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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
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Newspaper Title:
ENGLISH LAD BRAVES DEATH TO SAVE HOME
CROSSES ALLIGATOR-INFESTED SWAMP
SAVES FAMILY FROM BANDIT GANG
Close at David's heels came a clang like the closing of the steel
jaws of a bear trap. He leapt forward, swinging his club.
UNDER a blazing, blinding sun a gang of negroes were busy cutting a great ditch through the rich, black earth; earth which, when properly drained, would be ready to grow the finest sugar cane in Florida.
Above them stood an English boy, a sturdy figure in ragged shorts and shirt, who kept a keen eye upon the men, and who moved to and fro, directing, advising, but always with a smile.
He looked startlingly young to be in charge of a score of grown men, but Dave Carson, though barely fifteen, had had more experience of this kind of work than many men, and the negroes liked him, and worked for him as well as they did for the boss himself, Mr. Lang.
"You'll have to take the grub hoe to that root, Scipio," said Dave, addressing a huge burly negro. "You'll never get it out with your shovel."
"Dat's all right, Marse Dave," replied the big man showing a double row of perfect teeth in a wide grin, and at once laid down his shovel and reached for the hoe. Then he pointed with his free hand. "Here's de boss a'coming, Marse Dave."
Dave turned to see a tall, gaunt-looking man striding across the newly-cleared ground from the direction of the little frame house which stood on the rising ground above Cypress Lake. He came quickly, stepping easily over the logs and piles of brush.
Dave went to meet him, and Lang pulled up. "Dave," he said, "I hear there's trouble over at Osceola. They've rung me up to say that Jake Otway was seen there last night."
"What, Yellow Jake?" exclaimed Dave.
"Yes, they reckon he's running a cargo of whisky up Magnolia Creek, and the sheriff wants help. So I'm riding over, and I reckon I'll hardly get back to-night. But you'll get along without me?"
"I'll be all right," declared Dave. "And I hope you get that fellow Jake," he added, earnestly.
Mr Lang nodded. "Be a weight off your mind, won't it?" he said.
"I should just think it would," declared Dave. "It scares me stiff to think what might happen at home, if he and his crowd came down there. Jake's had it in for father ever since father thrashed him for bullying that boy, Pete Ruse."
"Well, you needn't worry this time," replied Lang, "for if Jake's over on the Osceola he can't be at Fenokee." He turned to go, then stopped. "I've left old Cicero to look after the telephone. If anyone calls up, he'll come out and tell you."
Dave watched his employer back to the house, saw him get on his horse and ride away, then turned again to the work in hand. But though his eyes were on the men, his thoughts were busy elsewhere. He was thinking of Jake Otway, and simply praying that this time the sheriff would get him.
Jake Otway was a half-breed, a man of great strength and possessed a certain brute courage.
But he was totally lawless, and had a black, revengeful temper which made him dreaded by the whole county. He headed a gang of outlaws and criminals, whose headquarters were on an island in the hidden depths of the lower Fenokee Swamp, and who lived by smuggling and by other worse offences. Jake himself was suspected of murder, and the county authorities had put a reward of a thousand dollars on his head.
It was the worst of luck, Dave thought, that a man like this should have a grudge against his (Dave's) father. Ever since that day, three weeks ago, when he had last visited his home on the other side of the Fenokee, and heard of the fight which had ended in Jake's thrashing, he had been horribly uneasy, for he knew that Jake had sworn to be revenged.
But so far nothing had happened, and now, if only the sheriff's party managed to round up Jake, the danger would be over, and he himself could sleep peacefully once more.
Dave glanced towards the black wall of giant cypresses forming the edge of the Fenokee Swamp. His home lay only two miles away as the crow flies, just on the other side of the swamp. But the worst of it was that there was no road through that horrible place. True, there was a track made of logs, which wound through the slimy depths of it—what is called a corduroy road.
But the short cut was passable only in dry weather, and at present the rains were only just over, and the creek was brimming with water. For the last three months Dave had been forced to go right round by the county road, a distance of nearly twelve miles.
As Dave stared at the gigantic barrier of dark timber, he was conscious of a faint popping sound in the distance, and while he stood, straining his ears, Scipio stuck up his head.
