CHAPTER XXIX.
THE SEMINOLE LAD.
The two lads next visited the hospital tent, where they found the fever patients much improved but the three machine men suffering greatly from their burns, while Bob Bratton and the wounded Spaniards were resting as comfortably as could be expected. The boys did all they could to make the sufferers comfortable, then sauntered out for a look at the burned jungle. Here they met with a scene of utter desolation. Many trees and stumps were still burning, but the larger part of the jungle had been swept clean. The shallow pools of water had been dried up by the intense heat, leaving exposed an expanse of black mud fissured by cracks. Of the former multitude of snakes that had infested the place they saw not one. Returning from the destroyed jungle, the lads searched over the scene of battle of the night before. They found blood on the ground in several places, indicating that all their bullets had not been wasted. Before entering the tent, Charley paused and took a last look around. Several Spaniards, under the Captain's direction, were throwing up a solid breastwork, close to and surrounding the camp. The machine was working steadily, and the slow moving ox carts were crawling back from the distant timber with their loads of wood. The Indian camp had been outside of the fighting zone the night before. With a sigh, the wounded lad entered his tent and throwing himself on his cot, gave way to his despair. Try as he might, he could see nothing but ruin for himself and companions. There was little hope of getting another crew for the machine. The departing Spaniards would carry the story of their disasters in with them, and it would be impossible to induce others to come out. A negro crew might be secured, but it would take time, and the lad knew the colored race well enough to know that they would not stick in the face of danger.
The crew's wages would take almost the last dollar they had in the bank, and if the County insisted, as he feared it would, on their rebuilding the destroyed bridges, the reward for the convicts, the money they had found in the old fort, and what was due on the digging they had already done, would be swept away to the last cent. In no direction could he see any hope. In spite of all his efforts and careful planning, their mysterious enemy had triumphed, and he and his companions were ruined. He did not blame the Spaniards for quitting. The work was hard enough and dangerous enough to bear, without the added risk of being shot in the dark.
At last, worn out by his gloomy reflections, the lad fell into a fitful slumber from which he was awakened by Walter, who was pale of face and excited.
"What's the matter?" Charley demanded as he sat up on the edge of the cot. "You look as though you had seen a ghost."
"I hate to tell you," faltered his chum, "but I knew you would have to hear about it, so I ran ahead to break the news to you myself."
"Out with it," Charley said. "I'm strong enough to bear anything now."
"You know the Indian lad that drives one of the wagon teams—the boy Willie John is so proud of—they just found him dead on his load of wood—shot through the heart."
"The fiends," said Charley, "to shoot a poor, innocent, harmless child. They shall pay for it. Pay for it dearly." He threw aside the tent flap and strode out, Walter by his side babbling over the details of the tragedy.
"You ought to have seen Willie John's face when he found him," he said. "It was like a demon's for a minute, then it became like stone."