“Rearing to go.” He picked up his gold braided cap and clapped it on his head. “It always sets me on edge to wait—for danger.”
“So you rush into battle so as to get it over with, eh?” Bill laughed.
“Something like that. To tell the truth, I think we’re both just a bit beyond ourselves at present. Let’s get out of here.” He walked to the front door and flung it open.
Bill caught up his cap and followed Osceola, with Sam at his heels.
Sun from the cloudless sky poured down on the unlovely prospect before them in a deluge of steaming, tropical heat. The compound, except for a mangy cur or two and a remarkably thin cat, was deserted. The members of Martinengo’s company who were not driving his slaves in the swamp preferred the shade afforded by their quarters rather than this blistering sunlight. Presently the little party came to the closed gates of the stockade.
A man shambled out of the guardhouse with a huge key in his hand.
“Youse high-flyers certainly have the life,” he grumbled and rattled the padlock that held the gates. “Nuthin’ ter do but take nice breezy rides and have niggers to wait on you. And me sweatin’ blood ter let you in and out of this here stockade!”
He pushed open the heavy doors just far enough for one man to pass through at a time, stood aside and scowled at them.
“So much obliged, Oswald, old chap,” beamed Bill. “Sorry I’ve got nothing smaller than a demi-grand. Sam, if the worthy turn-key insists on a tip, hand him a cake of soap. He’ll smell the sweeter for it.”
He passed out of the stockade behind Osceola, with Sam grinning from ear to ear, bringing up the rear. Through the closing gates came a torrent of sizzling invective.