"Sounds like guns, Marse Dave," he said.
"Who can be shooting?" asked Dave, anxiously.
"Comes from ober across de swamp," answered the negro.
Before Dave could speak again, he heard a shout, and, looking round, saw white-haired old Cicero hurrying from the direction of the house.
"De tellyphone, Marse Dave!" cried the old man.
Dave ran. "Who's calling?" he demanded.
"Your folk, sah, I reckon."
Dave raced for the house, and in an instant had the receiver to his ear. "Halloa? Who is it?"
"That you Dave?" It was his father's voice, hoarse and hurried.
"Yes; what is it?"
"Mr. Lang there?"
"No, he has gone off to help the sheriff to round up Yellow Jake's gang at Osceola."
"Osceola!" repeated Mr. Carson, grimly. "He's a bit off the track. Yellow Jake is here. He attacked us ten minutes ago. His men have got the barn and packing shed. We are holding out in the house."
As his father spoke, Dave could distinctly hear the crack-crack of rifles, and in spite of the heat, cold chills ran down his back, and for the moment he felt sick and shivery. But he pulled himself together with an effort. "All right, dad," he answered, steadily, "I'll come right along and bring the men with me."
"You'll have to be quick, my son," was the quiet answer. "We have hardly any cartridges left, and as soon as they realize that they will rush us. It's your mother and sister I'm thinking about."
"I'll bring the cartridges—" began Dave. Then ping!—and dead silence. He realized that the wire had been cut.
Dave's first impulse was to rush for the stable and saddle the horse. Then he remembered that Mr. Lang had taken the horse. There was nothing to ride, and even running his best, it would take all of two hours to get round by road.
For the moment Dave fell stunned. His brain was buzzing like a hive of bees, and he was literally unable to think or plan.
This did not last long. "The short cut!" he found himself saying. "It's the only way. I must chance it." He dashed back into the house. Mr. Lang had taken the rifle, but luckily there were plenty of cartridges. Dave filled his pockets, and ran out again.
For the moment he had quite forgotten the men. Now he remembered them. He must put Scipio in charge. That was the only thing to do.
"Scipio!" he shouted, and the big negro, jumping out of the trench, came running up.
In a few hurried words, Dave explained things.
Scipio stared at him. "But, Marse Dave, you can't cross de swamp. It's plumb full of water."
Dave gritted his teeth. "I've got to. I must take the cartridges to them at any cost."
Scipio shook his wooly head. "Yo' can't do it," he replied. "Yo'll get stuck in a bog hole or bit by a moccasin (a viper). Dere ain't one chance in a hundred fer yo' to get across dat place alive."
"I can't stop to talk," snapped Dave. "You carry on, Scipio, and if I don't come back, you will tell Mr. Lang what has happened." As he spoke he started off, making at a sharp jog-trot for the edge of the swamp. He had almost reached it when he heard someone running behind him. It was Scipio, carrying a heavy stick. "I'm gwine, too," he announced, and though Dave ordered him back, for once the big negro flatly disobeyed him. So Dave shrugged his shoulders and said no more.
As Dave reached the edge of the swamp, again there came the faint popping of rifle shots. He broke into a run, and next minute had plunged into the thick shade of the cypresses. Underfoot the ground was heavy with moisture, and but for the logs laid side by side to form the road. Dave's feet would have sunk deep into black mire. Huge masses of stiff palmetto rose on either side of the path, and overhead wild grape vines and yellow jasmine hung in thick ropes
A little farther on, and pools of inky black water became visible. The air was heavy with a damp, sour smell of decay, and hosts of mosquitoes rose humming out of the thick foliage and, settling on the intruders, bit fiercely. Dave hardly noticed them; he was far too anxious.
In the darksome depths on either side were heard weird rustlings as the unseen denizens of the swamp moved uneasily away from the presence of man. But not all of them moved, for suddenly Scipio gave a warning cry and springing past Dave, brought his club down with a thud. There was a sudden whirl of dust-covered coils and a hideous moccasin, the bloated viper of the Florida swamp, rolled writhing into the murky depths of a stagnant pool.
