“Anybody down there?” he asked brusquely.
“Great Chief, there were three white men,” the leader said slowly.
“Where are they?”
“They were foolish enough to fight, Great Chief. They have gone to the Happy Hunting Ground. We have brought their scalps.”
Bill turned away in disgust. Yet there was nothing he could do. Censure at this stage of the game would be sure to provoke mutiny. If he upbraided these savages for acts which according to their code were acts of justice, they would probably throw off his leadership and massacre the remaining prisoners.
“Yellow Wing!” he beckoned to a subchief. “You and Long Snake will stay here with these men. You will be accountable to Chief Osceola for their safety. The rest of us will take three of the canoes and go ashore.”
Bill knew that this order did not please the two Indians, but they made no comment, and he led his group overside.
At the concrete pier he left another Indian on guard, and then, followed by the remainder of his band, hastened up the road to the top of the cliff. Ever since they had heard the report of the first gun, the firing in the middle of the island had been practically continuous. Occasionally it would lessen for a few seconds, to break out in fresh bursts directly afterward. Now, as they ran along the road which led down into the broad valley of the island, the firing became more intermittent, and at last died away altogether.
They entered the belt of woods and were traveling along the winding roadway at a trot when the sound of rifles broke out afresh. This time, the volleys seemed to come from the woods ahead. The party stopped and listened.
“They’re getting nearer,” muttered Bill, after a moment.