've had no
fun at all, so far. I've been having it all. Which is the best way to
go?"
"I don't really know," said McCarty. "I have never hunted far from camp
out here, but, I fancy, straight ahead is as good as any. I climbed
way up on the machine's boom the other day and took a good look over
the country. Say, it's the craziest looking country you ever saw. It's
a regular Chinese puzzle of stretches of prairie, ponds, bits of flat
woods, hummocks, and even little hills rising up suddenly from the
prairie. It's a queer country, all right. Looks as though there might
be any kind of game in it. Hang it, there goes that fool, dog again.
Won't he ever learn a lesson?"
Bob, barking madly, had dashed into a little thicket a few paces ahead.
"Hold on!" McCarty cried, as Walter started forward with cocked gun.
"Bob, Bob," he yelled. "Come here; come here, you fool."
But the dog did not instantly obey. Instead, from the thicket came the
sound of a fierce struggle.
"What can be in there?" Walter asked anxiously. "It sounds as though
Bob was getting the worst of it."
"He is, and he isn't," grinned the other. "Just wait a minute and you
will see what I mean."
Walter did not have long to wait. Soon a few short barks announced that
Bob had triumphed, and a moment later the dog emerged from the bushes,
but not before a villainous odor had reached the boys' nostrils. So
strong and sickening it was, that the lads retreated in haste.
"Get out of here; go home," ordered McCarty angrily. "Go home, you
fool."
Bob stopped and eyed him reproachfully; then, as if in obedience to an
oft-repeated lesson, he turned around and trotted back to camp.
McCarty chuckled as he gazed after him. "That's Bob's one failing," he
said. "He will go out of his way to tackle a pole-cat. As soon as the
scent of one battle wears off he goes out and seeks another. Seems like
a regular mania with him. I sure hope he will not do as he did last
time--when he went back to camp, sneaked into my tent and went to sleep
on my cot. Whew! I had to burn my blankets and fumigate my tent before
I could sleep in it again, but I guess I had better shut up. If we talk
as we go along, we will never get near a deer."
Thus far the boys had been traveling through low, flat woods, scantily
dotted with small pine trees and little thickets of spruces and oaks,
but soon they began to enter an entirely different kind of country.
Before them stretched a vast prairie, covered with grass and broken
here and there by rising hummocks, densely wooded with pines, oaks and
huge tropical trees. Every few hundred yards they saw grass ponds, or
little sandy-bottomed lakes of crystal-clear water. Beside one of these
little lakes the lads stopped to eat their lunch. It was full of fish
of all sizes.
"I wish Chris was here," Walter observed. "He would have the time of
his life yanking out those big fellows."
"Oh, he can get all the fishing he wants right close to camp," McCarty
said. "I never saw such a country for fish in my life. Any hole that is
deep enough to hold water is full of fish. Even the ditches the machine
has left behind are full of little minnows already."
The lunch finished and washed down by draughts of clear, cold water
from the lake, the lads began searching around its sandy shore for deer
signs. They found animal tracks in abundance, and were amazed at the
number of different kinds--coons, wild-cats, foxes, deer, bears--all
seemed to have made the little lake their drinking place, and, in one
place, they came upon the padded footprint of a panther.
"My, I wish we could put in a week hunting around this little lake,"
said McCarty regretfully. "We could make a shelter not far away and
take stands here at night. But, wishing don't accomplish much, so I
guess we might as well be pushing on. Without a dog our only chance is
to work up against the wind and keep our eyes open."
They had traveled about two miles in this manner when Walter suddenly
stopped. "Look ahead, there," he exclaimed. "Can't you see something
rising up a little above the grass?"
"By George, you beat me to it," McCarty acknowledged. "It's a deer's
antlers. The deer must be lying down resting, or we would see its body
from here. It's hands and knees for us now. We had better keep together
and make as little noise as we can. A deer's hearing is keen."
It was slow, hard work, crawling forward in this manner, but in the
excitement the boys did not notice the strain it put on hands and
knees. From time to time they would raise their heads cautiously and
peer ahead, to see if the deer was still there. An hour and half
of this slow traveling brought them to within a few hundred yards
of the resting animal; then it suddenly arose, and sniffed the air
suspiciously, with its head thrown back.
"Don't move," McCarty whispered. "It's beginning to scent danger."
The boys lay quiet for several minutes; then slowly raising their
heads, took another peep. The deer still stood broadside to them,
sniffing the air.
"It's no use trying to get any closer," Walter whispered softly. "It's
ready to run at any minute. Better try a crack at it with your rifle.
I'll get up on my knees and you can get a rest on my shoulder."
McCarty noiselessly obeyed, and, taking careful aim, fired.
"I got him," he shouted, as the deer sank to its knees, but, even as
he spoke, the deer was up again and off like a flash. McCarty, taken
unawares, had to stop to eject the worthless shell and throw in a new
one, by which time the deer was far away, running in great bounds over
the prairie.
Walter could not refrain from laughing at the expression on the other's
face. "Counted your chickens before they were hatched," he chuckled.
"Oh, I got him all right!" declared his companion confidently. "Look at
the blood on the grass. He can't run far before he drops. See, he is
beginning to falter now."
All the while they had been talking the boys had been hurrying after
the deer, which, although a good mile away, was still in plain sight.
Within five minutes after McCarty spoke, it suddenly disappeared.
"It's down," McCarty cried. "Let's hurry as fast as we can. It's
getting late, and we are a good eight miles from camp."
When they reached the deer it was dead. The bullet had passed through
the body close to the heart. McCarty produced a cord from his game bag,
and, tying its front legs to its hind ones, slung the deer upon his
back. "If you'll bring my gun, I'll manage the deer," he said. "It's a
rule of the chase that each man shall bring in his own kill."
Walter slung the rifle over his shoulder. "I'll spell you when you get
tired," he offered.
"I am not likely to get tired. The only thing I'm afraid of is that we
are not going to be able to make camp before dark, and, for certain
reasons, I hate to camp in this country overnight."
CHAPTER XI
THE CONVICTS' CAMP.
MCCARTY took the lead, and, without hesitation, struck out due north.
"Why, you're going the wrong way," Walter exclaimed, "or at least it
seems the wrong way to me. How do you know you're headed right?"
McCarty grinned. "I spent lots of my spare time hunting," he explained,
"and most of it was done in a worse country than this, where one could
get lost within a couple of hundred yards of camp. That kind of hunting
develops a kind of direction instinct, as hunters call it, but which is
really a habit of observation. Now I have taken note of every turn we
have made to-day, and, although we are not going back the way we came,
I'll guarantee that we'll come out within a hundred yards of camp. But
I guess I had better stop bragging. I need all my wind to handle this
deer."
It soon became evident that McCarty was right, and that they were not
going to be able to make camp before dark. Indeed, they had covered
not more than three miles of the distance when darkness descended upon
them.
"It's a little risky, but I guess we can push on until the white mist
rises," said McCarty, as they halted for a moment to rest. "The moon is
bright enough for us to pick our way now, but when the mist rises we
will have to make camp for the night. I couldn't trust myself to find
my way through the fog."
"I don't mind a night out," Walter said, "but I hate to have the
Captain worrying about us."
"Same here," agreed McCarty. "But that cannot be helped now. Let's push
on again, and get as far as we can."
"Well, let me take the deer for a while," Walter urged.
"Well, I don't mind if you do, for a few minutes," McCarty admitted.
"I've carried many a one twice this distance, but that was in the day
time. This trying to pick trail and carry too is sure getting my goat."
They had not proceeded far before McCarty stopped again. "If I am not
badly fooled, there's a campfire right ahead of us," he said. "See that
faint glow there in the darkness."
"Good," Walter said. "We can perhaps camp for the night with them,
whoever they are."
"Maybe," agreed his companion doubtfully. "If they are Indians, it is
all right, but I am suspicious of white men I meet in this country.
We can keep on for a ways, then one of us had better go ahead and
investigate before we walk in on them."
"That's my part of the job," Walter exclaimed. "I'm a pretty fair
scout, if I am not much of a woodsman."
"No," contested McCarty. "I'm better used to the kind of people we have
in this part of the country than you are."
"Let's not quarrel about it," laughed Walter. "We can both go. Whoever
they are, they are not likely to hear us above the din of the frogs and
owls."
As the boys drew nearer to the campfire they became silent, lest the
sound of their voices should make their presence known. When some
two hundred yards from its glow, they left the deer behind and crept
forward on hands and knees.
It was well that they had used such precautions, for the appearance of
the group around the campfire was not reassuring. It consisted of three
white men and one negro. The four were sprawled around the fire, over
which a large turkey was hung to roast, and the firelight lit up four
of as villainous looking faces as ever existed. The boys crept close
enough to distinguish their features and hear the conversation that was
going on.
The negro, whose face was scarred by several knife wounds, was
speaking.
"I'se done getting tired ob dis," he was saying. "I don't like dis
hangin' around in de woods day atter day adoing nothin'. What for dat
white man send us out in dese woods foah if he don't want us to do
nothin'?"
"Shut up," said one of his white companions curtly. "You've got no
cause to kick. If he hadn't bribed the guard at the convict camp to let
you escape, you would be working hard gathering turpentine yet."
"You ain't got no call to talk. I reckon you was in as bad a fix as me.
Worser, 'cause de guard was just layin' foah a chance to put de whip on
youah back."
"You two stop fussing," said the second white man in the group. "We
are all escaped convicts, one no better than the other. A man helped
us to escape, and sent us out here with a couple of months' grub and
instructions to wait his orders. That suits me. I ain't anxious to go
around any town until I get new clothes and my hair grows out, so I
will not be spotted as an ex-convict. I'm willing to do what he says
and wait for his orders."
"Same here," agreed the fourth man. "I don't know the boss' business,
but I figure that he don't want to use violence to stop the building of
that road unless he has to. He put Murphy out of business pretty quick
by spending a little money with the engineers. Likely he's waiting to
see if he can't work some such trick on the new concern before he tries
any rough work."
"Why don't he want the road built?" inquired one of his companions.
"Give it up. I reckon he's just an agent for some big corporation,"
said the other. "I ain't worrying my head about it. What I want is new
clothes and some money, and I reckon we will get both if we do as the
boss tells us to do."
The talk drifted round to other topics, and the two lads crept silently
back to the deer, and, shouldering it, circled around the convicts'
camp, being careful to give it a wide berth. It was not until they had
placed a full half mile between themselves and the convicts that they
ventured to speak aloud, and by that time the white mist had begun to
rise, and McCarty stopped near a clump of small spruces.
"No use trying to go any farther," he said. "Let's make camp here in
these spruces. We can cut some boughs and make a comfortable bed in a
few minutes."
The spruce thicket really made a comfortable camping place. The dense
growth of spruce shut out the dampness, and the ground beneath them was
thickly carpeted with fragrant pine needles. In a few minutes the boys
had cut enough small boughs to make a comfortable bed. They were too
utterly weary to light a fire and cook any of their game. They still
had part of their lunch left, and, as soon as it was eaten, they lay
down on their couch with sighs of relief.
"That was sure a tough-looking bunch back there," said McCarty, as he
stretched out his weary limbs.
