When Osceola had finished his harangue, the band of warriors commenced to board their canoes.
“Where in the world is Sam?” Bill asked the chief as they walked toward the handsome dugout that was Osceola’s private property.
“Here I is, suh!”
A painted savage broke from the embrace of a squaw twice his size and girth, and came running up to them.
“Good Lord, Sam! Where are your clothes?” The chief stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment.
“Ise a Seminole brave, now!” proudly announced the darkey. “Lil Eva, she done fix me up last night!”
“Little Eva!” exploded Bill. “That squaw must weigh two hundred and fifty!”
“Yas, suh! Fine woman. We gwine to git married when I come back from killin’ off dem gangsters. She say dat I’m her fightin’ man now—an’ I b’leeve I cert’nly do look like one.” He admired his painted chest, grinning from ear to ear.
Bill and Osceola looked at one another and roared with laughter. “Well, it’s okay with me, Sam,” declared the chief. “Hop aboard with your armory. It’s time we were on our way. Lucky there are some blankets in the canoe,” he added as he shoved off and sprang in after them, “you’ll probably need several before we get through with this picnic.”
The chief’s dugout, with Bill, Sam and Osceola wielding the paddles, shot swiftly down the waterway. The flotilla of canoes closed in single file behind. At last the expedition was under way.