“Take my advice and stop flirting with the Seminole squaws, just the same, or some brave will bounce a tomahawk off that skull of yours.”
Sam spread his palms upward in a gesture of apology. “’Tain’t my fault, Marse Bill, really it ain’t.”
“Whose then?”
“It’s de wimmen, Marse Bill.”
“How do you make that out?”
Sam chuckled and brought his head near Bill’s.
“They’s always a-botherin’ the goodlookin’ men,” he whispered.
Osceola, who had the ears of a cat, turned and winked at the old darkey. “Well, that lets you out, Sam,” he laughed. “Come inside my house, and rest. Tomorrow or the next day, there is work to be done. After that you can come back here, Sam, and loaf for the rest of your life. And if you still want a squaw to look after you, I’ll see about it.”
Osceola’s house was in reality no different from the other shelters in the camp, except that it was larger, and more solidly constructed. They entered, and Osceola swung himself onto the central table, and the other two followed suit. A semi-circle of Seminole warriors squatted on the ground a few yards distant and talked together in low tones.
Presently two women came in, carrying a large kettle that swung on a stick between them. They placed this on the table, and from its open mouth protruded a single large spoon.