"And, judging from their conversation, they don't mean any good to us,"
Walter commented.
"It's queer, but I've felt all the time that some outside influence was
holding back this road building, but it was only a hunch, and I could
not be sure about it. Those fellows' talk to-night proves my hunch was
right."
"The agent at Jupiter hinted that the Southern Dredging Co. might make
us trouble," Walter remarked.
"The agent is mistaken," said McCarty, decidedly. "I worked for that
company for years, and, while they will try to crush any company that
gets in their way, they certainly would not take the trouble to go out
of their way to crush a little concern like ours. No, there's some
other reason for the trouble we've been having. Well, it's no use
worrying. We had better go to sleep and get what rest we can. We will
have to work to-morrow if your chum gets back with a new crew."
The two weary lads were soon sound asleep, and did not awaken until
break of day. As it grew lighter, they were delighted to see the camp
only three miles away. McCarty had made good his boast. He had come in
a straight line from where they had killed the deer. In an hour's time
they reached the camp, where Chris and the Captain were overjoyed to
see them back.
"If you hadn't shown up early this morning I would have been out
hunting for you," the old sailor declared. "Chris and I didn't sleep
much last night."
"I'm glad you didn't start out," said Walter, with a grin, "for then we
would have had to turn around and hunted you up. Chris, cut off some
venison steaks and fry them for us, please. We are as hungry as wolves."
As soon as breakfast was over the two lads went out to the machine and
took the pump to pieces, so as to have it ready for putting in the new
parts Charley was expected to bring back with him. This was all they
could do until he arrived with a new crew, so they returned to the camp
and lounged around, chatting with the Captain and Chris until they
heard the truck coming in the distance, when they went out to the road
to meet it. As it came in sight they could see that it was loaded with
men.
"He's got them all right," Walter exclaimed with delight.
"Yes," agreed McCarty, "he's sure got a load of them. Gosh, I hope
they are the right kind. If they are, we will soon get things running
smooth and good."
As the truck drew near, they could see two white men on the seat beside
Charley, while the body of the car was filled with well-dressed men
with black eyes and hair and rather dark complexions.
McCarty gave a whoop of delight.
"Bully for your chum!" he said. "He's got some of the best class of
laborers that work in Florida."
CHAPTER XII.
CHARLEY GETS A NEW CREW.
CHARLEY stopped the car in front of the camp and jumped nimbly out,
followed by the two white men, whom he introduced to the two boys as
"Bob Bratten and Will Kitchner, our new engineers." Both were well
known to McCarty, and the three were soon busy recalling old times
on other jobs where they had worked together. But Walter was chiefly
interested in the new men who were climbing out of the car with their
suit-cases in their hands.
"Gee, Charley," he whispered, "what kind of crew is this you have
brought, a bunch of tourists?"
"They look like it, don't they?" Charley grinned. "But have you
forgotten your manners? Can't you say good day to them, at least?"
"Good day, men," said Walter pleasantly, but his greeting was ignored,
save by one of the strange men, who had a cast in his left eye and a
humorous twist of the mouth. "Good day, _señor_," he said, with a grin.
"These men no savey Americano. Me speak Americano plentee. Four years
this country. Work plentee on dredges."
"This is Bossie," Charley said, with a smile. "He is going to be
one of our firemen and also interpreter." He waved his hand toward
the empty tents. "Tell the men to put their things in them and make
themselves comfortable, Bossie," he said.
"Spaniards!" exclaimed Walter. "Where in the world did you get hold of
them?"
"Miami," said Charley happily. "I got the pick of four hundred of them
that had just been laid off from work by the East Coast Railway Co.
They have all had experience in this kind of work. There are several
firemen among them, and that Bossie could even be trusted to run the
machine, I believe. They are the best class of laborers that there
is in Florida to-day. They are cleanly, hard-working, contented and
ambitious. I've got two good engineers, too. But I must not stand here
talking. I had to leave some Spaniards in Jupiter. I could not bring
them all on one trip. I told them I'd be right back, so I will have to
go. I'll be back with them before dinner."
"Shall we start up the machine?" Walter asked.
"No, wait until I get back. There are some things I want to talk
over with all hands first. Here are those parts for the pump. Tell
McCarty to have it fixed up this morning, so that we can start up this
afternoon. I've got lots to talk over with you and the Captain, but
that will have to wait. So long; I'll be back in a couple of hours."
Walter watched the truck out of sight with a grin. "He sure is doing
some hustling," he said to himself.
Before noon, Charley was back with the second load of Spaniards, and
he also brought a yellow-skinned negro lad of about Chris' size and
age. The Spaniards immediately made their way to the tents where their
fellow countrymen had already unpacked and changed their fine clothes
for overalls and jumpers.
Charley led the little negro to the cook tent, and lifted up the flap.
"Here's your assistant, Chris," he said. "I hope he will give you
satisfaction." He stepped quickly outside again, but stopped there,
with a grin on his face, and beckoned to Walter to listen to the
conversation that was going on inside.
"Hello, nigger," Chris was saying. "Where you come from?"
"Bimini," said the other negro meekly.
"Dat's where dey raise de laziest niggers in de world," Chris
commented. "What's your name?"
"Sam Roberts," responded the cowed assistant.
"All right, you Sam. You get to work an' set dem tables, 'cause
dinner's going to be ready mighty soon. After dinner I'll decide jus'
what I wants you to do each day. Get to work dar widout no grumbling.
I'se de boss in dis cook tent, an', if you don't do like I says, I'se
goin' to gib you a worse lickin' dan youah mammy ebber gib you."
When they were called to dinner later, it was to find the new
assistant, shiny-faced from soap and water, serving hot venison steaks
and mashed potatoes to both tables, while Chris watched him with a
critical eye.
The two new engineers proved to be pleasant, healthy, vigorous, young
men, and, before the dinner was over, those at the American table had
got well acquainted with each other, while the Spaniards at the next
table chattered noisily like a lot of magpies.
"I wish you would all come over to my tent," Charley requested, when
the meal was over. "I want to say a few words to you before we start
work."
When they had all collected in the little tent, the lad spoke out
frankly. "This is rather an uncertain piece of work we are on,
friends," he said; "and it largely depends upon you whether we can
carry it through. We are pressed for time to complete it, and we have
pretty nearly reached the end of our capital. Some unknown enemy is
trying to stop or delay the work, for some reason I do not understand.
If you will all do your best, I believe we will pull out all right, but
it's going to be close work. Two things we must do: keep the machine
running, and beware of all strangers. Allow no stranger to come near
the machine. McCarty has been longest on this job, so when you are in
doubt about anything you can consult him. Now you can fix the watches
to suit yourselves and pick your crews."
The question of shifts and crews was quickly settled between the
engineers, Bob Bratton taking the first watch, from 12:00 o'clock until
8:00 o'clock at night. From 8:00 P. M. until 4:00 A. M. would be Will
Kitchner's watch, while McCarty's trick would be from 4:00 A. M. until
noon. This order, they agreed, should be changed each week, so that one
man would not have to do all the night work. Each engineer understood
some Spanish, and they soon picked out experienced firemen and ground
men from among the Spaniards. As soon as all was settled, Bratton, with
his crew, left for the machine, and the rest dispersed, to get things
settled in their tents and to gain a little rest before it came their
turn to go on duty.
As soon as our little party was alone, Walter related to the others the
finding of the dynamite under the machine, and the presence of the four
convicts in the near neighborhood.
"There's something big going on, but I can't imagine what it is,"
Charley said gravely.
"I reckon this road building is interfering with someone's plans, or
they wouldn't be wanting to stop it," Captain Westfield observed.
"Sure," Walter agreed, "but who is this somebody, and what is his plan
that we are interfering with?"
"I expect we will get a clew to that before long," Charley said
thoughtfully. "As soon as they see we are going to push things they
will likely try to stop us. They got at Murphy through his engineers,
apparently. But they can't get at us in that way. In fact, I don't
see any way they can get at us, if we are careful and keep a sharp
lookout. We've got good engineers, and a good crew, now, and I brought
out two extra men, so as to have plenty of help in case of sickness or
accident."
"How about those convicts?" Walter asked.
"I'm going in day after to-morrow for the supplies I ordered from
Jacksonville, and I'll telegraph the sheriff about them," Charley
said promptly. "I guess he will lose no time in recapturing them. In
the meantime we will just have to watch out for them, that's all. I
guess, Walt, you'd better give up the idea of firing--for a while, at
any rate. I'll have to spend most of my time running around, and the
Captain will be busy with the graders. It needs someone to keep a sharp
lookout for any possible trouble or danger."
"All right," agreed Walter cheerfully. "I'll stay wherever you put me."
Further conversation was interrupted by one long whistle coming from
the machine.
"He's got his boiler filled and is ready to start," Charley exclaimed.
"Come on; we don't want to miss the start." His three chums were close
at his heels, as he hurried out to the machine. Bratton saw them
coming, and waited.
"Thought you might like to break a bottle of wine over her before we
started," he said, with a grin. He swung the powerful machine around
and began to dig.
Our little party watched with admiration the ease and dexterity with
which he handled the heavy, panting machine. Each time the big bucket
dumped its load of mud in exactly the right spot, as though placed
there by hand.
They lounged around the machine the greater part of the afternoon,
watching with delight the steady progress being made. Except for brief
stops, to take on wood and water, the bucket swung back and forth with
the regularity of clockwork.
All the way back to camp Charley was silent. "Captain," he asked
finally, "do you think you can handle that grading with three men?"
"I reckon so," said the old sailor. "Why?"
"If you can, I want to put the other two men on as night watchmen to
guard the camp."
"Whew!" whistled Walter. "You must be looking for trouble."
"There's nothing like being prepared for it," Charley replied grimly.
CHAPTER XIII.
LOOKING AHEAD.
AS soon as our little party got back to camp, Charley called together
the Spaniards not yet assigned to duty, and had the Captain select the
three men he wanted for graders. Although both Walter and Charley could
speak and understand a little Spanish, the old sailor could not speak a
word of it, and he was careful to pick out three men who understood a
few words of English. Out of the remainder Charley selected two to go
ahead of the machine, to clear its path of trees and to dynamite the
larger stumps. Two men were assigned as bridge builders, for at every
thousand feet a gap must be left in the road for the back water to pass
through during the rainy season. A big, strapping fellow, over six feet
tall, was named as assistant for the teamster, and the remaining two
Spaniards were named as night guards. All but the night guards were to
go to work next morning. To each one Charley explained that they must
not permit any strangers to come near either camp or machine. If they
saw any strangers, except Indians, they were to report it to him at
once, or, if he was not in camp, they must report it to Walter.
"That ought to protect us pretty well," he remarked to his chums, after
the Spaniards had dispersed, chattering over the jobs that had been
assigned to them. "In the day time, the bridge builders will guard our
rear, and the right-of-way men will be the same as scouts in front,
while you will be watching all around generally. There will always be a
crew on the machine, and the teamster and his helpers will be of some
use as scouts in their work. That ought to prevent any chance of our
being taken by surprise."
"You talk as though you were preparing for war," Walter remarked.
