Out of the woods leapt painted demons, shouting war cries. The cornered gunmen wheeled and fought like frenzied rats. No quarter was asked or given. Presently the Indians returned to the machine gun.
Bill stood in the middle of the road, his rifle at the ready.
“The first who touches one of these wounded gets a bullet from me!” He shouted menacingly at the Seminoles, who, he knew were bent on taking their trophy.
“And I’m with you on that, Bill!”
Osceola ran up, accompanied by his band of painted henchmen, and immediately reeled off a series of fiercely shouted gutterals in Seminole.
“That will hold them for a while,” he added in English to Bill. “There’ll be no scalping if I can stop it.—Sam! Where’s that nigger?” he raised his voice.
“Here I is, Marse Osceola. Here I is, suh. ’Fore de Lord, I ain’t scalped a prizner!”
“Oh, shut up, and pass over that electric torch you’ve been carrying for me. I want to get an idea of the damage done here.”
“Yas, suh, boss! Here it am, suh.” Sam was still stuttering as he handed Osceola the flashlight. “Truly, I ain’t done no scalpin’ tonight, Marse——”
“Keep still—or I’ll scalp you!” The chief switched on the light. “Well, if you caught the lads afloat,” he said to Bill, “this is the last of the gang ashore.”