Between the sentry-bench and the house there was no shelter of any kind. Floodlights streamed down on the hardbaked clay of the compound, bringing every rut or small unevenness of the surface into clear relief. Moreover, the ground was within the direct line of vision of the sentries.
“Do we crawl—or make a dash for it?” hissed Osceola.
“The sooner, the quicker. We’re more likely to attract attention moving fast, but we’re harder to hit!”
The Seminole nodded. “Ready if you are.”
“Let’s go!”
Together they sprinted across the open space. Each moment Bill expected the drilling pain of a rifle bullet between his shoulders, and it took considerable will power not to crouch and slacken his pace. Their naked feet made no sound at all on the hard earth and rather less than a second later, the two vaulted the veranda railing and sank down behind it.
Certain that so far their presence within the compound had not been discovered, Bill got to his feet again. With Osceola at his heels, he crossed the piazza to a screened door, pulled it open and entered the house.
They found themselves in a kitchen where a gas stove stood in one corner, across from a large sink. Polished pans and cooking pots hung below long shelves stacked with cans of food, packages of cereal and the like.
“Too bad we can’t help ourselves to a meal,” whispered Osceola. “I’m famished, aren’t you?”
“Sure am. But come on now, when we’ve finished the job ahead, it will be time to think of food. I prefer starving a bit longer—it’s one better than dying by the lash! Through that door is our way. Quiet! if those lads in there wake up before we want them to, you and I are out of luck.”