Boy Chums in the Forest; Or, Hunting for Plume Birds in the Florida Everglades
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CHAPTER VII.
THE QUAGMIRE.
It was already late when the convicts departed, and our huntersimmediately began their preparations for their first trial with theplume birds.
"I wonder where we had better strike in at first," said the captain,"there seems a powerful lot of them islands, an' they 'pear to mepretty much alike."
"I have been keeping a kind of eye out all day," Charley answered, "andit seems to me that there has been a lot of birds flying around thatlittle island of dead trees in the marsh right across from us. Supposewe try that first."
The others readily agreed, and, while Chris was cooking supper, theboys prepared a number of torches from fat pitch pine and looked overtheir fowling-pieces carefully.
As soon as it was dark, Charley and Walter entered one of the canoesand the captain the other. Chris begged hard to be taken, but Charleywas firm in his refusal.
"We will have to take turn about at tending camp, and you'll have tostay to-night, Chris," he said. "It won't do to leave the camp alone.You'll have to keep a sharp lookout to guard against any possiblesurprise from wild animals or men. Keep up the fire so we can find ourway back, and have some hot coffee ready. We'll need it when we getback. Keep a sharp eye out, Chris," he concluded. "It isn't everyoneI would choose for such a responsible place."
"Golly, Massa Charley," exclaimed the little darky, the bald flatterytickling his great racial vanity, "I jus' reckon nothin' goin' to getpast dis nigger, though I sure 'spects I'd ought to go along so as towatch out for you chillens."
"We'll be careful," Charley assured him gravely. "If anything troublesyou or you see anything wrong, fire off your gun twice, and we willhustle back. Shove her off, Walt."
Walter obeyed with a vigor that nearly upset their frail craft. "My,but she's cranky," he exclaimed.
"She is pretty ticklish," Charley admitted, "but just the craft for ourpurpose. She's so light she will float on a good heavy dew, and thenshe's so easy to take to pieces and pack away. But we'd better stopour chattering, for we are getting near the island now."
The moon was shining brightly, giving to the dead whitened trees on thelittle island a peculiar ghostly appearance. The canoes soon groundedin the marsh grass, and, fastening them to paddles, stuck down in themud, our hunters shouldered their fowling-pieces and trudged aheadthrough the mire. They had prepared themselves well for the trip andeach wore a pair of rubber boots reaching to the hip drawn on overtheir rawhide boots and legging.
"I guess we are on the right track," grinned Charley, ere they hadproceeded far.
"Goodness, it's awful," exclaimed Walter. "I wish I had a clothes-pinon my nose. Smells just like as island of Limburger cheese set in alake of broken spoiled eggs."
"I reckon that's comin' it a little strong, Walt," chuckled thecaptain. "I guess though we've stumbled onto a good big rookery forsure. That smell comes mostly from the dead baby birds, broken eggs,an' such like. But let's keep quiet, lads, we're nearly there now."
A few minutes more and the hunters entered the fringe of dead trees.By the time they reached the center of the little island where the deadtrees were thickest, the little party was nearly overcome by thehorrible stench. At every step they crushed in nestfuls of decayedeggs which sent up their protests to high heavens.
At last Charley commanded a halt. "We've gone far enough," hewhispered. "Let's light up our torches together and make as short workof it as possible. Gee, but I'm sick for a mouthful of sweet, freshair."
The fat pine-sticks flared up as though saturated with oil, theirflickering blaze lighting up a weird scene; the gaunt, bare, whitetrees, ghosts of a departed forest, the miry ground strewn with eggs ofall sizes, shapes and colors, and dead birds of many kinds, in amongstwhich writhed and twisted dirty-looking, repulsive water moccasins andbrilliant yellow and black swamp snakes, while overhead on the whitenedlimbs, roosted hundreds of birds partly roused from their sleep by theglare of the torches.
"We'll have to shoot with one hand and hold our torches with theother," said Charley.
The guns were very light fowling-pieces, and the birds were clusteredtoo thickly together to be easily missed. The three guns belched outtheir deadly message almost together and a score of birds fell to theground. Again and again were the volleys repeated before the dazedbirds recovered their senses enough to take to their wings.
The hunters paused only long enough to pluck from the backs of thefallen birds the long, silky plumes, which they carefully placed in astiff leather valise, then hastened on to another part of the islandwhere the same performance was repeated.
At first all three hunters stuck close together, but they soonseparated, each picking out for himself what seemed to be choice placesin the little wood. Yielding to the incessant firing the birds beganto desert their roosts in great flocks until at last but few lingeredon the barren limbs. Charley was about to call his companions togetherand propose a return to camp when a sudden cry sent the blood tinglingthrough his veins. It was Walter's voice, and its tone was that offear and horror unutterable. Pausing a second to locate the directionof the sound, Charley bounded away for it at the top of his speed. Ashe passed a thick clump of trees the captain broke out from among themand lumbered on in his wake.
"What's the trouble, Charley?" he panted.
"Something's happened to Walt," he shouted back, "something terrible,too--just hear him calling."
The cries rose again with redoubled vigor, a world of dread in theircadence.
The island was small, and in a few minutes Charley was close to thescene of the cries with the captain right at his heels. Suddenly theybroke out of the underbrush into a small open space perhaps forty feetacross. Near the center of this place was Walter, waving his torchfrantically back and forth. He ceased his cries as their lightsflashed into view. "Stop, stop!" he shouted, "don't come a stepfurther. I am sinking a foot a minute. The ground is rotten here. Iguess it's up to me to say good-bye, chums," he continued in a voice hestrove vainly to make steady. "You can't help me, and I'm sinkingdeeper every minute."
"Cheer up, lad, we'll find a way," declared the old sailor, with ahopefulness he was far from feeling, for he knew well, by hearsay, ofthe terrible swamp quagmires that swiftly suck their victims down to ahorrible death in the foul mud.
Already Walter had sunk to his waist, and it was only a question ofminutes ere the slimy ooze would close over his head. It was asituation that demanded instant action. For a moment Charley stoodsilent beside the captain gazing hopelessly at his doomed chum. Thenhe turned swiftly and darted away like an arrow.
"Throw branches, boughs, anything that is light," he shouted back; "Iam going to get the canvas painters."
Frantically the old sailor tore down dead limbs and flung them to theentombed lad. His labor was in vain, for as each branch struck thequagmire its own weight sunk it out of sight in the liquid mud.
"Better give it up, Captain," advised Walter, cheerfully. "They aredoing no good, and Charley will soon be back with the ropes."
The captain measured the distance to the helpless lad with a practisedeye, and groaned in despair. "They'll fall short by a dozen feet," hemurmured hopelessly. "God forgive me, for bringing him to this plight."
In a moment Charley was back with the painters from the two canvascanoes knotted together. His first toss confirmed the captain's fears,the rope foil ten feet short.
Charley's face grew sickly pale under the torch light, and he stood fora space like one in a daze. The captain near him was kneeling prayingfervently.
Of the three, Walter was the coolest. He had resigned himself to hisfate at the failure of the first cast of the rope. Already the mirehad sucked him down so that he had to throw his head far back to keepthe filthy stuff from entering his mouth.
"Good-bye, old chums," he called cheerfully, "we've made our last camptogether. Don't feel too down, Charley. Remember what the jockeyssay, 'There's nothing to a race but the finish
.'"
Charley roused from his momentary trance. "You shan't die," he criedwildly, "you shan't, you shan't,--you shan't."