Chapter Twenty Six.
Forced into Service.
After entering the narrow stretch of water, Nelatu, for some time, plied his paddle with vigour.
He then paused to examine the place.
Sedges and cane-brakes grew thickly down to the water’s edge.
There appeared no passage through them.
Resuming his course, he attentively watched for any sign of habitation, but for a long time without success.
Just as he was turning the head of the canoe again in the direction of the lagoon, an object, floating on the surface, attracted his attention.
It was an oar.
A glance convinced him that it was the fellow of the one he held in his hand.
Re-animated by this assuring proof that he was going in the right direction, he fished it up, and abandoning the more laborious mode of paddling, he adjusted the oars in the rowlocks, and bending to them, made more rapid way.
He kept his eyes turning to right and left, on the lookout for a landing-place, which he now felt assured could not be far distant.
His scrutiny was at length rewarded.
A few hundred yards from where he had picked up the floating oar, a post was seen sticking up out of the bank.
To this was attached a Manilla rope, the broken strands of which showed it to be the other portion of that fastened to the stern of the canoe.
The clue was found.
Those he had dimly seen in the morning, were doubtless close at hand.
He ran the craft in shore, fastened it securely to the post, and landed.
With cautious steps he followed the footprints now seen in the soft mud of the bank.
They led to a sheltered spot, upon which a rude hut had been erected.
The sound of a man’s voice arrested his steps.
“He, he! I ’clare it makes dis chile larf, to t’ink about de trubble dat’s brewing for dem. De long time am comin’ round at last. I’se bin a waitin’ for it, but it am comin’ now.”
It was Crookleg who spoke; but for the time he said no more.
A stunning blow from Nelatu’s clubbed rifle—which would have crushed any skull but that of a negro—felled him senseless to the ground.
On recovering consciousness, he found himself bound in a most artistic manner by a thong of deer-skin, which Nelatu had found near the hut.
“Hush!” said the Indian, in a half-whisper; “not a word, except to answer my questions. Don’t move, dog, or I’ll dash out your brains!”
The negro trembled in every limb.
“Is Warren Rody inside that hut?”
Crookleg shook his head.
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know, Massa Injun; don’t know nuffin ’bout him.”
“Liar!”
“By him tressed life, massa, dis chile don’t know.”
“Answer me—where is Warren Rody? I give you one chance for your wretched life. Tell me, where is Warren Rody?”
The raising of a tomahawk above the negro’s head convinced him that death would be the sure reward of untruth.
“Don’t, massa, don’t kill de ole nigger. He’ll tell you all he knows. Oh, don’t kill me!”
“Speak.”
“He war here, but he am gone.”
“Where?”
“Out ob de swamp into de woods.”
“And Sansuta?”
“De gal am gone ’long wid him.”
Nelatu groaned.
Warren, then, was guilty.
“Do you know me?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, massa, I knows you well—you am Sansuta’s brodder. I tole Warren he war a-doin’ wrong, but he am so headstrong he would take your sister. Dis chile’s begged him not to do it.”
“False dog! you are deceiving me.”
“I swear, Mass ’Latu, I’se speaking the bressed trufe.”
Not deigning to reply, the Indian strode on to the hut, and entered it. It was deserted.
A bead bracelet lying inside attested to the truth of that portion of Crookleg’s story which told him Sansuta had been there.
He returned to the negro.
“Rise,” he said, in a commanding tone.
“I can’t, massa; you has tied me so tight that I can’t move.”
“Rise, I tell you,” repeated the Indian with a threatening gesture.
Beginning to obey, the negro rolled over the ground in the direction of the rifle which Nelatu had laid aside in order to tie him.
Could he but reach that, he might defy his raptor.
But the Indian was too quick for him.
With a kick which made Crookleg howl with pain, he forced him aside, and secured the weapon himself.
Seeing that his only chance was submission, the negro got upon his feet with some difficulty, and stood awaiting further orders.
Nelatu now unfastened the thongs that bound him.
“Go before me,” he said.
Crookleg hobbled forward with a demoniac look upon his face.
They reached the water’s edge.
“Is that your canoe?”
“Yes, massa; dat dug-out b’long to me.”
“Get in.”
The black scrambled into the stern.
“Not there—the other end.”
Crookleg obeyed.
Nelatu took the vacated seat.
“Now, lay hold of these oars, bend your back, and row me to the place where you landed Warren Rody and my sister. Remember, that if you make the slightest attempt to deceive me, I will bury my tomahawk deep in your brain.”
Thus admonished, the negro plied the oars, and the canoe darted rapidly through the water.