The White Squaw Part 7

It was in the person of a negro, with a skin black as Erebus, who was seen perched upon the top of a tall fence.

He was odd enough looking to attract the attention of the most careless traveller.

His head, denuded of the old ragged piece of felt he called hat, was unusually large, and covered with an enormous shock of tightly-curling wool.

This did not, however, conceal the apeish form of the skull, that bore a strong resemblance to that of a chimpanzee.

Rolling and sparkling in a field of white, were eyes preternaturally large, and wickedly expressive, above a nose and mouth of the strongest African type.

His arms were ludicrously long, and seemed by their unusual proportions to make up for the shortness, and impish form of the body.

He was whistling in a discordant strain some wild melody, and kicking his heels about like one possessed.

As Warren Rody approached, he paused in his ear-splitting music, and leaped nimbly from his perch, whilst flourishing his tattered felt in a sort of salutation.

It might have been observed that he was lame, and the few halting steps he took imparted a droll, hobbling motion to his diminutive body.

His dress was a curious warp of rags--woven, as it were--upon a still more ragged woof.

They were held together more by sympathy than cohesion.

In his right hand was a stout gnarled stick, with which he a.s.sisted himself in his frog-like progress.

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 Ma.s.sa Warren hisself dat I see! My stars, ma.s.sa, 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, ma.s.sa, good deal."

"Are you out of work again?"

"Ha, ha, ain't done a bressed stroke of work, ma.s.sa, for more nor two week! Ain't, 'pon dis old n.i.g.g.e.r's solemn word! Ain't had it, ma.s.sa, to do. Poor Crookleg am most used up, sa, most used up."

As if to prove his last a.s.sertion the hideous wretch cut a high caper into the air, and settled down again in a grotesque att.i.tude.

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 pa.s.sed 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, ma.s.sa! I'll come, sartin; dis old n.i.g.g.e.r'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 grat.i.tude 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 n.i.g.g.e.r; and, who knows, but what de long time am a coming to an end, and all dis old n.i.g.g.e.r'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.