"Yo' boss watch out," panted Scipio. "Ef one of those things bite yo', yo' won't gat far."
Dave merely nodded and passed on. There was much worse to come, and he knew it. Another few hundred yards and the corduroy path began to sway under them. It was literally floating on liquid mud, which oozed up, like black glue between the openings. The reek of it was poisonous.
Every few yards one of the hideous water moccasins lay basking on the logs, and though most of them slipped silently away more than once Scipio had to use his club.
The cypress gave way to palmetto, tall palms that rose clean out of the mud to hang their feathery tops a hundred feet overhead in the sunlight.
Again came a gust of firing, and Dave half mad with anxiety, once more began to run, Scipio followed close behind.
Next minute the palmettos broke away and the sun glared hotly on a yellow, dirty wide expanse of water. It was the creek itself swollen to double its width by recent rains.
Across it, like a curving snake, ran the logs of the bridge.
Dave paused a moment. "Thank goodness the bridge is not broken, Scipio," he said, hoarsely. "It's all right, we can cross."
Scipio caught him by the arm, and pointed with the other hand at something which looked like a dead log floating on the sluggish water.
"Yo' can't, Marse Dave," he said sharply. "Look at dat."
Dave looked and shuddered slightly, "an alligator, yes I see it. But it can't be helped, Scipio. I must chance it.
"Where dere's one dere's more sah, its sure death to walk that bridge," said Scipio.
"Let go my arm, Scipio," Dave ordered sharply, and Scipio dropped his hand from his arm with a groan.
Dave turned to the man, "Scipio, I won't have you try it," he said and there was a ring of command in his voice which the negro instinctively obeyed.
"Take my stick, anyway sah," was all he said, and leaving the man standing there Dave started across the bridge. It was impossible to go quickly, for the heavy logs sagged under his weight and almost sank, flinging out long ripples across the oily scum. The sun beat down with fearful force.
Dave had his eyes on that log-like object which floats so ominously still. Presently he realized that it was moving—moving slowly but steadily in toward the bridge. Dave's throat went dry, and his heart thudded heavily. Every instinct told him to turn and fly while there was yet time.
But the shots were louder now, the sound beating through the stagnant air, and before him was the picture of his father and his brother Joe lying waiting, holding their fire against the savage rush of Yellow Jake and his gang of ruffians.
And as Dave watched, another back rose soundlessly out of the depths, then a third, then a fourth.
"Heavens the creek is alive with them," Dave gasped hoarsely, and next moment the first alligator threw off all disguise and came swiftly down upon him.
A sort of fury seized Dave. "You brute," he cried, and instead of waiting for the attack ran forward and just as the hideous brute began to lift itself upon the bridge, swung his club and hit it with all his force upon the snout.
It is the one tender spot upon the horny carcass of the great lizard and the monster fell back splashing into the creek. But as Dave straightened himself the whole bridge swayed terribly and the air was filled with a sickening reek of musk.
Two more alligators were clambering up in front of Dave; there was a third close behind and two others were swimming swiftly to their grizzly feast.
A sort of madness seized Dave and once more he leaped at the ghastly antagonists. Thud. Thud. Thud. His club wielded with all the powerful force of his young arm, crashed upon the snouts of the two monsters that barred his way and like the first they rolled back splashing in agony.
Close at Dave's heels came a clang like the closing of the steel jaws of a bear-trap. Dave leaped forward and throwing prudence to the winds fairly raced along the bridge.
How it was that he ever kept his balance, how he did not trip or slip and plunge headlong into the jaws of the hungry horrors that darted along on either side—that is a thing that Dave himself has never been able to understand. The fact is that he succeeded where even the most professional athletes would almost certainly have failed, and all of a sudden the logs steadied beneath him and tall wet grass, water celery and flowering grasses edged the bridge.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that all the alligators had come to a dead stop. There was no longer water deep enough for them to swim, and so far as he was concerned he was safe.
He paused for a moment and stood panting, the sweat streaming off him and a horrible sick feeling making his legs tremble beneath him; then with a tremendous effort he mastered himself and started afresh.
