Notwithstanding the urge that prompted Bill to hasten, it took the two some time to reach the corduroy road. Osceola took the lead. He seemed to have no trouble in discerning obstacles quite invisible to Bill. At the base of the tree, he caught his white friend’s hand, and after a few words of caution, started forward.
To Bill the trip seemed endless. They had not gone far when he lost all sense of direction. Along slimy roots, first above and then below water, they made their way. It was impossible to pierce the inky shadow under the trees. If it had not been for Osceola’s uncanny power, half instinct, half sight, Bill would have floundered into the soft mud of the swamp and been sucked down into the ooze. How long the journey took, Bill could never figure out when later he thought about it. The actual distance was not great, but the time taken to travel it seemed years.
“Here we are,” exclaimed Osceola at last. “Step on to that log, and be careful. It runs up the side of the dump at the end of the road.”
Bill felt with his foot in the darkness, touched one of the tree trunks thrown down to act as road ballast. A scramble up the steep incline followed, the Indian still guiding him by the hand, and they were standing on the corduroy.
They were now no longer under the forest canopy and above their heads the heavens were studded with stars. Without a word, the youths broke into a trot. Fifty yards from the stockade gates they halted. There came a whispered conference, and then two dark figures entered the shadow cast by the trees and crawled forward along the roadside.
Just before they reached the gates they turned to the right. Following the log wall, they continued to creep on until they arrived midway between two of the flood lights which illuminated the compound. These were placed on high poles, perhaps ten feet above the twelve-foot stockade.
Bill grasped more firmly the short, thick stick he carried, and placed his mouth close to Osceola’s ear. “Lucky Martinengo never thought that prisoners might want to get into this place, rather than break out of it,” he whispered. “If those lights faced this way, we’d sure be out of luck.”
The Seminole grunted a low assent.
“Stand with your back to the wall,” Bill continued, “and give me a hand up. When the guard comes along, I’ll bean him with this club. Then I’ll pass him over to you.”
“Okay. But after you drop him over, get on this side of the wall again, while I’m tying him up with the creepers. One of those devils inside is likely to spot you, otherwise.”