"It does sound that way," his chum admitted. "I've got a hunch that
we are going to see trouble as soon as those convicts get word to
their boss that the machine is running again. Judging from what has
been attempted already, our mysterious enemies will stop at nothing to
accomplish their purpose."
"It's like fighting in the dark," Walter commented. "If we only knew
just what we are up against, we would know better what to expect. This
mystery business is something I don't fancy."
"It's up to us to solve it," said his chum; "and I'm going to have a
try at the job to-morrow. It's comforting, anyway, to hear that machine
working so steadily. That Bratton is sure doing some digging. Hear how
regular that bucket is dumped. I wonder what those two long and two
short whistles mean."
"That's the signal to move track and back up," said Walter, proud of
his newly acquired knowledge. "One short whistle means go ahead, three
long ones are for the teamster; four long ones are the distress signal,
and five long ones is the signal for everyone to come to the machine."
"The men must all be told what that last signal means," said Charley
thoughtfully. "It may come handy some time."
As night drew near, the resting crews emerged, yawning, from their
tents, and began to prepare for their night's work. Lanterns were
filled and cleaned and working clothes donned. Chris, with his
assistant's help, filled up a large basket with food, which, at
sundown, was sent out to the workers on the machine.
Supper was eaten, and all the Americans gathered around the campfire
and told stories and jokes in its genial glow. The Spaniards built
another fire, in front of their own tents, and sang Spanish songs to
the accompaniment of a couple of mandolins, while Chris and Sam, his
new assistant, lounging in the cook tent, talked lovingly about their
own country, the poverty-stricken Bahama Islands.
"This is a mighty different camp from what it was four days ago,"
remarked McCarty. "There was no music or laughing going on then. All
you could hear was grumbling and cursing. Believe me, I like this new
order better."
When 8 o'clock came, Kitchner called his crew and left for the machine,
from which soon came Bratton with his tired crew. "Digging's good," he
said, in answer to McCarty's questions. "She's hitting a little rock,
but it's soft and digs easy. I struck one dead head, but got it out
without much trouble."
"What's a dead head?" Walter asked.
"Submerged stumps or trees," McCarty explained. "We often come upon
them in our digging. They are generally big, hard as iron, and mean to
get out. One does not see them until the bucket hits them, and then the
machine is too close to use dynamite."
"Queer," the other commented.
"Yes," McCarty agreed. "There are forests buried below us, I suppose.
The process of building up and tearing down goes on all the time. In
the centuries to come, likely, these trees around us will be buried in
turn, and another forest rise above them."
"The Lord moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform," quoted the
Captain reverently.
While this conversation was going on, Charley had slipped away from
the little circle unnoticed, and stepped softly out into the darkness.
He had not gone far before he was halted by an abrupt challenge and a
leveled rifle.
"It's the boss," he said, in answer to the challenge. "Where's Gomez?"
"Gomez is on the other side of the camp," answered the sentinel in
Spanish. "Each of us make a half circle of camp, meet, and turn back
again. No one can go or come unnoticed."
"_Esto bueno. Bueno nosche, hombre._" (It is good. Good night, man.)
"_Bueno nosche, señor_," replied the Spaniard politely, and Charley
strolled back to the fire, satisfied that the night guards were doing
their duty.
"Jim," he said, to the teamster, "I want to use one of the mules
to-morrow. You've got enough wood hauled to last a couple of days. You
can keep right on chopping while I'm gone. Take Juan out with you. He
is to be your regular helper. Now, which mule had I better take?"
"Going to ride?" inquired the teamster.
"Yes."
"Waal," he said thoughtfully, "Violet will throw you the furthest, but
Pansy might kick you while you're down."
"I'll take Violet," decided the lad, with a grin. "I object to being
kicked when I'm down."
"I'm going to take a ride ahead to-morrow," he told his chum, when the
rest had retired. "I am in hopes that I may hit on some clew to this
mystery. At any rate I will look over the route we have to take, and
see what we have got to encounter. I ought to have done that before we
bought Murphy out. Well, here goes for bed. I am going to get an early
start in the morning."
His intentions were sincere, but he slept so soundly that he did not
awaken until the general call for breakfast. While he was eating Chris
put up a lunch for him, and, when he was through, Jim, the teamster,
accompanied him out to the corral. "I'll put the bridle on Violet for
you," he offered. "She sorter objects to strangers fooling around her
mouth."
"All right," Charley agreed, but it was with some little secret dismay
that he viewed the towering, powerful mule, as Jim bridled it, and,
throwing a sack over its back, led it out of the corral.
It was too late to back out without chaffing, for the whole camp had
paused on its way to work, to watch the proceedings.
"Lead it out on the grade and give me a hand up," he ordered, and Jim
meekly obeyed. Charley placed his foot in the teamster's hand and
swung himself lightly astride of the mule, while the teamster jumped
hurriedly back.
"Get up," Charley said, as he gathered up the reins. Down went the
mule's head, and up and down went its hind part, in a series of
jolting, jarring bucks.
"Give it the whip," howled Walter in delight.
But Charley was too busy to heed advice. He grasped desperately at the
mule's mane to save himself, but it was too short for a hand-hold, and
over the mule's head he went, to land ten feet away in the soft sand
with a thud that made his teeth ache.
Slowly he picked himself up, and, rubbing the sand out of his eyes,
looked back. The mule was nibbling placidly at a bit of grass, and
behind it the whole camp was howling with laughter.
"I really think," remarked the teamster critically, "that you could do
better with a saddle on."
"Saddle," exclaimed Charley wrathfully, "have you got a saddle?"
"Got a good one over in my tent. I 'lowed you preferred to ride bare
back. Some do, you know."
Charley glared at him with suspicion, but the Missourian's pale-blue
eyes met his with a look of entire innocence.
"I guess I could do better with a saddle," agreed the lad dryly. "Go
and get it, if you please."
Even with the saddle on, it was all he could do to retain his seat as
the mule bucked up and down. But the teamster at last gave it a whack
with a stick over the hind quarters and started it off on a run. For
one fleeting second Charley glanced back at the grinning faces behind,
then he settled down in the saddle and strove to master the vicious
brute.
CHAPTER XIV.
SCOUTING.
FORTUNATELY for Charley the newly-leveled road was still so unpacked
and soft that the mule quickly tired, with its feet at every stride
sinking to the fetlocks, and, before it reached the end of the grade,
the lad had it under control. At the end of the grade lay the heaps of
soft sand and mud the machine had lately thrown out. He must cross the
ditch in order to get around the machine and do it before he reached
the ant-like hills of dirt. He rose in his stirrups and surveyed the
ditch ahead. It was about eight feet wide and several feet in depth,
and in many places the bottom was nothing more than liquid mud. Picking
out a place where the bottom showed white sand, the lad headed the
mule for the ditch, and, as it hesitated for a moment on the edge, he
brought his whip down smartly on its flank. With a snort of rage the
mule leaped forward, clearing the ditch by a full two feet. It was a
wonderful jump, and Charley settled back in the saddle with a sigh of
relief. "You're sure some jumper, Violet," he said.
Skirting the edge of the ditch until he had passed the machine the
lad regained the old road and rode slowly along, examining closely
the route the machine would have to take. This was indicated by the
surveyors' stakes, pieces of lath stuck into the ground every hundred
feet. For the most part the stakes followed the line of the old road,
departing from it only where the road turned and twisted, and Charley
was able to follow them easily. The surveyor had done his work well.
Every hundred feet had its stake, and on each stake was marked in blue
pencil the number of the stake and the number of feet the new road
should be graded to make it level. A full sense of the magnitude of
the task they had undertaken came upon the lad, as he followed up the
never-ending line of stakes. Here they led through a little hummock of
dense growth, where it would be a fearful job to clear away the timber
and dynamite the stumps. Beyond the hummock they crossed stretches of
prairie or pine barrens, or skirted the treacherously soft edges of saw
grass ponds, only to enter another hummock beyond. Charley gave a sigh
of relief when the stakes joined the old road again. "There's sure some
bad digging in those hummocks and around the edges of those ponds," he
said to himself, "and how easy it will be for our enemies to tie up the
machine for weeks, break us financially, and drive us off this job, if
they just do one simple little thing that a child ought to think of. I
guess it is because the thing is so simple that they have not thought
of it."
The reason for the stakes following the old road so steadily soon
became apparent, for a little farther on it entered the thickest jungle
the lad had ever seen. On both sides rose gigantic trees, matted
together by great entwining creepers, and on each side of the road lay
stagnant pools of water, covered with nauseous-smelling green slime.
Not a sound of life came from the jungle's gloomy depths. The only
living things seemed to be the huge, sluggish moccasins that slipped
noiselessly from the road into the pools as the mule approached.
Evidently the surveyor had decided that the old road was the only
feasible route through the jungle.
Suddenly Charley ducked his head, as a whining, singing sound, passed
over him. He had heard that whining message before, and knew it for
what it was.
"A rifle bullet," he ejaculated, bewildered, as he reined in the mule
and looked around. But no powder smoke met his searching gaze, and no
report followed the bullet's whine.
Again it came, that menacing, whining sound, and from a tree close
beside where he sat on the mule an inch-thick branch rattled to the
ground, cut clean from the tree by the bullet.
Still Charley remained motionless, not knowing which way to go,
backward or forward, but the next whining bullet decided the matter for
him. It plowed a bit of skin from the mule's flank, and the startled
animal, leaping forward, began to run. By the time the lad got it under
control they were half a mile from where the shooting had taken place.
"Whew! That was almost uncanny," the lad muttered to himself. "No
smoke, no report, nothing but the whizzing of the bullets. It was
not any native of these parts doing that firing, that's a cinch. The
Indians and cowmen do not know that there are such things in existence
as smokeless powder and Maxim silencers."
The weird jungle proved to be about two miles across, and Charley soon,
with a feeling of relief, rode out into a pleasant, open country,
dotted with small, clear-water lakes. He now began to come upon signs
of life: cows grazing on the short, crisp grass; hogs rooting in the
soft, muddy places. He grinned, as, turning a curve in the road, he
came suddenly upon a group of Indian maidens, bathing in a little lake,
and who, with shrill cries, bolted for the cover of a thicket when they
spied him. Charley, with a grin on his face, kept his head turned the
other way as he rode past. Not long after passing them he began to come
upon patches of cultivated ground, and the thatched-roofed, open-walled
dwellings of the Indians. At the first dwelling he dismounted and
fastened the mule to a tree. The Indians from all the shelters crowded
around him with eager greetings. He was delighted to find among the
crowd many whom he had met before in the Everglades. These were
apparently delighted to see him, and gravely made him acquainted with
the rest of the tribe, which was composed of about one hundred braves,
besides women and children. They insisted upon his having dinner with
them. They fed and watched the mule, and altogether made him feel
that he was among friends. For his part Charley was astonished at the
evidences of prosperity this tribe exhibited. Their ponies, dress, and
dwellings were far superior to any other tribes that he had ever met
up with. But what astonished him most was the patches of cultivated
ground. Never before had he seen such a wonderful growth of corn, yams,
melons, and pumpkins.
