Part 4

Shortly afterward Buck Hardy lighted a torch and bade the boys follow him. He led them beneath the curious log house standing so high in the air--a precaution against snakes in summer--and climbed by a ladder through a square opening in the floor. Passing the sleeping men, whose faces even in the case of the least pleasing seemed softened in slumber, Hardy led the way to the extreme end of the room. Giving the torch to Ted, he scattered and broadened his really comfortable bed of leaves and Spanish moss so as to make room for the two boys between himself and the wall. There appeared to be no window in all the structure, but apparently sufficient air entered between the logs of the walls and through the wide door in the floor.

After the light was put out Ted recalled Sweet Jackson's "We got to keep our eye on them boys," with its suggestion of possible captivity at least for a time; but both he and Hubert were too tired to speculate or worry about their situation, and they soon forgot everything in sound sleep.

VII

When Ted and Hubert awoke next morning they were alone in the sleeping-loft. Descending the ladder, they found July at the fire with breakfast awaiting them; and after they had washed their hands and faces, the negro pouring water for them, they ate heartily. It appeared that all but two or three of the slackers had already gone off to their traps, or hunting, and even these two or three were nowhere to be seen just now.

As the boys breakfasted, it was noticeable that July's manner toward Ted was markedly respectful and that his eye frequently rested upon the Boy Scout uniform. Suddenly the young negro stood still in front of Ted and thus addressed him:

"Hubut tole me las' night de President 'p'int you dispatch carrier. Did de President sen' you in dis swamp to git after dese slackers, too?"

"Of course not."

"Did Guv'nor Dorsey sen' you?"

"No."

"Did Judge Ridgway sen' you?"

"No."

"Den, how come you talk so uppity, like a man wid de law on he side and ain't a-scared o' nobody?"

"I don't know, July," replied Ted, amused, smiling, yet serious. "When I get started I'm so interested that I forget to be scared."

"Well, you sho is a _man_, if you is des a boy. You sho is a cap'n. Dey ought to call you 'Cap'n Ted.'" The young negro's wonder and admiration were manifest.

"That's very nice of you, July," stammered Ted, embarrassed and blushing.

"You sho did talk up to dem white mens. You didn't leave 'em a leg to stand on."

"How about _you_?" asked Ted, with a twinkle in his eye. "Have you got any more legs than they have?"

July guffawed loudly, enjoying the joke at his own expense. "Who, me?" he laughed again. "I's ready to go to de waw if dey promus to put me where dem Germans can't p'int a gun at me."

Ted and Hubert laughed heartily, vastly amused, and the latter said: "Don't you think all slackers are as ready as that?"

"I got sump'n to tell you," said July, hastening to change an embarrassing subject. "Dem young white mens hole a meetin' dis mawnin' and dey voted on what to do about you boys. I couldn't hear much o' dey talk, but I think dey voted Mr. Buck Hardy down."

"But I thought you said he was the 'cock of the walk,' and he certainly stood them all down last night," commented Ted.

"He sho is de cock o' de walk when it come to fightin'," said July, "but when it come to votin' he ain't got but one vote. Hush! H-yuh he is now."

Buck Hardy had come out of the woods, and, pausing at the edge of the clearing, he now called Ted to him.

"Well, what you boys aim to do?" he asked in a friendly way, as Ted joined him.

"I'll tell you what I'd _like_ to do," said Ted earnestly, encouraged by his tone, "and that is, persuade you, and as many of the rest as I could, to go out of this swamp and be drafted for the war."

Buck Hardy laughed outright, but there was no unfriendliness in his merriment. "You've laid out to do a pretty big job of work, kid," he said; "most too big, I reckon. Better give it up. Better jes' stay h-yer a while with us and learn to hunt."

"I wouldn't mind staying a while if--if there was any chance of----"

"But there ain't, son; so you'd better not bother your head about it. And I reckon you'll have to put up with our company a while. We talked it over this mornin' and took a vote. We agreed when we come in h-yer to decide things by vote. I was for takin' you boys out to-day and puttin' you on the trail home, but the fellers wouldn't hear to it. Al Peters was the only one who agreed with me, and _he_ wasn't willin' to let you boys go unless you promised on yer honor to say nothin' about us when you got home."

