The Indian chuckled. “It takes little more than muscle, Bill, and a certain nicety of balance. You’ve got plenty of the first requirement, and the other is only a matter of practice.”
“Look, here comes the commissary—he’ll take a bit of hoisting!”
Osceola leaned overside and took the string of birds from Sam. “How you managed to hang on to these in the upset is beyond me,” he said, depositing them in the bottom of the canoe.
Sam was helped aboard.
“You can’t keep dis nigger from his dinner,” he grinned. “Dat is, no ’gator can’t. Did you see him, Marse Osceola? He was sure a big ol’ feller.”
“He sure was, Sam. Reckon he was as surprised as we were when the bunch of us came splashing in on top of him. I was glad to get out of the water, though. It’s not my idea of a happy death to form a meal for an alligator. It didn’t seem to worry you much. The way you and Bill were holding pleasant conversation out yonder was a temptation to any ’gator or his friends.”
“So that’s why you asked for help in righting the canoe?” Bill asked.
“You’ve guessed it. I’ve got my paddle, and while I collect the other two, I suggest that you clean the guns, Bill. Lucky they were strapped to us.” He ripped off the tail of his shirt and passed it over. “That will soon dry in the sun, and a gat that shoots is worth somebody else’s shirt any day in the week.”
“There’s one thing about traveling light,” admitted Bill, “and especially when your canoe turns over. If you haven’t anything to lose, you can’t lose it.”
“You is forgettin’ the grub, suh,” chimed in Sam.