Curiously the girl rode
toward it, unaware that the picturesque fire-wheel ahead was the
typical camp fire of the southern Indian, or that the strange wild
figure squatting gravely by the fire in lonely silhouette against the
white of a canvas-covered wagon beyond in the trees, was a vagrant
Seminole from the proud old turbaned tribe who still dwell in the
inaccessible morasses of the Everglades.
The realization came in a disturbed flash of interest and curiosity.
Though the Florida Indian harmed no one, he still considered himself
proudly hostile to the white man. Wherefore Diane wisely wheeled her
horse about to retreat.
It was too late. Already the young Seminole was upon his feet, keen of
vision and hearing for all he seemed but a tense, still statue in the
wildwood.
Accepting the situation with good grace, Diane rode fearlessly toward
his fire and reined in her horse. But the ready word of greeting froze
upon her lips. For the nomad of the fire-wheel was a girl, tall and
slender, barbarically arrayed in the holiday garb of a Seminole chief.
The firelight danced upon the beaten band of silver about her brilliant
turban and the beads upon her sash, upon red-beaded deerskin leggings
delicately thonged from the supple waist to the small and moccasined
foot, upon a tunic elaborately banded in red and a belt of buckskin
from which hung a hunting knife, a revolver and an ammunition pouch.
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