In great excitement Ted was about to declare that nothing could ever induce him to be silent in order to shield fugitive slackers, but Buck went on speaking before the imprudent words were uttered, and after reflection the boy decided that it would be wiser not to make such a declaration until he had to.

"You see," Buck continued, "the boys is afraid the sheriff will send a posse in h-yer and take us out and prosecute us. So there's nothin' for you and Hubert to do but stay h-yer a while and get all the fun you can. Maybe I can win the boys over to my thinkin' in a week's time. I'll try. The truth is, I don't think there's very much danger in letting you go even if you did tell on us, for there's too much goin' on now for the county to take the trouble to send a posse away in this swamp jes' to get eight men drafted. But the boys has voted and it stands, as I tell you. I want to say another thing, kid," added Buck, after a slight pause: "I want you to feel free, and I like to hear you talk about the war, but you must be careful not to step on the boys' toes too hard. I don't want a fight on my hands."

"I hardly know what to say--I'll have to think," said Ted, lifting his troubled eyes to the big slacker's face; "but I'm very much obliged to _you_, Mr. Hardy. I think you are just splendid, even if you are a----"

The boy stopped, confused, dropping his eyes.

"That's all right, kid," said Buck, patting Ted's shoulder in a kindly way. "Now you just go and enjoy yourself, and maybe everything will come out all right."

Buck Hardy turned abruptly and swung off into the woods. Ted returned slowly to the fire, where, with a very serious face, he announced to Hubert the fact of their captivity. The younger boy's grip on his lachrymal ducts was never firm and the tears now ran down his cheeks in a steady stream as he sat on the grass by silent Ted.

"I want to go home," he wailed.

"I think dat's a shame," said July, promptly taking the side of the boys.

"Don't cry, Hu," said Ted. "It will come out all right. We'll stay a while, and then if they don't let us go, we'll run away and go anyhow."

"Maybe I kin help you git off," proposed July, standing in front of the seated boys, his black face full of sympathy. "If I kin, I will. But you mustn't tell dem white mens on me."

The half-witted Billy now appeared from the direction of the boat-landing, and, seeing Hubert's tears, he seemed to be much concerned. He had taken a fancy to Hubert. Dropping into a seat by the grieving boy, he put a hand on his knee and asked indignantly:

"Who been whippin' you?"

"Nobody. It isn't that."

"Well, don't cry. If you don't cry, maybe I'll take you to see son."

"You haven't a son!" said Hubert, smiling through his tears.

"Wait till I show him to you, and you'll see."

"Who is he?" asked Hubert, drying his eyes.

"Never you mind," answered Billy, his sudden look of cunning losing itself in an explosion of mirth. "You'll find out when I take you to him. You'll know him when you see him."

After this cryptic announcement Billy would say no more about his "son" and sought to entertain Hubert with recitations of nursery rhymes.

The boys lounged about the camp for an hour, discussing their situation in low asides while intermittently conversing with July and Billy. Then Buck Hardy reappeared and began to talk amicably with Ted and Hubert about hunting, evidently trying to interest them in sport. He told them that he and his associates depended more on their traps than on their guns in their business of securing salable pelts, stating that many traps had been set here and there on the island and in the surrounding swamp. It was while this conversation was in progress that Sweet Jackson entered the clearing and called out:

"You goin' to use July this mornin', Buck?"

"Not partic'lar," was the indifferent response.

"Well, I can use him and I'd like to borry him. I'm goin' to build me a permeter shelter for my own hides, so I kin spread 'em out more."

Buck having consented and turned again to the boys, the "borrowed" July, much disgusted, was led away in company with Billy. The business required of them was the cutting down of one six-inch sapling for posts and several two-inch saplings wherewith to frame the slanting roof which these posts would support. This done, they must gather hundreds of palmetto fans and thatch the roof, all under the direction of an ill-tempered boss.

