“Well, you’ve got your hands full,” retorted his friend. “How do you expect to guide us? I can’t see three feet overside.”
“By instinct—an extra sense, perhaps, you would call it. No man of my race ever loses his bump of direction.”
From the fog behind them came the hoot of a nightbird.
“All set—let’s go!” Osceola dipped his paddle. “No talking, please, from now on. Voices carry a long way over the water, you know.”
For the better part of the next three hours, the long line of dugouts forged ahead through the heavy blanket of sea fog. Once more, the journey seemed endless to Bill. His nerves were tingling with the thought of the night’s work ahead. Would Osceola be able to guide them to the island? The chief paddled steadily onward, seemingly never at a loss as to the direction his little craft should take.
Gradually this confidence was imparted to the white lad. They would succeed ... they must. Yet these Seminoles were but untrained aborigines at best. Would they be able to overcome the white men, professionals, only too well versed in all the exigencies of gang warfare? To the Seminoles this expedition meant merely a matter of revenge, an insult to wipe out. To Bill it meant the life and liberty of his father. They must succeed, he told himself desperately, for the twentieth time—they would succeed.
The fog grew less dense. A few straggling wisps of mist played round the line of canoes and were gone. From out the murk came the dull roar of surf breaking on a rocky shore. Then suddenly the grayish white of cliffs loomed up straight ahead.
From Osceola’s throat came the raucous screech of an owl. As one man the flotilla stopped moving.
“Shell Island,” the chief whispered. “The path up the cliffs is yonder, to the left. You go to the right, Bill. You know my plans, and I know yours.”
“O—and likewise, K.” Bill’s voice was husky with excitement, though he strove to keep it casual. “Good luck and good hunting, old man.”