"I'll guarantee she doesn't run off—and your other little ideas aren't pleasant. Let's go back and have a drink."
When they had entered the bungalow a silence fell over the settlement. I did not see a man anywhere. But I drew a long breath of relief because Sylvia was for a little while safe, even while I raged at the realization of her danger. My body was cramped, and cautiously I stretched my legs. Smilax had not moved.
"It looks like we got here just in time," I whispered. "But what shall we do?"
He relaxed then, and slowly answered:
"Me think 'while. Echochee good old woman; always kind to l'il black boy."
"You know her?" I could hardly have hoped for that stroke of luck.
"Me know all Seminole; not many left. 'Echochee' mean what white man say 'li'l deer.' She old woman when me l'il black boy in Reservation. Me think 'while; you, too."
Schemes of every wild kind, daring and impossible plans of rescue, raced through my brain; seeming reasonable enough at the time, but Smilax quickly found the flaws in each until I had exhausted my supply. Finally he spoke, and I knew that he spoke with judgment.
"To-night," he said, "we watch and see if they put out guard. Maybe they do, after what Jess said 'bout Lady run off. When dark come, me swim to l'il island and give owl call—two times, then stop soft in middle. Long 'go in Injun village that mean: 'panther, come quick, gun,' Echochee will hear and 'member. Good. Then we talk and fix all up. First we see if Efaw Kotee put out guard."
This was so different, so tame, to the brilliant, suicidal dashes into the thick of rescue and glory—and doubtless destruction—as my plans ran, that I almost felt ashamed. Smilax could neither read nor write; his vocabulary might have been held in the hollow of one's hand, but in many respects he was the sanest creature I ever met.