The three had been thus engaged scarcely half an hour when Buck, Ted and Hubert, at the camp, heard screams and the sound of blows. A few steps toward the spot selected for the palmetto shelter revealed the cause of the uproar. Sweet Jackson was whipping Billy with a long supple stick, and, as he laid on more heavily, in spite of his victim's piteous cries, the boys drew near in horror, followed more slowly by Buck.

"Stop that!" shouted Ted.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Smarty!" said Sweet, pausing to look up. "I won't stop till I git ready, and if you don't keep your mouth shut, I'll wallop you in the bargain."

"You coward!" cried Ted. "You ought to be ashamed to beat that poor half-witted----"

Sweet suddenly let Billy go and turned upon Ted with uplifted stick.

"Hit him if you dare!" said Buck, stepping up to them.

"'Tain't none o' your business, Buck Hardy!" cried Sweet, furious.

"It's everybody's business when you jump on that poor boy Billy. You know he ain't accountable."

"I reckon I've got a right to thrash him if he won't work. I kin hardly make him lift his hand to do a thing, and when he does work he works so powerful sorry----"

"I thought you was more of a man, Sweet Jackson."

"I depend I'm man enough to give you all you want!" shouted the infuriated Jackson, with a threatening movement.

Buck caught one end of the uplifted stick; it broke between them and they closed in hand-to-hand combat. Apparently they were well matched physically and the fight promised to be a long one. As Ted and Hubert watched it, absorbed, July stepped between them and whispered:

"If you boys want to try to run away, now de time! Nobody in camp but dem two fightin' mens. If you git dem boats, maybe you kin git away. You kin take two boats and I kin hide t'other one, and den dey can't foller you."

"Yes, let's run down to the boats," agreed Hubert. "Come on! I want to get away from this place!"

Hubert had already moved to follow the negro, but Ted hesitated. He did not like to run away while Buck was fighting in his cause as well as Billy's, and the fight itself drew his eye compellingly. Moreover, he really preferred to stay at least a day or two and look for opportunities to talk further to the slackers about the war and their duty. And when they did run away, he thought they ought to make careful plans beforehand, providing themselves with food for the journey, for one thing.

But Hubert and July, who were now twenty feet away, beckoned him frantically, and, thus urged, Ted reluctantly followed. The three then raced on their way, pursued by the now smiling Billy who apparently thought that some sort of game was proposed. Passing the camp fire, July caught up a tin bucket of sliced venison, then darted along the winding path through the swamp cane toward the boat landing.

Racing along this same path a few moments later, Ted and Hubert halted suddenly at sight of the negro returning.

"De boats all gone," announced July. "Dem mens must 'a took 'em to go to dey traps in de swamp."

Ted did not share Hubert's deep disappointment and smiled at the giggling Billy in the moment of blank pause.

"Let's hurry back, then," he said, breaking the silence, "so they won't know what we tried to do."

The run to the boat landing and back, a distance of little more than two hundred yards, had scarcely consumed five minutes, and the four spectators were again on the scene of the fight before the combatants had noticed their absence. They were just in time to see Sweet Jackson strike the ground heavily beneath the weight of his antagonist, who now partly rose, placing his knee upon the breast of the vanquished.

"You got enough?" shouted Buck. "If you ain't, say so, and I'll give you a whole bellyful."

Sweet said nothing, but ceased to struggle, whereupon Buck let go his hold and rose.

"I'll git even with you yet, Buck Hardy," declared the defeated man with black looks after he had painfully gathered himself up and was limping off into the woods.

The victor disdained a retort, and, turning, walked back to the camp, where he was followed by the boys and the negro. At the noon hour Sweet Jackson had not reappeared and it was evident that the work on his "permeter" shelter would not be resumed that day.

Assured of this by the time dinner had been served and his subsequent work about the camp had been finished, July proposed a job of another kind.

"Mr. Hardy," he said, "kin I take Cap'n Ted wid me to build dat turkey pen dis evenin' an' lef' Hubut yuh to play wid Billy?"

"Sure--if he wants to go," consented Buck. "I think I'll take 'em both on a deer hunt tomorrow."