After a dinner of stewed venison, yams, and melon, Charley began to ask
the questions that had brought him out on his lonely ride. The Indians
answered them readily. "Yes, they had seen white men--strangers. There
had been several out as far as Indiantown. Sometimes they came two or
three together. Sometimes one would come alone. They would camp for
one sleep, then return to town and be seen no more. One there was who
came often--a little man, with a beard like a spade. No, they did
not know what the strangers' business was so far out from town. They
carried guns, but seemed to kill no game." Mr. Bower, the man who kept
the trading-post two miles farther out, might be able to tell him more
about the strangers.
So Charley mounted the mule again, and rode out to the trading-post.
The road led direct to the little store hut, which was surrounded by
a magnificent grove of oranges and grape fruit. Mr. Bowers, a fat,
jovial-looking man, greeted him cordially, but could tell him nothing
more about the strangers than he had already learned from the Indians.
One fact he did learn, however, none of the visitors ever went beyond
the trading-post. The lad then knew the clew for which he was looking
must lie somewhere between the trading-post and the machine.
"We are meeting with some opposition in our road-building," Charley
explained frankly, "and I did not know but what it might come through
you cattle owners objecting to having your grazing lands thrown open to
new settlers."
"Lord, no!" exclaimed Mr. Bowers, in frank surprise. "We have been
trying to get that road out here for years. There's only half a
dozen of us scattered between here and the big lake, and it has been
hard work forcing the county commissioners to have the road built.
Of course, we want the road. Our oranges rot on the trees now every
season, because we are not able to haul them through the mud to the
railroad. Our groves, with that road opened, would be worth more than
our cattle. What if it does bring in new settlers? They will help to
make our groves and lands still more valuable. If any one tries to hold
up that road-building we will fix him if we can get our hands on him."
It was well along in the afternoon when Charley bade the genial Mr.
Bowers good-by and headed his mule back for camp. He alighted at
the Indian camp for a moment, to examine the land, which seemed so
wonderfully fertile. On the surface it appeared sandy and like other
pine land, but a couple of feet below the surface he came upon a kind
of soft, grayish rock. He dug out several pieces with his knife,
dropped them in his game bag, and, remounting and waving a last
farewell to the Seminoles, he proceeded on his homeward way.
It was with a feeling of dread that he rode back through the jungle,
expecting every minute to feel the impact of a bullet. But he emerged
safely on the other side without any message from the hidden enemies.
Darkness fell soon after he left the jungle, but he merely let slack
the reins and trusted to his animal's instinct to find the way home.
Soon he spied the lights of the machine in the distance, and a half
hour later he dismounted at the camp, aching and sore in every muscle
of his body, and discouraged over his fruitless trip.
CHAPTER XV.
THE FIRST BLOW.
"THIS mystery business just seems to get thicker and thicker," Captain
Westfield remarked, when Charley had finished relating his experience
of the day. "Smokeless powder and Maxim silencers are no ways common
out in these woods."
"It startled me for a minute," Charley admitted. "No smoke, no
sound--just the whine of the bullets coming out of that frightful
jungle got me for a while. I did not know which way to go, forward
or back. I don't know whether they meant to kill me or not, but they
pretty nearly scared me to death."
"Did you meet a little man with a spade-like beard?" Walter asked.
"No," said his chum. "Was there one here?"
"Yes. He was on horseback, and came from the direction of Jupiter. The
bridge builders stopped him and sent in word to me. I went out and
escorted him by the machine. He said his name was Jones, and that he
had a young orange grove out near Indiantown."
"You did not let him go near the machine, did you?" Charley inquired
anxiously.
"I did not," said his chum emphatically. "He wanted to stop and chat
with the engineers, but I told him we did not permit anyone around the
machine but our own men, and he rode on."
"Funny," Charley observed. "I did not meet him. He must have turned off
into the woods somewhere. I wish I had got a glimpse of him. I have an
idea that he is the boss those convicts were talking about."
"He was a mild-mannered, kind of timid-looking, little man," Walter
objected. "He did not look as though he would hurt a fly."
"Mild-appearing men are sometimes the worst of all," Charley observed,
as he stretched out on his cot. "Gee! but I am tired enough for a
twenty-four hours' sleep."
But, tired as he was, the lad could not go to sleep. His active brain
kept turning over every event that had occurred, in a vain search for
a clew as to who their enemies were, and what was their purpose. That
they would resort to desperate measures, if necessary, he had not the
slightest doubt. The placing of the dynamite under the machine, the
presence of the convicts, and the shots in the jungle, proved that. It
must be a powerful motive that would induce men to go so far. For all
his knowledge of the state and its people, the lad could not think of
anything in this wild, remote country that would tempt men to risk the
hangman's rope.
Suddenly the lad raised himself on his arm again and listened. One of
the sentinels had cried "Halt!" Then in quick succession came repeated
cries of "Halt! Halt! Halt!" and then a shot.
Charley leaped from his cot, calling his companions, and, quickly
lighting a lantern, found his rifle. But, before he could pull on his
shoes, the flap of the tent was thrown open, and one of the sentinels,
white-faced and trembling, rushed in.
"Me killie de man! Me killie de man!" he cried in broken English.
By this time both the Captain and Walter were awake, and the three
gathered around the guard, somewhat pale themselves, for they were not
the kind that value human life lightly.
"Go on, and tell us all about it," commanded Charley. "Talk Spanish."
The guard broke into a torrent of words. "He had seen the man
approaching in the mist. Four times he had called to him to halt but
the man kept coming on. Then he had fired and the man had dropped, and
now he, Gomez, would be hung."
The chums had been pulling on their shoes and pants as they listened to
the frightened Spaniard, and now seizing their automatics and giving
the guard the lantern, they told him to lead the way to where the man
lay.
It was but a short way from the tents, that the Spaniard stopped and
pointed ahead. "There he lies," he said. "I do not want to gaze on him.
May the Blessed Virgin forgive me for his death."
The boys, peering into the mist, could dimly see a dark form lying on
the ground ahead of them.
Charley snatched the lantern from the Spaniard's shaking hand and
darted ahead. A few steps brought him to the motionless form. When the
lantern's light fell upon it, he gave a howl of laughter, for, instead
of lighting up the pale face of a dead man, as he had expected, its
rays revealed the form of a small black bear.
At the sound of his laughter, Gomez timidly approached. His delight was
unbounded when he found out that it was a bear and not a man he had
killed. The four of them picked up the bear and carried it back to the
cook tent.
"Where is Lavinia, Gomez?" Charley asked as they laid the bear down
near the tent. "Why did he not come to your aid when you fired?"
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. "I have not seen him since I shot.
He is afraid maybe. Maybe he climb up a tree."
But Charley did not join in the Spaniard's laugh; instead, he picked up
the lantern. "Come on," he said shortly. "Let's see what has become of
him."
Already the guards had tramped a beaten track around the camp and
it was not difficult to find where Lavinia had made his half of the
circle. Midway of it lay the Spaniard, face down on the ground.
"Esto Morta (he is dead)!" cried Gomez.
"No," Charley said, as he felt of the man's wrist. "He has just
fainted, I guess. Give me a hand and we will carry him into our tent.
We don't want to rouse up the whole camp and get every one excited."
They bore the Spaniard into their own tent and laid him on Charley's
cot. A sprinkling of cold water in his face, and a small drink of
liquor quickly brought the man to his senses. "What's the matter with
you?" Charley asked when the Spaniard had emerged from his stupor.
"I do not know, señor," replied the guard. "Everything go black all of
a sudden. I know nothing more--head hurts more now bad."
Charley examined his head. "The skin is broken a little," he said. "I
guess you must have hit it against something when you fell. How do you
feel now? Feel able to get over to your tent and get to bed?"
"I go back on guard," the man said as he staggered to his feet. "I feel
all right again pretty soon," but as he still appeared half dazed the
lad insisted on his going to his tent. Gomez was sent back on guard
and Charley took the sick man's place. Both the Captain and Walter
offered to take the guard duty, but Charley refused.
"You both have to work to-morrow," he said, "while I will have most
of the day to rest up in. I don't feel the least bit sleepy now," and
in truth he did not. This new incident had given him fresh food for
thought. It had needed only a glance at the wound on Lavinia's head
to convince him that it had been made by a bullet. If he had had the
slightest doubt, it would have been dispelled by the fact that they had
found the Spaniard lying face down. Their hidden enemies were getting
bold.
When daylight came the weary, troubled lad drank a cup of coffee Chris
had ready for him and tumbled down on his cot for a few hours' sleep.
He was up again before noon, and after a hasty lunch he drove the truck
into Jupiter after the supplies he had ordered from Jacksonville. He
found them waiting for him, and after loading them on the truck, he
wrote out a telegram to the sheriff and handed it to the agent, who
whistled as he read it over. "There's a big reward offered for those
four men," he commented as he clicked off the message with his key.
"They are all four of them desperate characters. I guess I'll wait for
the sheriff's reply;" then Charley said: "If there's a reward in it, we
might want our share. Money isn't any too plentiful with us yet. By the
way," he continued, "do you know a little man with mild blue eyes and
a spade-like beard that goes by the name of Jones?"
"I don't know him, but I see him quite often," said the friendly agent.
"He comes and goes here quite frequently, generally on night trains.
He gets a lot of telegrams here. Most of them come from the state
capital and New York. They are all code messages, that I can't make
head or tail of. Everyone here in town knows him, but nobody knows his
business, which is unusual in a little town like this. When he comes
here he generally hires a horse and spends most of his time riding out
in the woods. There, that's the reply to your message, I guess." He
scribbled rapidly on a telegraph blank while the instrument clicked
noisily. "That satisfactory?" he asked, as he tossed the sheet to
Charley with a smile.
"Sure," Charley grinned, as he read:
"SHERIFF'S OFFICE,
Palm Beach Co.
"The four escaped convicts you described are desperate
characters--$500 reward offered for the capture of
each. We'll divide reward. Too late to come to-day.
Will come out by auto to-morrow morning and bring
posse."
"SHERIFF."
It was almost dark when Charley got back to camp with his load, and he
was thoroughly tired out, but he felt happier in spirits than he had
in many days.
"We've only got one more night of suspense to go through," he told his
chums, over the campfire. "The sheriff will be out in the morning,
with his posse, and that will dispose of the convicts, make us $1,000
richer, and we will have peace for a while, I hope. Has that little
man, Jones, come back yet, Walt?"
"Haven't seen anything of him," his chum replied. "The convicts are
still camped in the same place. At any rate I can see the smoke of
their campfire from the machine."
"Good!" Charley exclaimed. "You fellows can sit up and talk, as long as
you want to--I'm going to bed. I'm dead tired."
CHAPTER XVI.
FIGHTING THE FIRE.
MIDNIGHT and the silence of sleep hung over the little camp, when
suddenly there came the shriek of the whistle from the machine, four
long blasts--the distress signal--and from their lines the guards came
running in, crying, "Fire! Fire!"
Our little party, awakened by the din, stopped only to slip on their
shoes, and when they emerged from the tent it was to find the Spaniards
half-dressed, pouring out of their shelters. One glance was all that
was needed to take in the situation. Not half a mile distant from the
camp the prairie was a mass of flames. A strong wind was blowing from
the north, and it was rapidly sweeping the flames down upon the little
camp.
