“Water, food and a boat,” Bill suggested.
“Right. If we’re forced to, we can drink Glades water, but it’s dangerous, and would probably make us ill. There ought to be a spring or two on this island; I reckon you’re elected to the job of locating fresh drinking water, Bill, and bringing it into camp.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Food, next,” mused Osceola. “Sam—do you think you can hobble round well enough to attend to the commissariat?”
“I sure can,” grinned the old darkey. “If I ain’t mistook, I done catch a glimpse of half a dozen blue heron back yonder. Dey ain’t chicken, a-course, but dey sure is a mighty fine eatin’. Loan me dat shooter of yourn, Marse Bill, and dis heah nigger will provide dinner.”
Bill passed over his revolver. “I’ll trade you for your knife, Sam, while you get into your clothes. I’ve got to have something to make a water container—that is, when I find the water.”
He pulled his parachute toward him and commenced to untie the pack.
“Reckon I’ll mosey along,” announced Osceola. “I’ve got to manufacture a boat of some sort.”
“You ain’t a-gwine to get far with dat knife o’ yourn in makin’ a dugout, Marse,” broke in Sam.
“But that’s not my idea,” the Seminole said quietly, but without giving any further information about his plans. “Bill, when you get through totin’ water, look me up, will you? I’m going along there to the east. You’ll find me near the shore—and I’ll probably need your help.”