On their way to the selected site of the turkey pen, about half a mile away in the pine woods near the border of the swamp, July broke a brief silence as follows:

"A colored lady tole me dem Germans eats people. You reckon dat's so?"

"Of course not," said Ted, "but they've done things in this war just as bad."

Having arrived at the chosen spot and cleared a space about six feet square, July dug a trench from its center to a point some four feet without, baited it with shelled corn and bridged it over with sticks. He then cut down a number of pine saplings and employed sections of these in building a pen about four feet high around the cleared space, afterward covering the top with sections of the same and weighting them down with heavy "lightwood knots." Lastly a few grains of corn were dropped at intervals from the mouth of the tunnel to a point several yards distant, so that wild turkeys feeding in that neighborhood would be attracted toward the snare. July explained that when these wild fowl entered by way of the tunnel and ate up the bait they would merely struggle to break through the well-lighted cracks of the trap, forgetting entirely the shadowed path to freedom at their feet.

As he worked, receiving some assistance from the interested boy, the negro talked and asked questions about other matters.

"When de time come for you boys to run away," he said once, "maybe I'll go wid you."

"That would be fine," said Ted, "because you could show us the way."

"I gittin' tired o' dis job yuh in dis camp," July continued. "Dem white mens don't pay me all dey promus, and I don't like de way some of 'em cusses me aroun', speshly dat Sweet Jackson. Mr. Hardy pay me his part, but he can't collec' a cent o' my money fum some of 'em. If it wasn't for dat waw, I'd go out o' dis swamp wid you tomorrow. Cap'n Ted, if I was to go out wid you, you reckon dem draft-bode people would grab me right up an' sen' me to de waw?"

"They'd examine you and might send you to a training camp, and you might even go to France," answered Ted, "but I don't think they'd ever put you on the fighting line. You see, in this big war there's a lot to do besides fighting and the thing is to find out what a man can do best. They might just make you a cook behind the lines, and pay you wages, too."

"Gee! dat 'ud suit me grand," cried July joyfully. "I'd love to cross de big water an' see all dere is to see--if only dey don't put me where dem Germans kin shoot me. You think I kin 'pend on dat, Cap'n Ted?"

"I don't know for certain, July, but I think so."

When they turned up at camp toward sundown, it was evident from their faces that both Ted and July were in a hopeful frame of mind. The one was glad because he had made two useful friends in a single day; the other was elated because he indulged in dreams of securing war adventure without incurring the risk of war's penalties.

VIII

Ted hoped that the war would be discussed around the camp fire that night, but he was disappointed. Sweet Jackson turned up only in time to eat his supper and went immediately to bed. The other men appeared to be unusually tired and followed as soon as they had smoked a single pipe. Nevertheless Ted was nearer his heart's desire than he supposed.

About two o'clock in the morning a large animal prowled into or near the camp, doubtless attracted by the refuse of the deer's carcass; and all hands were roused by the furious baying of the dogs. Snatching up their guns, the slackers to the last man sallied out and followed in pursuit. Billy ran after them, and Ted, Hubert and July were left standing over the fire, now stirred to a bright blaze.

The eager hunters were hardly two hundred yards away when Hubert looked across the fire at Ted and said:

"Now's our chance to get off in the boats. We could do it--if July would go with us. You said he was thinking of it."

"Yes, I been thinkin' 'bout it," admitted July, his manner doubtful and hesitating, "but on account o' dat waw I ain't made up my mind yit."

"And, anyhow, in the middle of the night is a bad time," said Ted. "We're not ready either."

At this moment they heard the sound of footsteps and a voice shouted: "Buck says you boys come, too, and see the fun. And, July, you better bring some vittles."

The young man who had hurriedly returned on this errand had halted as soon as he was within call, and now waited impatiently to be joined by the boys and the negro, evidently afraid that he might miss seeing the game run to earth. His "Hurry up" was so frequent and so insistent that the boys joined him without a moment's delay and July, shaking his head, followed without the "vittles."

