“Hello!” said Nicky, a little uneasily.
The man made no immediate reply. Instead, he lifted an arm and beckoned, then pointed toward a narrow trail beyond the clearing.
Nicky looked at Cliff, and both consulted Tom with their eyes. They all read a common intention; they would swing about and rush to the inlet and swim back to the shore.
The Indian divined their purpose; with a snakelike movement he stepped to a point preventing the move. His hand touched something bright and sinister at his belt.
“Se-lof-ka-chop-kaw!” he said, Seminole dialect for “My knife is long!” He partly unsheathed the weapon.
Silently the chums took the trail, their captor following close.
And two hundred yards away Mr. Neale sat by the shore, wondering!
CHAPTER XII
MODERN PIRATES
Picking up the bundles of their clothes, the Seminole herded the chums along the trail; its limestone-coral hurt their tender, bare feet while they had hard work to avoid the deep, searing gashes which saw grass makes.
They came after a few minutes to a small open glade, almost bare of soil; here the Indian made a sharp, guttural sound. They turned.