A Smoke Interrupted.
Although Cris Carrol was absent from the immediate neighbourhood of the settlement, he was none the less informed of what had happened since his departure.
Several of the colonists, alarmed at the prospect of affairs, had quietly left Tampa Bay, and, meeting with the hunter, had told him of the events that had transpired within the past month.
The backwoodsman’s foresight had not deceived him.
The whites, by which he meant Elias and his followers, had not heeded his advice, and worse had come of it.
The hunter was nothing, if not oracular.
“Wal,” said he, “Governor Rody thought himself smart when he set to work buildin’ that thar frame-house of his’n on the red-man’s ground, but I reckon he’ll pay for it yet in bloody scalps and broken bones. Confound the old cormorant; his house will cause all of them poor white settlers no end of trouble. It don’t bear thinkin’ on, that it don’t. As for his black-hearted whelp of a son, darn me if I wouldn’t like to put an ounce o’ lead into his carcass, if it war only to larn him some human feelin’.”
“But won’t you go back to the settlement now, and see if your presence can do any good?”
To this question, propounded by one of the fugitive settlers, Cris answered—
“Good! What good can I do now? No, lad, the fat’s in the fire this time, and, may be, I may better help some poor critter away from the place than anigh it. I’ll tell ye what it is, and it aint no use denyin’ it. Them there red devils means mischief, and the old cuss Rody knows it by this time. The chief, Oluski, what you tell me air dead, war worth a whole settlement of Rody’s—barrin’ one—that is, barrin’ one.”