The cause of the excitement, which proved to be a bear, had beaten a hasty retreat toward the center of the island, and there, being hard pressed by the dogs, climbed a tall pine. By the time the hunters reached the spot the animal was at rest among the clustering boughs at the very top. Nothing could be done now until daylight, and the men proceeded to make themselves comfortable. Several fires were built, forming a circle around the tree, in order to make sure that the bear would remain where it was in case the watchers should fall asleep.

Then July and two men were sent back to camp to bring food and corn beer of the slackers' own brewing. The besiegers threw themselves down in comfortable, lounging attitudes around the largest fire and were disposed to have a merry time during the three hours of waiting. Ted and Hubert seated themselves on the grass near Buck Hardy and watched with absorbed attention all that took place. The treeing of a bear in a tall pine at such a time of night was remarked upon as a very unusual occurrence, and several declared that they had never seen the like.

"I tell you the old Oke-fi-noke is the place to run up on curious things," said Buck Hardy musingly, after the men sent to camp had returned with their loads. "I've seen a heap o' strange things in this swamp. I reckon you boys wouldn't believe me if I was to tell you I saw a catfish whip a moccasin in h-yer one time."

The men laughed incredulously, but demanded the particulars. Buck took a drink of corn beer from a gourd passed him by July, and then asked his nearest neighbor, Al Peters, for "a chaw o' tobacco," before he proceeded to satisfy their curiosity by telling his story. It was, in substance, that he had once seen a moccasin spring upon a catfish in a shallow lagoon of the swamp and promptly get "whipped." That is to say, disastrous consequences resulted from the snake's attempt to swallow its prey. For the fish immediately "popped" its formidable fins through the reptile's throat, and all efforts on the part of the latter to disgorge its victim proved futile.

"That moccasin reared mightily and was as lively a snake as you ever laid eyes on," Buck declared with a laugh, "but it bit off more'n it could chaw that time."

He wound up by saying that the snake crawled off rapidly out of sight; but several hours later, returning past the same neighborhood, he found it lying dead, the tail of the fish still protruding from its mouth and the fins visibly transfixing its neck. Finding that the catfish was still alive, Buck took the trouble of liberating it, then watched it revive in its native element and finally swim away in the lagoon.

Buck's listeners had expected a jest, but they seemed to accept the story as matter of fact--no one presuming to give expression to doubts, if any were felt. This was the beginning of much spinning of Okefinokee yarns, some of them even more remarkable. Finally Buck turned to Ted and said:

"Well, kid, what's the strangest thing you've seen in the Oke-fi-noke?"

The boy would have liked to reply that the strangest, most unaccountable, most infamous sight he had seen in the great swamp was a party of able-bodied young men who, instead of serving their country by training to fight the Germans, were deliberate and confessed slackers and fugitives from the law of the land. But he hesitated to go so far and only said:

"I haven't seen as much of it as the rest of you, but the strangest story about it I ever heard was the one my Uncle Walter said the Indians used to tell a hundred years ago."

"Let's hear it," invited several.

So Ted related the old Indian legend which pictured the remote interior of the Okefinokee as a high and dry land, and one of the most blissful spots of earth, where dwelt beautiful women called daughters of the Sun. Some warriors of the Creek nation, lost in the interminable bogs and jungles, and confronted with starvation and despair, were once on a time rescued and lovingly cared for by these radiant creatures. And ere the lost warriors were led out of the confusing labyrinths and sent on their way, they were fed bountifully with dates, oranges, and corn-cake. There may have been other good things to eat, but Ted's memory could vouch only for the dates, oranges, and corn-cake. He remembered that his uncle had spoken skeptically about the dates and disrespectfully of the corn-cake, which latter, though a good and useful thing in its way, was too "common" for celestial ladies who, in all other tales of the same type, were in the habit of feeding on ambrosia. Uncle Walter conceded, however, that the maize was probably regarded by the Creek Indian as one of the most precious gifts of the gods and, therefore, not unworthy of a place in this legend of the daughters of the Sun who dwelt in the great Okefinokee.

This story, with Judge Ridgway's comment added, was over the heads of the uneducated young backwoodsmen who listened with heavy gravity, but several of them expressed polite appreciation of it and spoke in complimentary terms of Ted's recital.