"My!" exclaimed Walter. "It looks as though we were goners, all right."
"Let's fight as long as we can, anyway," said Charley, who was rapidly
making his plans. "Captain, get all the buckets out of the cook tent,
and set half the men to wetting down the tents; the other half will
come with me. Walt, come with me, also. Come on, men. Each of you
bring along a big spruce limb with you."
"We have got to fight fire with fire," he explained to Walter, as
he headed for the path the guards had trod down in the grass. "Just
outside the path is the best place to start a back fire. The path will
help to keep it from working back on the tents."
The two lads tore up big bunches of dry grass, and, lighting them, ran
along the half-circle path, scattering fire as they went. The Spaniards
were quick to catch the idea, and, stationing themselves at regular
intervals along the path, with their green spruce boughs they beat out
the flames that leaped the little path and threatened the tents. The
prairie grass was knee high, and as dry as tinder, and, although the
wind was against it, the back fire ate its way steadily back toward the
leaping flames.
"We have done all we can," said Charley to his chum, as they stood
watching anxiously the approach of the flames. "It's a toss-up whether
we will win or not. If our camp goes, we are done for, that's all. We
haven't got the money to refit again. My! that would be a wonderful
sight to enjoy if our future wasn't hanging in the balance."
It was, indeed, a wonderful sight. The fire, now scarcely a quarter
of a mile away, was sweeping steadily down upon them, a solid wall of
flame ten feet high licking up the dry grass with a roaring cackle
like a mighty wind in a forest, while toward it the back fire was
slowly but steadily eating its way. The space between the two fires
was as bright as day, and in it the lads could see scores of animals,
running bewildered here and there, trapped between the two lines of
flames: deer, coons, wild-cats and foxes ran back and forth in frantic
terror. Within twenty feet of where the boys stood a lithe form cleared
the flames of the back fire in a mighty leap, and rushed by the tents,
heedless of the presence of human beings in its mad flight for safety.
"A panther," commented Charley briefly, as the terror-stricken animal
rushed by.
During all this time the other occupants of the camp had not been idle.
Under the Captain's directions, his gang of Spaniards had formed a
bucket line from the ditch to the tents, and they soon had the little
dwellings dripping with water. The teamster had got his frightened
mules out of the corral and led them to a place of safety on the grade,
and the two engineers had run the truck out on the road beyond the
line of flames. Their tasks done, all--Americans and Spaniards--worked
to get their most valuable possessions to a place on the grade were
they would be safe. They had but little time to work, however, for the
intense heat soon drove them back to the road, where they gathered
together and watched anxiously the meeting of the fires. They had not
long to wait. With a roar, in which was mingled the cries of the
tortured animals, the advancing wall of fire swept down on the thin
line of back fire. Our little party held their breath and waited. If
the wall of flame leaped the dozen or so feet the back fire had eaten
away, their camp was gone. Five minutes and a transformation had taken
place. Of the mighty conflagration nothing remained but the blacked,
smoking dirt of the prairie. The back fire had vanquished its mighty
rival. But the danger was not yet over. The wind had swept bits of
blazing grass down among the tents, and tiny fires were springing up in
a hundred different places. These the boys and their followers beat out
with the green branches of the spruces. It was a full half hour before
the last of them was extinguished, and they were able to stop and rest,
and take account of the damage done. No one was seriously hurt, but all
bore marks of the conflict, in the way of burned clothing, singed hair,
and blisters, but all were too happy over the saving of the camp to pay
much attention to these minor injuries.
"Whew! that was a close shave," said Walter; "but all's well that ends
well. By the way, I didn't see anything of McCarty and his crew. I
should have thought he would have come in with his men and given us a
hand."
"Perhaps he has had his hands full out there," suggested Captain
Westfield. "Maybe that fire was just set so as to draw the men off the
machine."
"I never thought of that," said Charley, anxiously. "The fire drove
everything else out of my head. Let's go out and see what's the matter.
The machine isn't running."
As if in answer to their conversation, there came from the machine
three long blasts of the whistle, a pause, then four long blasts.
"The signal for the wagon, and the distress signal," Walter cried.
The three lads went forward on the run, followed by half a dozen
curious Spaniards. The Captain remained behind to keep an eye on the
camp.
The boys were half way to the machine when the signals sounded
again--three long blasts, followed by four long blasts.
Panting, they reached the machine, and clambered up on the steel
platform, where the fireman and the two ground men were grouped around
McCarty, who lay motionless, with his head in a little pool of blood.
Charley dropped to his knees beside the prostrate lad and felt for his
pulse. "He is alive, all right," he exclaimed. "We'll have to get him
to camp before we can do anything for him. Bossie, how did this happen?"
"Two men climb aboard while we standing still looking at fire," said
the excited fireman. "McCarty no see them. I no see them. We busy
watching fire, ground men busy watching fire, too. I no see them till
there come a crack and McCarty falls. Man hit him over the head with a
gun. Other man hit at me. I dodge. I got steam hose in my hand. I turn
steam hose on two men. It burn them, plentee. They yell plentee. They
drop guns. Run, plentee run."
By the time he had finished his narrative, the wagon had arrived, and
McCarty was gently lifted and placed in it, and the wagon headed back
for camp.
"Please stay by the machine, Walt," Charley requested, as he took his
seat in the wagon and pillowed McCarty's head in his lap. "I'll send
one of the engineers to take McCarty's place as soon as I get to camp."
As soon as the wagon had gone Walter took one of the ground men's
lanterns, and looked around for the guns Bossie claimed the strange
assailants had dropped. He found both, half buried in the soft sand
beside the car. They were Savage rifles, of the latest make, equipped
with Maxim silencers. The lad ejected one of the cartridges, and prying
out the bullet, examined the powder. It was high-grade smokeless. He
gave one of the rifles to Bossie, much to the fireman's delight. "I
think," said the Spaniard in his quaint English, "I think this be much
more better than steam." The other rifle the lad gave to the ground
man, with instructions to keep it always with him. He was showing
them how to operate it, when Bob Bratton arrived to take McCarty's
place. Bob grinned as he saw the Spaniards awkwardly handling their
new weapons. "They are more likely to shoot themselves than one of the
enemy," he commented, "but I guess it will make them feel safe to have
a gun along with them."
"How's McCarty?" Walter asked, anxiously.
"Oh, he's come too, all right," answered the other carelessly. "He got
a pretty good crack over the head, but it didn't break the skull any.
He'll be all right in a couple of days. Meanwhile," he added, with a
sigh, "Will and I will have to work twelve-hour shifts."
"Are you not afraid to work nights, with all the queer things that are
going on around us?" Walter asked curiously.
The other laughed frankly. "Thunder, no," he said. "Dredge men get used
to danger. It's around them all the time. Why, kid, when we are working
in the Everglades, it is often impossible to hire men to work in the
rotten mud, and then we have to go to the jails and convict camps to
get our labor. I've worked on jobs there that there were no free men on
the payroll but the engineers. All the rest were men working out their
fines, and every last one of them eager to crack the engineers over
the head and get away. Bosh! This job is a cinch compared with some
jobs we have all worked on."
The sun was rising when Walter started back to camp. He had only gone a
few steps when he stopped and waited. From the direction of Indiantown,
a horseman was approaching the machine. The waiting lad recognized the
pony and its rider. It was the little man whom he had escorted past the
machine a couple of days before.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE CONVICTS.
WALTER stepped back of the machine, where he could not be seen, and
watched the little man approach. He was curious to see if Mr. Jones
would attempt to speak to the engineer after the warning he had given
him.
Just before he reached the machine the little man turned off the road
and rode along the other side of the ditch. When opposite the machine,
he reined in his pony and hailed the engineer. Bratton stopped the
machine for a second. "Go on," he shouted. "No strangers are allowed
near this machine."
"I just want to talk to you for a minute," said the little man.
"Nothing doing," answered Bratton shortly. "I don't talk with strangers
when I am on duty. Go on. Get out of the way." But the little man still
persisted. Bratton swung the machine around, and winked at Walter, as
the bucket gathered up its huge load of mud. Like lightning the huge
boom swung around, and the avalanche of mud descended at the pony's
feet. The frightened animal leaped forward, almost unseating its
rider. Walter hurried forward to meet the little man, as he crossed the
ditch to the graded road. "I thought I told you the other day that we
allowed no one to bother our engineers, Mr. Jones," he said severely.
"I beg your pardon. I had forgotten that," said the little man mildly.
"Really, that engineer acted very rude. I merely wanted to ask him a
simple little question."
"You can address your questions to me or one of my chums, hereafter,"
said Walter stiffly.
"I merely wanted to ask if he had chanced to see anything of my
glasses. I dropped them along the road somewhere, and really I am quite
helpless without them."
"I'll inquire at the camp if anything has been seen of them," said the
lad briefly.
"I have ridden a long ways this morning," continued Mr. Jones, "and I
am very hungry. I wonder if I could get a bite to eat at your camp."
Walter hesitated. He did not like to have the man stop at camp, but
he disliked to refuse such a simple request, when, after all, the man
might be harmless and well-meaning.
"You may stay and have breakfast with us, if you wish," he said. "I
guess it is ready now." He walked along silently by the pony's side
while the little man chattered volubly.
"Why, you have had a fire," the little man said, as he surveyed the
flame-swept prairie and smoke-blackened tents. "How lucky it didn't get
your camp. I suppose that would have delayed you a lot in your work?"
"Oh, I don't know about that," said Walter indifferently. "I fancy it
would not have taken long to have got other tents and supplies."
The Spaniards and engineers were finishing their breakfast when the two
entered the tent, but Charley and the Captain were not in sight. They
came in and took their places at the table, however, while the little
man and Walter were still eating.
"This is Mr. Jones," said Walter. "He lost a pair of glasses on the
road, and wishes to know if we have seen anything of them."
"Please describe them to me, Mr. Jones," requested Charley, eyeing the
little man closely.
"They were just ordinary nose-glasses, with gold rims. They were in a
hard black leather case," said the little man promptly.
"I guess these are the ones," said Charley, producing the black leather
case. "I found them."
"Where?" asked the little man, as he fitted the glasses on his nose.
"Right where the fire was started that nearly burnt us out last night,"
said Charley promptly. "The Captain and I just came from there. I think
it's up to you, Mr. Jones, to explain how they got there."
"Dear me," said the little man quickly. "How queer! I suppose some
Indian must have picked them up on the road and dropped them again when
he started that fire. You know they are always burning off the prairie
for their cattle. Quite a queer incident, isn't it?"
"It is," agreed Charley dryly. "Perhaps you can explain----" But
the lad did not finish his sentence, for from the road came the
loud tooting of a horn, and all rushed for the tent opening, Walter
exclaiming, "It's the sheriff." The sheriff it proved to be, and with
him were a dozen active-looking men, each carrying a rifle.
"I've come for those convicts," the sheriff announced. "Can one of you
show me where they are camped?"