He had now little more than mile to go, and for the rest of the distance the path was wider and firmer, presently he was peering out through the fringe of the swamp vegetation, and a long breath of relief escaped his laboring lungs as he saw that his father's house still stood apparently untouched.
For the next five minutes Dave was crawling on his stomach from one bush to another, in the effort to reach the house without being seen. He was successful in getting as far as the garden about forty yards from the house.
All was deadly still. There was no firing, no sound of any sort. He waited a little. Then he did hear something. It was the sound of an axe on wood, and it came from the outbuildings on the far side of the house.
He ventured to whistle, using the three note call which his father and Joe would know. Almost at once came the answer and leaping to his feet he raced for the house.
A rifle cracked, a bullet spattered dust underneath his feet, but a second shot was well behind him.
"You Dave!" his father cried in amazement. "How did you get here?"
"Crossed the swamp, here are cartridges, are you safe?"
Mr. Carson snatched at the cartridges as if they were gold. "So far yes," he angered, "but we had only four cartridges left, and were keeping them for the rush. My dear lad I believe you have saved us."
"You're a topper Dave," said Joe warmly. "How you ever got across I can't imagine. Here's a spare rifle. They will be coming pretty soon."
"What are they doing? What's that axe work?" asked Dave.
"They're cutting a log for a battering ram. They've tried the front door once, but we killed two of them. That sickened them, and they're in the big store shed getting ready to finish us."
"In the big store shed? Dave's voice was so sharp that his father and brother both stared.
"Yes. What's the matter?" demanded Joe.
"Isn't that where you keep the big canister of blasting powder?"
"Yes. But what good is that to us? We can't get at it."
"What—not with a bullet," asked Dave.
Mr. Carson and Joe gazed open mouthed at Dave. Then Joe whistled softly, "and we never thought of it," he said.
"The question is whether we can hit it," Mr. Carson said.
"Is it just where it used to be?" questioned Dave.
"Yes," replied his father.
"Then we can. If we fire through the wall of the shed, just to the left of the window, we can't miss it."
"And we will fire from my bedroom window," said Joe quickly. That faces it exactly."
All three hurried up the stairs. Dave had not yet seen his mother and sister for they were in the cellar out of reach of the bullets.
The sound of axe work had ceased, and Mr. Carson quickened his pace as he ran upstairs. "Hurry," he snapped. They must be ready to attack now."
Dave flung himself down underneath the window and as he did so the hail of bullets from the barn quickened, and it was one long rattling volley, but luckily the whole fire was concentrated on the lower floor of the house. It did not seem to occur to the attackers that the defenders might have gone to the upper floor.
The door of the shed opened, and the end of a pine trunk began to be pushed out. Dave could see dark faces and gleaming eyes in the shadow beyond. Jake's object was plain. He meant to rush the front door of the house and burst it down. If he did not actually know it he shrewdly suspected that the Carsons' supply of ammunition had run pretty low.
"Now," whimpered Dave sharply. "Aim where I do, and when I give the signal all fire at once."
Pushing out the Log
There was a pause. The great log was being pushed out more rapidly.
"Now," snapped Dave, and as he spoke he thrust his rifle over the sill and fired right at the spot he believed the can of blasting powder stood.
Crack! Crack! Crack! it was Dave fired last, and almost before the echo had come back there was a roar like thunder. The whole packing shed seemed to rise bodily into the air. Then it broke and flew skywards in a fountain fog of smoke and dust.
For an instant all was hidden, then down came the remains in a cloud of rubbish among which two or three scorched forms ran screaming. "Shoot, Shoot," cried Dave and the rifles rattled again until there was no more movement opposite. Nothing but a mass of smoking rubbish through which ran red seams of fire.
Dave rose to his feet "and that's the end of Yellow Jake and his gang," he said quietly. Then he suddenly staggered and Joe caught him just in time to keep him from falling. "Lay him on the bed Joe," said his father gently, "and I'll fetch his mother. Then we must go and put the fire out."
Joe laid Dave gently on the bed. "All right dad," he said, "you needn't worry about the barn. The thousand dollars reward will pay for two new ones."
Mr. Carson shook his head. "That money is Dave's Joe, and if ever a boy earned a thousand dollars he's the one."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.