Chapter Seventeen.
Over Confidence.
Oluski’s dwelling, in his place of permanent abode, was a more pretentious affair than the wigwam temporarily inhabited by him at Tampa Bay.
This eastern residence was an old Indian town that had been built long before the Spaniards had landed in Florida, and in it his people, for many generations, had dwelt.
The chief having returned from an extended hunting excursion, was pleased to find himself once more beneath his paternal roof.
Doubly pleased; for he had brought back with him his nephew, Wacora, who, thinking of his pretty cousin, had accepted his uncle’s invitation with alacrity.
Behold them, then, with pipes lighted, seated inside the house, Sansuta in attendance.
Wacora watched the lithe-limbed maiden; as she flitted to and fro, engaged in household duties, he thought her as attractive as ever. A certain consciousness on her part of the fact, in no way detracted from her beauty.
“I am pleased, nephew,” said Oluski, “pleased to see you here again. I feel that I am no longer young, the support of your arm in a wearying day’s march has been very welcome.”
“It is always at your service, uncle.”
“I am sure of it. If Oluski thought otherwise he would be unhappy. Your cousin, Sansuta,” addressing his daughter, “came to see you as much as to bear me company. You should thank him for it.”
“I do.”
“Wacora is thanked already in the smile of welcome that met him in Sansuta’s eyes.”
The young girl blushed at the delicate compliment, and, going out, left the two chiefs together.
“You tell me, Wacora, that the affairs of your tribe are prosperous, and that there is peace and harmony in your council chamber?”
“Yes, uncle, the same as in my father’s lifetime.”
“That is well, for without that there is no real strength. So it is with us.”
“You have told me nothing of the pale-faces at Tampa Bay.”
“They are our firm friends still. In spite of your fears, Wacora, to the contrary, Rody and the colonists are true to their promises.”
“I am pleased to hear Oluski say so,” was the nephew’s reply.
“I did not tell you that he had made an offer to buy the hill.”
“To buy the hill! What hill?”
“That on which we make our annual encampment. We call it Tampa after the bay.”
“Indeed! He wants that, too?” rejoined the young chief, in a tone savouring of indignation.
“Yes; I called our council together, and told them of the offer.”
“And their answer?”
“The same as my own; they refused.”
Wacora gave a sigh of relief.
“When I carried that answer to the white he was not angry, but met me like a friend.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; he pressed upon my acceptance rich presents, and told me that Oluski’s friendship was worth more than land.”
“But you refused the presents,” said the young Indian, eagerly.
“I could not; my old friend would take no denial. Fearing to offend him, I yielded.”
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of an Indian, one of the warriors of the tribe.
“What does Maracota want?” asked Oluski.
“To speak to Wacora, the chief.”
Wacora desired him to express his wishes in the presence of his uncle.
“Marcota must speak to Wacora alone, if Oluski will allow it.”
Oluski made a sign to his nephew, who rising, followed the man outside the door.
“Wacora must follow me further,” signified the Indian.
“Go on, I will do so.”
Maracota led the way, and only paused in his walk when he had got some distance from the dwelling.
“Has Wacora faith in Maracota?”
The young chief started at the question which his guide had put to him in a tone of strange earnestness.
“Yes. I have faith in you.”
“And he would serve Oluski, our chief?”
“With my life!”
“Sansuta is dear to Oluski.”
Again Wacora started. Maracota’s words were enigmatical.
His guide continued—
“Sansuta is beautiful.”
“We all know that. Was it to tell me this that you brought me here?”
“The pale-faces admire the beauty of our Indian maidens.”
“What of that?”
“One pale-face has marked Sansuta’s beauty.”
“Ha!”
“His eyes gladden at sight of her. Her cheeks grow red at sight of him.”
“His name?”
“Warren Rody.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Maracota is Oluski’s friend and watches over his chief’s happiness. To-night Warren’s messenger was in town—the negro, Crookleg.”
The young chief was silent. Maracota watched him without breaking in upon his thoughts.
Recovering himself, Wacora asked—
“Where did you see the negro?”
“In the old fort.”
“The old fort! What was he doing there?”
“Maracota followed his trail—a lame foot and a stick—and saw him as he entered the ruin; some one was waiting for him inside.”
“Who was with the negro,” demanded Wacora.
“His master,” repeated Maracota.
“Warren Rody?”
Maracota nodded.
“I heard their talk,” he said.
“What did they say?” asked the young chief.
“At first, I could not hear—they spoke in whispers. After a time they grew angry. Warren abused Crookleg and struck him. The black man uttered a fierce oath and leaped over the wall of the fort at the side opposite to where I lay hid.”
“Did you hear their conversation before they quarrelled?”
“I heard the pale-face say Crookleg had only half done his errand and must return to complete it. The black refused. It was then the other got angry and struck him.”
“This is very strange, Maracota. It is some treachery I cannot understand. The negro must be found and questioned!”
“Well, Massa Injun, dat ain’t hard to do. He, he, he!”
Had the fiend of darkness himself risen between the two Indians, they could not have been more startled than when these words were uttered in their ears, for it was Crookleg who spoke.
The darkey appeared delighted at the effect his sudden appearance had created, and continued for some time to chuckle in great glee.
“Yas! here be de ’dentical nigger wot you was a-wishin’ for. You hab found him ’ithout gwin far. He, he, he!”
Wacora turned sternly towards him.
“And having found you, wretch, I mean to keep you till I’ve made you speak the truth.”
“De trufe, Massa Injun, am what dis ole nigga always ’peak. He can’t help it, kase it comes so na’tral to him. Trufe an’ innocence is dis chile’s on’y riches, tank heaven!”
The look which accompanied this impious speech was almost diabolical.
Wacora cut him short in an attempt to continue his speech, by a command instantly to make known what Warren Rody wanted, with what message he had been charged, and to whom.
Crookleg, however was not easily taken at a disadvantage.
“Well, Massa Injun, I don’t mind tellin’ you somet’ing, but I don’t like talkin’ afore other folk. You send dis indiwiddle away,” pointing to Maracota, “an’ ole Crook’ll tell you all about it. He meant to do so, when he comed here so sudden.”
With a sign the chief dismissed Maracota, and telling the black to follow, led him a little distance further from the town.
A long, and apparently interesting conversation ensued, in which Crookleg’s gesticulations were, as usual, violent, while the young chief, with arms folded, and brows knit, listened to his narration.
It was late ere they separated, the negro hobbling back in the direction of the ruin, while Wacora returned to his uncle’s dwelling.