Osceola shook his head thoughtfully. “It’s a long, long hike from the island to the gold workings—twice as far from there as it is from here. Even if we are able to capture the island, some of the men are sure to slip through our hands, get away in one of the planes, perhaps and by the time we travel on to Big Cypress, that gang there will have been warned, they’ll be ready and waiting for us. The chances are, in that case, we’d be cleaned out. A surprise attack is one thing, Bill, but a pitched battle with trained gunsters—I’d simply be throwing away the lives of my men who trust me. No, I can’t see it.”
Bill slid off the table and stood facing his friend. “But you are leaving Dad out of the picture!”
“What do you mean?”
“Dad has influence in Washington. The President is a personal friend of his. Our job is to clean up the island. Then he will get the U. S. government to step in—and they will attend to the Big Cypress business themselves. You see? I should have told you this in the beginning, but I guess I was sort of hazy when I got thinking about Dad.”
The Seminole clapped him on the shoulder. “That,” he said heartily, “is a bird of another color, Bill! And I was worried about my men. Your plan is approved and accepted without question! Now, let’s forget the whole business until my Seminoles come back here. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so tired as I am at this minute. Just remember that those workings are not any health resort. I’m all in—and I’m going to sleep until I’m called for dinner.”
“And I’m going to do the same thing. Isn’t that a hammock over there between those palms? Me for it. You may find a wooden table comfortable to retire on, but as Sam says—‘Unh-unh! Not me!’ Your hospitality is lavish—but after last night I ache from head to foot. Does the mighty chief mind if his humble servant retires to the hammock?”
“If I had a shoe I’d throw it,” laughed Osceola. “For goodness’ sake, take the hammock, and anything else you want. On your way—I’m sound asleep!”
Sunrise two days later saw a flotilla of Indian dugouts drawn up on the shore of the Seminole’s island. The squaws of the little community had been up half the night cooking, and now the warriors were busily consuming what would probably constitute their last hot meal for some time to come.
There were about sixty braves all told. Gone now were their brightly colored tunics and head-dresses. The entire band had stripped to a loin-cloth, and the face and body of each man was painted in designs of his own fancy. All heads were shaven clean except for the scalp lock, which was decorated with a single feather of the red heron. Each brave carried a rifle, knife and tomahawk.
After they had eaten their fill, Osceola lined them up on the shore and spoke a few words to them in their own language. Bill stood beside him and viewed the little army with keen interest. Never had he seen such a fearsome group. They brought to mind pictures of the frontier days in the old West. If these fellows were really as fierce as they looked, he thought it boded ill for the Martinengos and their gunmen.