The White Squaw

At sight of young Rody, the huge mouth of this uncouth creature seemed to open from ear to ear.

“Ha, ha! Who, whoo! Gor bress me, if it ain’t Massa Warren hisself dat I see! My stars, massa, but dis ole man am glad to see ye, dat he is!”

Such was his salutation.

The young man came to a stop, and surveyed the negro with a smile.

“Well, Crookleg, what do you want with me, you old fiend?”

“Ha, ha! Ho, ho! Bress him, what a brave young gen’lman it is! How han’som’ – jess like a pictur’. What do the ole fien’ want? Why he want a good deal, massa, good deal.”

“Are you out of work again?”

“Ha, ha, ain’t done a bressed stroke of work, massa, for more nor two week! Ain’t, ’pon dis old nigger’s solemn word! Ain’t had it, massa, to do. Poor Crookleg am most used up, sa, most used up.”

As if to prove his last assertion the hideous wretch cut a high caper into the air, and settled down again in a grotesque attitude.

Young Rody laughed heartily at this feat, slapped his riding-whip roughfully across the negro’s back, pitched a piece of silver to him, and passed on.

Whilst Crookleg stopped to pick up the coin he glanced after him under his arm, and saw, with some surprise, that the youth had paused at a few paces distance as if in thought.

After a time the latter faced round and came back along the road.

“By the way, Crookleg,” said he, “come up to the house, my sister may have something to give you.”

“Ha, ha! he, he! Miss Alice, bress her, so she may, massa! I’ll come, sartin; dis old nigger’s always glad to get what he can from Miss Alice.”

“And,” continued Rody, “ask for me when you come. I may find something for you to do that’ll help you along a little.”

Not staying to hear the voluble expressions of gratitude with which Crookleg overwhelmed him, Warren strode on, and was soon lost to sight.

The moment of his disappearance the darkey perpetrated another aerial leap, and then hobbled off in a direction opposite to that pursued by the governor’s son.

He could be heard muttering as he went —

“Wants to see dis chile, does he? Why, dat looks good for de old nigger; and, who knows, but what de long time am a coming to an end, and all dis old nigger’s work is gwine to be done for him by odder folk. He, he! dat would make dis chile bust a laffin! He, he, he!”

Chapter Seven.

The Two Chiefs

Our story now takes us fifty miles inland from Tampa Bay.

The spot on the edge of an everglade.

The hour noon.

The dramatis personae two Indians.

One an old man, the other in the prime of life.

The first white-headed, wrinkled, and with traces of a life spent in action.

He presented an appearance at once striking and picturesque as he stood beneath the shade of a tall palm tree.

His dress was half Indian, half hunter.

A buckskin shirt, leggings, and moccasins richly worked with beads; a wampum belt crossed his shoulder; a scarlet blanket hung at his back, its folds displaying a figure which, in its youth, must have been superb.

It still showed, in the broad chest and powerful limbs, almost its pristine strength.

Upon his head he wore a band of bead-work, in which were stuck three wing feathers of the war-eagle.

His face was full of dignity and calm repose.

It was Oluski, the Seminole chief.

His companion was no less remarkable.

As he lay stretched upon the ground, leaning on one elbow, his face upturned towards that of the old man, a striking contrast was presented.

Like Oluski, his dress was also half Indian, half hunter, but more richly ornamented with bead-work, whilst a certain careful disposition of the attire, seemed not inappropriate to his youth and bearing.

It was, however, in his features that the difference was chiefly apparent.

In the attitude he had assumed, a ray of sunshine piercing a break between the trees, illumined his countenance.

Instead of the coppery colour of the Indian, his skin was of a rich olive, an unmistakeable sign that white blood flowed in his veins.

He was remarkably handsome. His features were regular, well defined, and admirably chiselled. His eyes were large and lustrous, overarched by a forehead that denoted the possession of intellect.

Like the old man, he wore a plume of eagle’s feathers on his head, as also a wampum belt; but in lieu of a blanket, a robe made of skin of the spotted lynx was thrown over his shoulders.

Oluski was the first to speak.

“Must Wacora depart to-day?” he asked.

“At sunset I must leave you, uncle,” replied the youth, who was his nephew, already spoken of as Wacora.

“And when do you return?”

“Not till you come back from Tampa Bay. I have still much to do. My father’s death has still placed me in a position of trust, and I must not neglect its duties.”

“I and my tribe depart from this place in seven days.”

“And Nelatu, where is he?” asked Wacora.

“I expected him ere this. He and Red Wolf went away together.”