The White Squaw

“I heard the pale-face say Crookleg had only half done his errand and must return to complete it. The black refused. It was then the other got angry and struck him.”

“This is very strange, Maracota. It is some treachery I cannot understand. The negro must be found and questioned!”

“Well, Massa Injun, dat ain’t hard to do. He, he, he!”

Had the fiend of darkness himself risen between the two Indians, they could not have been more startled than when these words were uttered in their ears, for it was Crookleg who spoke.

The darkey appeared delighted at the effect his sudden appearance had created, and continued for some time to chuckle in great glee.

“Yas! here be de ’dentical nigger wot you was a-wishin’ for. You hab found him ’ithout gwin far. He, he, he!”

Wacora turned sternly towards him.

“And having found you, wretch, I mean to keep you till I’ve made you speak the truth.”

“De trufe, Massa Injun, am what dis ole nigga always ’peak. He can’t help it, kase it comes so na’tral to him. Trufe an’ innocence is dis chile’s on’y riches, tank heaven!”

The look which accompanied this impious speech was almost diabolical.

Wacora cut him short in an attempt to continue his speech, by a command instantly to make known what Warren Rody wanted, with what message he had been charged, and to whom.

Crookleg, however was not easily taken at a disadvantage.

“Well, Massa Injun, I don’t mind tellin’ you somet’ing, but I don’t like talkin’ afore other folk. You send dis indiwiddle away,” pointing to Maracota, “an’ ole Crook’ll tell you all about it. He meant to do so, when he comed here so sudden.”

With a sign the chief dismissed Maracota, and telling the black to follow, led him a little distance further from the town.

A long, and apparently interesting conversation ensued, in which Crookleg’s gesticulations were, as usual, violent, while the young chief, with arms folded, and brows knit, listened to his narration.

It was late ere they separated, the negro hobbling back in the direction of the ruin, while Wacora returned to his uncle’s dwelling.

Chapter Eighteen.

A Love Meeting

The old fort, as already said, was in a ruinous condition.

It had at one time been a stronghold of the Spaniards, but on their quitting that part of the country, it had been suffered to fall into decay.

Early in the morning succeeding Wacora’s interview with Crookleg, two persons stood conversing near the inner wall of the ruin.

They were Sansuta and Warren Rody.

The Indian girl had stolen from her father’s house unnoticed by the few early risers, and with cautious steps had gained the fort.

Warren’s presence at such a distance from Tampa Bay, as well as Crookleg’s attendance upon him, were thus explained: —

“I am very grateful to you, Sansuta, for coming here to meet me.”

“I am afraid I have done wrong.”

“Wrong! What can you mean?”

“That I am deceiving my father, my kind father; but it is for the last time.”

“The last time?”

“Yes, I have determined that this shall be our last meeting. I could not endure my father’s reproaches, if he knew that I betrayed his confidence.”

“Do you doubt my love for you, Sansuta? Will it not make up for Oluski’s anger?”

“Warren!”

The reproachful tone in which Sansuta uttered his name, recalled young Rody to himself.

He immediately changed his tactics.

“But why talk of Oluski’s anger? Rather speak of my love. Surely you do not doubt it?”

The Indian maiden heaved a sigh.

“Sansuta does not doubt you, but she is unhappy.”

“Unhappy! Why?”

“Because an Indian girl would make but a poor wife to a white gentleman.”

A strange smile crossed the young man’s face. He did not, however, interrupt her.

“If Sansuta cared for you less, she would not have been here this morning; she would not have seen you again.”

“Come, come, dearest, you alarm yourself without reason. Need I tell you how much I love you – how I have always loved you? Have we not grown up together? What more natural than love like mine?”

“But your father – ”

“He will not object. Why should he? Is he not Oluski’s best friend?”

“Yes, they are friends, but still – ”

Warren saw that the girl was nervous and alarmed. He lost no time in reassuring her.

“And, after all, dearest, we need not tell them of our love until we are sure of their consent. In the meantime, let us think only of ourselves. You have not yet told me what I longed to hear.”

“What is that?”

“The whispering assurance that your heart is mine?”

A painful struggle was evidently taking place in the maiden’s breast. Filial duty and self-reproach contended with that feeling, nurtured by the soft blandishments of the scoundrel by her side.