"I can," Walter volunteered. "We will have to go on foot, but I guess
we will catch them all right. They were up about all night, so they
ought to sleep late this morning." He glanced around at Mr. Jones, to
see how that person was taking the sheriff's arrival, but the little
man was placidly picking his teeth with a bone toothpick and smiling
pleasantly at the newcomer.
"All right, lead us to them," said the sheriff. "We want to get them
back in the stockade before night, if we can."
Charley watched them out of sight, and then turned to the little man.
"I wish you would tell me, Mr. Jones, what your game is," he said
earnestly, "and why you are trying to stop this road-building."
The little man looked at him with surprise on his face. "I really
don't understand you," he protested mildly. "I must say this is a most
extraordinary camp. Everyone seems so suspicious and rude. I have never
encountered such treatment before."
"All right, Mr. Jones," said Charley, wearily. "Let's forget it. I
must, however, request you to keep away from this camp hereafter."
"It is not likely I will come around here again, after the treatment
I have received," said the little man stiffly, as he mounted his
pony. "Good-day, sir," and he rode off, leaving the lad with the
unpleasant feeling that he had perhaps wounded the feelings of an
entirely innocent person. Slowly the lad turned away, and, going to
his tent, flung himself face downward on his cot. In truth his nerves
were strained almost to the breaking point by the tension and worry he
had borne since the fateful day they had bought the machine. He felt
himself responsible for the fortunes and even the lives of his friends
and the men working for him, and the burden was a heavy one. But nature
soon asserted itself, and the worried lad fell into a deep, dreamless
sleep, from which he did not awaken until Chris aroused him for dinner.
He found Walter at the table waiting for him. The sheriff's auto was
gone.
"Yes, we got the convicts, all right," Walter said, in answer to
his questions. "They were sound asleep, just as I expected, and the
sheriff's men had the handcuffs on them before they knew what was going
on. The sheriff permitted me to question them, but I could not get a
word out of them. They just shut up like clams. There is no doubt,
though, that it was two of them that assaulted McCarty. Their faces and
hands were badly scalded. While they were laying for a chance to get
at him, Jones and the other two started that fire, I guess. Well, they
gave us some hard work and worry, but all's well that ends well."
"We haven't come to the end yet," Charley said, gloomily. "We have only
gained a few days of peace, I'm afraid."
Walter looked at his chum closely. It was so unlike Charley to give way
to gloomy forebodings. "You want to get out and have a little fun,"
he said decidedly. "If you keep on brooding and worrying over this
business, you are going to break down, and then what will become of the
job? What you want to do is to get out and forget trouble for a couple
of days and get the cobwebs out of your brain."
"I guess you are right," Charley admitted, "and I guess now is the time
for both of us to take a little vacation. There is not much likelihood
of trouble for several days. Let's get an early start in the morning,
take our guns and some grub, and foot it out to Indiantown. Hire a
couple of ponies from the Indians, and ride out to the great lake."
"I'll go you," Walter cried eagerly, for he always welcomed anything
that promised excitement or change. "It does seem a bit selfish,
though, for us to go and leave the Captain and Chris behind."
"They would not care to make such a trip," declared his chum, "but
we'll ask them, anyway."
"Go 'way, you white chillens," said Chris, when they approached him on
the subject. "How you 'spect dis nigger's going to get away? Dat Sam
can't cook none yet. 'Sides I don't want to go trapsing 'round. I'se
done found a little pond back there a bit, whar de fish is so thick you
have to push 'em away with a stick to keep them from all taking de bait
at once."
They found the Captain, seated in the shade of a pine tree, smoking his
pipe and watching the graders at work.
"No, lads, I don't care to go," he said, with a smile. "I reckon I'm a
heap sight more comfortable here than I would be tramping around in the
sun. I'm getting too old to get much pleasure out of such trips. You
two go and enjoy yourselves. I'll stay and look out for things."
"We'll have to move camp in a few days," Charley remarked, as they
paused on the grade for a few minutes to glance over the work that had
been done since they had bought out Murphy. "The machine is getting too
far from camp. It gives the men too long a walk, and wastes a lot of
time. Well, I can't see but what everything is running smooth now," he
concluded with satisfaction.
And, in truth, the boys had reason to be satisfied with the way things
were going. From ahead of the machine came the sound of axe and the
sharp report of dynamite, as the right-of-way men cleared a path for
the machine. The machine itself was swinging back and forth with the
regularity of clockwork. Back of the machine followed the graders,
leveling off the thrown-up dirt, while behind them came the bridge
builders, constructing bridges over the gaps left by the machine.
Everywhere was bustle.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MEDICINE MAN.
SUNRISE found the boys well on their way to Indiantown. By nine o'clock
they were entering the jungle where Charley had been fired at on his
previous trip. Before entering it, however, the lads stopped and cut
two long slender poles with which to kill the moccasins basking on the
road.
This time no rifle bullets halted their progress, but the snakes were
there, and, by the time they had passed out of the jungle they had
slaughtered over fifty of the loathsome creatures.
"Whew!" exclaimed Walter, as they broke out of the darkness of the
jungle, "that's the most awful place I was ever in. It fairly reeks
with rottenness and fever."
"Yes," Charley assented. "I dread putting the machine into it, but
it's got to be done. I am going to set fire to it before the machine
gets there; that may help some. Once we get through it, we are over
the worst. There's Indiantown, about two miles from here. Now, I
figure that the motive for the attacks on us lies somewhere between
the machine and Indiantown, for the strange white men never go beyond
the trading-post, but, for the life of me, I can see nothing in this
country that would supply the motive, can you?"
"No," Walter admitted. "The land seems fertile enough, but there is
plenty of good cheap land along the coast, right close to the railroad,
so no one would want to come way out here for land. There is not
enough timber here to offer any temptation, and we know that Florida
contains no iron, coal, or precious minerals. I can see no motive for
any striving out here. I guess we are just dreaming when we talk of a
powerful motive out here."
"It's no dream," said Charley decidedly, "unless that fire was a dream,
those convicts a dream, that dynamite a dream, the assault on McCarty
a dream, those rifle-bullets a dream, and the whole one disagreeable
nightmare."
"Well, let's forget it all," urged Walter. "Remember, this is a
pleasure trip, and we want to make the most of it."
This conversation brought the two lads to the first Indian dwelling,
but they found it empty, as was the next and the next. Near the middle
of the little settlement, however, they came upon the whole tribe,
gathered around a large wigwam. Unlike the other buildings, this one
was not only thatched on top, but was also inclosed on sides and
ends with bark and palmetto leaves. In one end was a small opening,
just large enough for a man to enter by lying flat on the ground and
wriggling through.
The two lads approached the silent group with their interest thoroughly
aroused.
"What's the matter, Willie John?" Charley asked of an Indian he knew.
"Chief plenty sick," said the Indian sadly. "Indians go get paleface
doctor, but paleface doctor say medicine no good, chief must die, but
medicine man say he cure chief for two ponies. All right, we give
two ponies. Medicine man come pretty soon to cure chief. No cure, no
ponies. Understand?"
Charley nodded comprehensively. "Can we go in and see the chief?" he
asked.
"I guess so," said the Indian indifferently. "It no matter, I guess.
Chief be dead, maybe, before medicine man comes. He have to come all
the way from Big Cypress."
Charley did not wait for other permission. Lying flat on his stomach,
he wriggled into the wigwam, followed by his chum. Once inside the lads
found themselves in pitch darkness, save that in a distant corner a
feeble rushlight, set in an earthen saucer of oil, glowed faintly. For
a moment, the lads were sorry that they had been so rash in entering,
for the close air of the wigwam was heavy with the sickening smell of
fever. A low moaning from one corner, however, drew them on.
On a bed of boughs and skins near the rushlight lay what had been once
a magnificent figure of a warrior. The rushlight was too dim to be of
much use, so Walter lit match after match, while Charley bent over and
examined the stricken man. The warrior was hardly more than a skeleton.
The skin was drawn tightly over protruding cheek bones, and the black,
beady eyes glowed with unearthly brightness in their deep sockets.
Charley felt of the Indian's cheek. It was almost hot enough to burn
his hand. "We can do nothing for him," he said to his chum. "He is
just skin and bones, and he cannot live long with such a fever. We had
better get out of here. He may have something contagious. We were fools
to come in here."
But, before the boys could reach the opening, the Indians outside began
to wriggle in, each bearing a rushlight in its earthen saucer of oil.
"Medicine man come," whispered Willie John, as he passed them. "Better
sit down and keep still. Indians no like you go now. They get plenty
angry if you go."
The boys' curiosity overcame their prudence. They were both anxious to
witness the rites of the medicine man and they seated themselves among
the Indians, who, after lighting their rushlights, set them together in
the middle of the wigwam and sat down Turk fashion on either side of
the wigwam and folded their arms across their breasts. It was a curious
scene, with the dim glow of the rushlights falling on their impassive
faces and black, beady eyes.
For perhaps ten minutes the silence was unbroken save by the restless
tossing and moaning of the sick man. Then, from outside the tent came a
shrill, wailing sound, gradually getting nearer and nearer, until the
skin that covered the entrance was pushed to one side and through the
opening wriggled a figure that made the boys' flesh creep. Once inside
the figure rose erect, and the lads could see in the rushlights' glow
that it was an old Indian, naked save for a loin cloth. So old was he
that his face was a mass of wrinkles, and he tottered as he walked.
Around his withered neck was a string of alligators' teeth, and from
his arms and waist and ankles hung strings of human bones. His withered
body was painted a vivid red, slashed with streaks of bright yellow. In
his right hand he carried a wand, from which hung dozens of rattlesnake
rattles, which made a noise like the song of a locust whenever he moved
his skinny arm. In his left hand was clutched a bag made of snake skin.
As this grewsome object passed by them the boys shrank back in dread,
but the old savage did not notice them. He tottered on, and sank to
the ground beside the sick man. Then followed a scene which the boys
never forgot. Rolling on the ground beside the sick man the old Indian
began to beat the air with his hands, uttering a low, wailing cry,
that was taken up and repeated by the circle of Seminoles. Faster and
faster the old man beat the air, flecks of foam gathered on his lips,
and his withered face grew horribly contorted. With his talon-like
hands he began clawing at the sick man, who was twisting and tossing
on his couch, as though with convulsions. The medicine man paused for
a moment in his wild exertions, and, taking from his snakeskin bag a
packet of reddish powder, he scattered it over the burning rushlights.
Immediately there rose a sweet, sickening, pungent vapor, that made the
boys gasp for breath. They would have given a good deal to have got out
in the fresh air, but they were afraid the Indians would resent any
move on their part, and, besides, they were curious to see the end of
this weird ceremony. They had not long to wait. The medicine man, with
a sudden yell, snatched a knife from his loin cloth and plunged it into
the sick man's arm. Into the long, shallow cut he had made he rubbed
more of the reddish powder; then, with a long-drawn-out wail, he sank
back to the ground and his limbs and body stiffened out as rigid as
stone. Evidently this was the end of the incantations, for a couple of
Indians advanced, and, picking up the stiff figure, bore it outside of
the wigwam. The two lads started to follow, but Willie John put forth a
detaining hand.
"Go look at chief first," he said, and they silently obeyed.
