The White Squaw

“You had an encounter with Red Wolf? I can see that, of course; it was he who gave you this wound?”

“Yes, but I had first defeated him. I had him on the ground in my power. I could have taken his life. It was then that, like a coward, he called for help.”

“And after?”

“I pitied and let him rise. I expected him to leave me, and go back to the village. He feared that I might speak of his defeat to our tribe, and for this he determined that my tongue should be for ever silent. I was not thinking of it when he thrust me from behind. You know the rest.”

“And why the quarrel?”

“He spoke wicked words of my sister, Sansuta.”

“Sansuta!” exclaimed Warren, a strange smile overshadowing his features.

“Yes; and of you.”

“The dog; then he doubly deserved death. And from me!” he added, in a tone not loud enough for Nelatu to hear, “what a lucky chance.”

As he said this he spurned the body with his foot.

Then turning to the Indian, he asked —

“Do you think you could walk a little, Nelatu?”

The brandy had by this time produced an effect. Its potent spirit supplied the loss of blood, and Nelatu felt his strength returning to him.

“I will try,” said the wounded youth. “Nelatu’s hour has not yet come. He must not die till he has paid his debt to Warren.”

“Then lean on me. My canoe is close by. Once in it you can rest at your ease.”

Nelatu nodded consent.

Warren assisted him to rise, and, half carrying, half supporting, conducted him to the canoe.

Carefully helping him aboard, he shoved the craft from the shore, and turned its prow in the direction of the white settlement.

The moon, that had become again obscured, once more burst through the black clouds, lighting up the fronds of the feathery palms that flung their shadows far over the pellucid waves.

The concert of the nocturnal forest, for a time stayed by the report of the rifle, burst out anew as the boat glided silently out of sight.

Chapter Two.

The Settlement

The site of the settlement to which the canoe was being directed merits description.

It was upon the northern shore of Tampa Bay.

The soil that had been cleared was rich in crops of cotton, indigo, sugar, with oranges, and the ordinary staples of food.

Through the cultivated lands, mapped out like a painter’s palette, ran a crystal stream, from which the rice fields were watered by intersecting rivulets, looking like silver threads in a tissue.

Orange groves margined its course, running sinuously through the settlement.

In places it was lost to sight, only to re-appear with some new feature of beauty.

Here and there it exhibited cascades and slight waterfalls that danced in the sunlight, sending up showers of prismatic spray.

There were islets upon which grew reeds, sedges, and canes, surmounted by groups of caricas, and laurel-magnolias, the exogenous trees overtopped by the tall, feathery palm.

In its waters wild fowl disported themselves, scattering showers of luminous spray as they flapped their wings in delight.

Birds of rare plumage darted hither and thither along its banks, enlivening the groves with their jocund notes.

Far beyond, the swamp forest formed a dark, dreary back-ground, which, by contrast, enhanced the cheerfulness of the scene.

Looking seaward, the prospect was no less resplendent of beauty.

The water, dashing and fretting against the rocky quays, glanced back in mist and foam.

Snow-white gulls hurried along the horizon, their wings cutting sharply against an azure sky, while along the silvery beach, tall, blue herons, brown cranes, and scarlet flamingoes, stood in rows, their forms reflected in the pellucid element.

Such were the surroundings of the settlement on Tampa Bay.

The village itself nestled beneath the hills already mentioned, and comprised a church, some half-dozen stores, with a number of substantial dwellings, whilst a rude wharf, and several schooners moored near by, gave tokens of intercourse with other places.

It was a morning in May, in Florida, as elsewhere, the sweetest month in the year.

Borne upon the balmy atmosphere was the hum of bees and the melody of birds, mingled with the voices of young girls and men engaged in the labour of their farms and fields.

The lowing of cattle could be heard in the distant grazing grounds, while the tillers of the soil were seen at work upon their respective plantations.

There was one who looked upon this cheerful scene without seeming to partake of its cheerfulness.

Standing upon the top of the hill was a man of tall, gaunt figure, with a face somewhat austere in its expression.

His strongly lined features, with a firm expression about the mouth, marked him for a man of no common mould.

He appeared to be about sixty.

As his keen grey eyes wandered over the fields below, there was a cold, determined light in them which betrayed no pleasant train of thought.

It spoke of covetous ambition.

Behind him, upon the hill top, of table shape, were poles standing up out of the earth. Around them the sward was trampled, and the scorched grass, worn in many directions into paths, signified that at no distant period the place had been inhabited.

The sign could not be mistaken; it was the site of an Indian encampment.

Elias Rody, as he turned from gazing on the panoramic view beneath, cast a glance of strange significance at these vestiges of the red-man’s habitation.