Peering down, Bill saw a horror which he would never forget. Twined around Pete’s throat and head was the viper that a moment before had nearly caused his own death. The frenzied overseer leapt shrieking to his feet and lurched into the water. The canoe capsized and its two other occupants were precipitated into the swamp with their leader.
For several minutes, bedlam reigned. Dogs barked, men shouted hoarsely, their yells awakening the forest birds whose cries of alarm echoed and reechoed throughout the night.
Pete’s companions splashed aimlessly about in the muck and water for a time, then with the help of the other two crews, their canoe was righted and they climbed aboard. The overseer’s body did not come to the surface.
“Youse guys can do what yer like,” declared one of the dripping men when the uproar had subsided, “Me——I’ve had enough. I’m goin’ back.”
“I’m wid ye,” agreed a voice from one of the other canoes. “Let’s fish Pete out an’ go home.”
“Say! If youse expects me ter wade round in this muck, lookin’ fer a stiff, wid dat snake ready ter bite and plenty more of ’em in dis here swamp, youse got another think comin’——” snarled the first man with profane emphasis. “Dis baby’s goin’ to catch some sleep before sunup—er somebody else is goin’ on de spot ‘long wid Pete. Hey dere, bozo—turn dis boat round. I want t’ get me feet on solid ground again before sumpin else falls outen de trees ter croak a guy!”
Grunts and shouts of approval greeted this lengthy speech. The canoes headed back toward the road. The trackers, by common consent, were through for the night.
When the lights of the party had disappeared in the distance, Osceola spoke to Bill.
“Come back to the niche on the trunk. Those chaps are off till morning. We’ve got to plan, now.”
Bill scrambled backward along his limb, and found Osceola before him at their perch. He grasped the young Indian’s hand and wrung it.