The change in the sick man was amazing. They could hardly believe their
eyes. The haggard look of pain had disappeared from his face, his skin
was moist and cool, his tossing had ceased, and he had fallen into a
deep sleep.
"Pale face doctor no cure chief like medicine man," proudly said Willie
John, and the wondering lads had to admit the truth of his assertion.
Outside the two lads found the Indians dashing water in the medicine
man's face and trying to bring him out of his cataleptic state.
"He be all right, pretty soon," Willie John assured them. "Alway he get
stiff like this when he wrestles with the evil spirits of sickness.
Now I will go and get two ponies for you." He soon returned, leading
two ponies already saddled and bridled. The boys mounted, and, with
farewell waves of the hand, rode out of the camp and turned into the
road leading to the great lake.
"What did you think of that business back there?" Walter asked, as soon
as they were out of hearing of the little settlement.
"I give it up," Charley said frankly. "It's a mystery beyond me. Of
course, I don't take much stock in all that wriggling, clawing, and
wailing, but there must certainly be some wonderful curative agent in
that powder. I agree with the doctor that the chief was dying when the
medicine man came."
"Well, it is not so very wonderful, after all, when one stops to
consider the matter," said Walter reflectively. "The Seminoles are an
old, old race, so old that nobody knows how old they are. For ages and
ages they have lived in these great swamps, and it would be strange,
indeed, if the more intelligent of them had not by this time found some
remedy for the fevers of the country."
"It's interesting, anyway," Charley declared. "I'd give something
to know what that powder was made of. It would be a blessing to the
fever-stricken world."
CHAPTER XIX.
THE OLD FORT.
NOT long after leaving Indiantown the boys passed into a higher
country, where the road wound in and out among great towering live
oaks, under which the ground was thickly strewed with acorns.
Multitudes of gray squirrels frisked among the branches and made the
air noisy with their chattering.
"I'll bet this is a great game country," Charley remarked, as they
stopped to water their ponies at the edge of a clear-running brook.
"There ought to be bear and turkeys around where there are so many
acorns. Listen! if I am not mistaken, those are turkeys drumming now."
From a point a little to the left of the road came a hollow thumping
sound, repeated at frequent intervals. "It's turkeys," said Charley,
with conviction. "Come on, let's see if we can get a shot at them."
The two lads dismounted, and, tying their ponies to convenient trees,
took their guns and picked their way softly toward the sound. A hundred
feet brought them to where they could look out from the shelter of the
oaks into a little glade or clearing a couple of acres in extent. What
they saw caused them to pause and stare in admiration and amusement. In
the center of the glade was a bunch of some twenty turkeys. The sun,
shining down, lit up their plumage with a thousand colors, and made of
them a picture well worth remembering, but it was the antics that they
were going through that drew a smile from the two lads.
The leader of the flock, a huge gobbler with ruffled feathers and
drumming wings, was going through a sort of strutting, mincing dance,
every motion of his being closely followed by each of the flock, moving
with slow, stately dignity.
"Gee!" grinned Walter. "They are doing the 'turkey trot.' It costs five
dollars to see that dance in New York."
"The ministers say it's immoral," said Charley laughingly, "so let's
put a stop to it. Be sure to pick out one of the younger birds. We
never could cook that gobbler tender. I'll bet he is ten years old."
The lads fired almost together, and two of the smaller turkeys sank to
the ground, while the rest of the flock rose in flight, but only to
settle again within easy gun-shot.
"No use killing any more," Walter said, as the two lads emerged from
behind the oaks and picked up the dead birds.
"No," Charley agreed. "These will be all we can use. They would spoil
before we got back to camp. But say, I am tickled to see game so
plentiful. When we get the machine and camp out here, it will make a
big difference in our grub bills."
"Hold on a minute," said Walter, as his chum turned to retrace his
steps to the road. "Doesn't it strike you as queer--this bare space in
the heart of a great oak forest?"
"It is odd," admitted Charley. "I never thought of that until you
mentioned it. Let's look around a bit."
The boys, up to now, had barely noticed the clearing, all their
interest being centered on the turkeys. As they advanced into it they
were surprised to note that it was not a freak of nature, but had been
carefully cleared by hand. The indestructible live oak stumps still
bore evidence of the axe. Wonderingly, the lads made their way forward.
"Those are not live oak trees at the other end of the clearing,"
declared Charley, who was looking around with eager eyes. "Let's see
what they are."
A few minutes' walk brought them to the fringe of trees that had
drawn the lads' attention. Here they paused, with an exclamation of
astonishment.
"Gee!" Charley cried, "they are orange trees, and, from their size,
they must be hundreds of years old."
"And there's another clearing beyond this one," cried Walter, who had
entered the fringe of trees to pluck some of the golden fruit. "Come
on, let's have a look at it. The oranges can wait until we come back."
With all of boys' healthy love of mystery and discovery, the two lads
pushed eagerly through the fringe of orange trees and found themselves
in another but smaller clearing, in the center of which rose up high
posts, forming four sides of a square enclosure.
"A stockade!" exclaimed Charley excitedly. "Let's see what's inside. It
ought to be easy to break down one of those posts."
But their united efforts failed to crack any of the posts. They were
all of live oak, which successfully resists the wear of centuries.
"It's no use tiring ourselves out for nothing," Charley said, after
they had tried several of the posts without any success. "There must
be an opening somewhere, and we have only to follow up the posts
to find it." This they did, and, rounding the first corner of the
stockade, came upon an opening in the wall, where had evidently once
hung a strong gate. Pushing through the opening, they stood inside of
the stockade, and, pausing, gazed around with a feeling of awe. The
little enclosure was perhaps a half acre in extent. In the middle of
it stood a small fort, cunningly constructed of big blocks of coquina
rock. Around the little fort were grouped what had once been dwellings,
but of which nothing now remained but their upright live-oak posts. A
hole, in one side of the fort, which likely in some past age had been
closed by a massive door, showed the enclosure to the fortress. Passing
through the hole, the boys found themselves in a dim room, some forty
feet square. The only light was the few rays that filtered through the
loopholes, and the two lads had to pause to accustom their eyes to the
dim twilight.
"My, but look here!" cried Charley, as his vision cleared.
Walter backed nervously toward the door, as he, too, began to perceive
the grewsome objects grouped around them. Directly in front of them
stood a gigantic, man-like form. Gaping holes, where the eyes should
have been, stared upon them, and one long arm pointed directly at them.
"Whew, that gave me a shock at first!" exclaimed Charley, with a
nervous laugh of relief. "One does not expect to stumble upon dead men
in armor in the wilds of Florida. Look! there's another and another
and another," he continued, pointing to the other motionless figures
sprawled in all sorts of attitudes about the room. At the foot of a
cunningly constructed stone stairway, the suits of armor lay so close
together that the boys could hardly pick their way between them.
"The defenders evidently made a brave stand here at the foot of the
stairway," Charley observed. "Let's go up and see what's in the upper
chamber."
With but little relish for further investigation, Walter followed his
chum as he climbed up the stone stairs.
The scene in the upper chamber was but a repetition of that below,
only the floor was more thickly strewn with the suits of mail. Charley
lifted the rust-encrusted visor of one, but let it drop hastily as his
eyes encountered the grinning skeleton within.
"They were Spaniards who made this clearing and built this fort,"
he explained to his chum. "It may have been part of one of DeSoto's
expeditions, or they may have been one of the treasure-hunting parties
that were so numerous in the fifteenth century. Likely they became
disgusted with tramping through swamps, and, when they came to this
pleasant spot, they decided to stay for a time at least. So they,
probably, made captives of many of the Indians, and put them to work,
clearing, planting and building. But the Indians had their revenge in
the end."
"You can stay here as long as you want to, but I am going to get out
in the fresh air," said Walter, shuddering as he watched a hairy rat
creep out from one of the suits of armor. "I will wait for you just
outside the fort."
"All right," Charley agreed. "I'll be out in a few minutes."
Left to himself, the lad searched around in the corners for a few
minutes, trying to find something to carry away with him as a souvenir
of their strange discovery, but, finding nothing, he soon gave up the
hunt, and, gathering up his game bag and gun, he made his way back down
the stairs and out of the fort, glad to be in the sunshine and fresh
air once more.
Walter was not in sight, and, after calling him a couple of times,
Charley decided that he had probably grown tired of waiting, and had
returned to the orange trees to eat his fill, and for them the lad
hastened. But his chum was not there, and, with a vague feeling of
alarm, the lad hurried on to where they had left their ponies, but
Walter was not there. Now thoroughly alarmed, the lad fired off his gun
four times in rapid succession, then waited and listened, but there
came no answering report.
After a moment's consideration, Charley turned around and hastened back
to the ancient clearing. He made the round outside of the stockade, and
then, entering the gate, searched the inside thoroughly, but no sign
could he find of the missing one. Again he fired the distress signal
of four shots, but there was no reply.
The thoroughly frightened lad sat down on a block of stone, and strove
to master his nervous fears and gather together his scattered wits.
The whole thing was incomprehensible. Not fifteen minutes had elapsed
since he had parted with Walter in the upper chamber of the fort, and
now his chum was gone. He could not have gotten lost in the woods, for
the way back to the ponies could be followed by a child, with its plain
landmarks of orange trees and the other clearings. Besides, in that
short length of time, Walter could not have got beyond the sound of the
gun signal, to which he would certainly have replied.
CHAPTER XX.
THE HIDDEN VOICE.
FOR a few minutes Charley was almost a prey to vague, suspicious fears,
which lie hidden deep in most of mankind. The suddenness of his chum's
disappearance, the ages-old stockade, the ancient fort, with its
grewsome occupants, all gave force to weird imaginings; but, with an
effort, the practical lad shook off his gloomy thoughts with the simple
logic that age is no more mysterious than youth, and that dead men are
less to be feared than live ones. But, in spite of his sound reasoning,
the worried lad could not imagine what had become of his chum. He was
not in the stockade; he was not in either clearing; he was not among
the orange trees; he was not back with the ponies, yet he had passed
out of the fort not five minutes ahead of himself, but at this point in
his reasoning Charley gave a start. He had found the flaw in his own
logic. He had no proof that Walter had passed out of the fort. Affected
as the lad had been by the grewsome sights, he might have fainted
before reaching the open air and he might well have passed him by in
the dim light without noticing him.
Hastily gathering some dry sticks, Charley held them in one hand and
fired the ends. As soon as his torch was blazing good, he entered the
fort, and, holding it aloft, inspected the lower chamber. Near the
middle of the chamber he found Walter's rifle lying on the stone floor,
but a close search showed no other trace of the missing lad. Puzzled,
he ascended to the upper chamber, but here he found everything as he
had left it, and he descended again to the lower chamber, convinced
that in it must lie the key to the mystery, for he was certain Walter
would not have left the fort without taking his gun with him.
Walking around the stone chamber, Charley held his torch aloft and
inspected the solid floor and walls, in the vain hope of discovering
some clew to his chum's mysterious disappearance.
Suddenly he gave a frightened cry, and flung out his arms to save
himself, for something had given way beneath his feet, and he felt
himself sinking downward. Fortunately, his instinctive action had been
so quick that his extended arms caught on the stone floor and saved
him from sinking into the gaping black hole beneath him. Summoning up
all his strength, the lad drew himself up out of the trap into which
he had partly fallen, and, seizing the torch he had dropped, surveyed
the spot. A large stone slab was slowly lifting back into place. In a
flash, the lad grasped the situation. The slab had been so cunningly
contrived as to appear part of the solid floor, but, when a person
stepped on one end the slab would tilt down, sending the victim down to
the depths below, and, when his weight was removed, the slab would tilt
back into place again.
Charley was quick to act. Sitting down on the floor, he placed his
feet against the end of the slab and pressed downward. The end of the
stone immediately tipped downward, exposing the dark hole beneath, and
the lad shoved his rifle across the opening to prevent the slab from
lifting back into place. From below him came a call that sent his heart
bounding with joy: "Is that you, Charley?" it said.
"Yes. Are you hurt, Walt?" replied the delighted lad.
"Not much; some bruises, and a bump on my head, that's all. But, for
goodness sake, hurry and get me out of here. The air is so foul it is
making me feel faint. Get the ropes off the ponies, and fasten them
together. I do not believe this hole is more than fifteen feet deep.
But hurry, hurry!"
Charley was off like a shot and back in a few minutes with the halters
from the two ponies. Hastily knotting them together, he fastened one
end to a projecting stone in the wall, and let the other end down to
his chum, who, white-faced and shaken, crawled up it, hand over hand.
Pausing only to secure their rifles and the ropes, the two lads hurried
out into the open air.
"Gee!" said Walter, drawing long breaths of the sweet, pure air, "I
thought I was a goner that time. I kept calling and calling after I
fell, but when you did not answer I knew that you could not hear me.
When I was sure that my voice did not penetrate outside of the hole I
gave up hope, for I was positive that you would not find out the secret
of that slab unless you stepped upon it, and, if you did that, there
would be two of us buried alive, instead of one. Ugh!" he concluded,
with a shudder, "I know now what fear is--genuine, blind, unreasoning
fear."
The boys stopped at the orange trees only long enough to fill their
game bags with the golden fruit, and hastened on to their ponies,
fearful that, with no halters on, they might have turned back for
Indiantown, but, much to their relief, they found the two animals
browsing contentedly by the roadside. Each slung a turkey from one side
of his saddle and a loaded game bag from the other, and, mounting,
they rode on for their goal, the great lake. About four o'clock they
rode out from a heavy growth of timber into full view of the broad,
shining blue waters, and a few minutes later reined in their mounts on
a high, grass-covered bank, shaded by big live oaks. Here they staked
out their ponies to browse upon the sweet, tender grass, and, after a
plunge in the cool waters of the lake, began their preparations for the
night. Walter gathered great bunches of moss, and made soft beds at
the base of a huge live-oak tree. Charley lit a big fire of live oak
and pine, and, while it was burning down into a bed of glowing coals,
he dressed and cut up the two turkeys, and soon had them frying and
stewing in the pan and kettle they had brought with them. While Charley
tended to the cooking, Walter gathered armfuls of dry wood and placed
them in a circle around the oak, where he had made the beds. Before
night fell everything was ready, and the boys sat down to a delicious
meal of fried and stewed turkey and the eatables they had brought with
them. They had eaten nothing since morning, and, when the meal was
over, they were full enough and tired enough to be content to lie upon
the grassy bank and simply gaze out at the glories of the sunset on the
waters of the lake. When at last the light began to fail they watered
their ponies and staked them in a fresh place, close to where they were
going to sleep. This done, they started up the circle of fires around
the tree and stretched out on their soft moss bed with a pleasant
feeling of security, knowing that the slow-burning live-oak wood would
keep the fires burning all night and protect them from all snakes and
wild animals.
"I have been wondering why that hole was made in that old fort," said
Walter, as they lay on their backs gazing up at the stars. "It isn't
deep enough for a well or a dungeon."
"Maybe it was a hiding place for their treasures," suggested Charley,
idly.
"By Jove, I believe you've hit it," Walter exclaimed. "And that reminds
me that I picked up something for a souvenir of my adventure before I
climbed out. I couldn't see what it was, for the hole was dark and I
had no matches. It was something hard, round and heavy. I have got it
in my game bag now."
"Get it out and let's see what it is," said Charley, interested.
Walter rummaged in his game bag and brought out a round object, about a
foot long and ten inches in circumference.
"Looks like a piece of petrified wood," he said, as he handed it over
for his chum's inspection.
Charley took it, and, drawing near the fire, examined it closely. "Too
heavy for petrified wood," he commented, as he took out his knife and
scraped away at the green encrusted object. "By Jove! Look here," he
exclaimed a moment later.
Walter bent over and looked at the place where his chum had been
scraping. A reddish-brown color appeared where the green crust had
been removed.
"Is it gold?" he asked, excitedly.
"No," Charley replied. "It's copper. Let's scrape the balance of this
verdigris off, and see if we can get an idea what it was intended for."
Laying the cylinder on the ground between them, both boys set to
scraping away the green crust, and in a short time they had it all
removed, leaving exposed the bright metal beneath it.
"Looks like there was a crack running around it near that end," Walter
observed, as Charley held the cylinder down by the fire for closer
examination.
"There is," agreed his chum, excitedly. "I believe the thing is hollow.
That this end is nothing but a close fitting cap. Shall I see if I can
knock it off?"
"Sure," agreed Walter, and Charley hammered against the end with his
hunting knife. Suddenly the end gave way and out on the ground before
the boys fell a shower of gold coins and jewelry.
Charley picked up one of the coins and held it to the light. "It's a
Spanish doubloon," he announced breathlessly. "Let's count them and put
them back in the cylinder. This is almost too good to be true."
The gold coins were gathered up from the ground and counted. There
proved to be a thousand dollars' worth altogether. Besides the coins,
there were some twenty gold rings set with gems, but these the boys
were too inexperienced to tell the full value of. They, as well as the
gold coins, were put back into the cylinder, and it was replaced in the
game bag.
"I expect there are more where those came from," Walter remarked.
"I doubt it," said his chum, thoughtfully. "Even what we have found
would have been considered a big amount in the days of those Spaniards.
We can look when we go back to-morrow. Meanwhile, I am going to get me
a good night's sleep. To-morrow is going to be another hard day."
CHAPTER XXI.
CHARLEY GETS A TELEGRAM.
THE tired-out boys slept soundly until awakened by the rays of the
morning sun. Rising, they enjoyed a good swim in the cool waters of
the lake, and then, stirring up the dying embers of the campfire, they
warmed up and ate what remained of their feast of the night before.
As soon as it was finished, they saddled up their ponies, and, with a
parting look at the beautiful lake, headed back for camp.
They had not gone far before the sky became overcast, and soon there
began to fall a fine, drizzling rain, that soaked their thin clothing
and chilled their bodies. There was no shelter to get under, so they
could only ride on and take it as it came. When they came to the place
where they had stopped the day before Walter wanted to halt and look
for more treasure, but Charley objected.
"Our matches are all wet, so that we cannot make a torch," he
explained, "and we could not do much searching without a light.
If there is any more treasure in that hole there is no danger of
anyone finding it. We, ourselves, would never have found it but for
an accident. We had better wait until we can come back with a proper
outfit of ropes, candles, etc. To tell the truth, I want someone else
along with us next time. If one of us should get hurt in any way it
would be a bad fix for both so far away from camp. See how near I came
to joining you in that hole yesterday? Two is not enough where there is
danger of that kind. We will bring the Captain and Chris next time."
Walter, still mindful of his experience in the black hole, was not
overly anxious to repeat it, and they rode on in the drizzling rain.
Before they reached the Indian camp the rain ceased and the sun came
out again with a warmth grateful to their chilled bodies. On reining
in at the camp, they were astonished to see the chief sitting out in
the sun in front of his wigwam. He was thin as a skeleton, but appeared
bright and cheerful. The Indian, Willie John, who had furnished them
with the ponies, stopped them when they started to unsaddle.
"No, no," he said, "ride ponies on to big camp. Turn 'em loose. They
come back all right."
The boys tried to pay him for the use of the animals, but he refused to
take any money.
"Young pale-faces friends. No take money from friends," he said
generously.
"Very well," Charley said, "but friends may give gifts to friends.
Soon I go to town and get plenty of red and blue and yellow cloth and
much beads. Two sleeps (nights) from now you come to big camp and get
them. They will be a gift from the palefaces to their Seminole brother."
"It is well," said the Seminole, gravely. "Two sleeps I come to big
camp."
"There is something noble about the Seminoles," said Charley, as they
rode on. "Now that fellow knows the value of money, and he knows he can
get with it many things that he desires, but his code forbids him to
take it from a friend."
"I like them," agreed Walter emphatically. "They are so different from
our slovenly tribes of Western Indians. They are so clean, honest,
generous, and truthful. I doubt if a white race put in this awful
country would retain so many virtues."
"And they have never waged an unjust war," Charley added. "When they
fought it was to save themselves from being crushed out of existence.
But, when they did have to fight, they fought bravely. During the
Seminole war, not so very many miles north of here, a party of Indians
encountered a company of soldiers. The soldiers stood their ground
until the last one was killed and the Seminoles victorious, but, after
the battle was over, not a dead soldier was scalped according to savage
custom. Not one was touched. Even their guns and equipment were left
lying where they had fallen. It was a silent tribute the Seminoles
paid to a brave enemy, and, to my mind, there was something fine in the
act."
This conversation had brought the lads to the jungle, and they fell
silent as they rode through its gloomy depths.
It was after noon when they came in sight of the machine, which they
were pleased to see was still working steadily, showing that nothing
serious had occurred during their absence. When close to it, Charley
reined in his pony and hailed the engineer.
"Hello!" he called. "How are they coming?"
Kitchner stopped the machine, and clambering down, walked up to him.
"Not so bad," he said, in answer to the question. "But we've only got
enough carbide to run the light to-night. Have to have some more before
to-morrow night, or we will have to quit night work."
Charley frowned slightly. "That carbide light costs like fury," he
said. "I brought out a big lot of it the last time I went to town. At
the rate it has been used up, that light costs us about $5.00 a night."
"It is expensive," agreed Kitchner, "and that is not the worst feature
about it. It's dangerous to use on a job like this, where the men do
not understand it. There is always some escaping gas from the tank,
which is easily set afire by a spark from the engine or the careless
lighting of a match close by. One of the firemen was burnt some last
night. The gas caught fire from his lantern. An electric light would be
far better, less dangerous, and save its own cost in the long run."
"We'll get a dynamo and fix up an electric light, then," said Charley.
"I'll go in to-night and order one. It will likely take several days to
get it here, so I'll bring back enough carbide with me to run the light
until it comes."
This settled, the boys rode on into camp, where Charley paused long
enough to wash and change his clothes, then got out the truck and
headed for town, where he arrived in time to catch the train for Palm
Beach. He carried with him the gold and rings they had found in the
old fort, for the boys had decided that it would be unwise to keep the
treasure at camp, and that the sooner it was turned into money and
safely deposited in the bank the better it would be. Once at the Beach,
the lad sought out the leading jeweler in town, and showed him the
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/43875