We traversed miles and
miles of savage, uninhabitable marsh before at last we came to the
isolated Indian camp. Small wonder the Seminole is still unconquered.
It is a world here for wild men. I'll write as I feel inclined and
bunch the letters when there is an Indian going out to the fringe of
civilization.
We hunt the 'gators by night in cypress canoes. Grant sat in the bow
of our boat to-night with a bull's-eye lantern in his cap. The fan of
it over the silent, black water, the eyes of the 'gators blazing in the
dark, these cool, bronze, turbaned devils with axes to sever the spinal
cord and rifles to shatter the skull--it's a wild and thrilling scene.
I'm sorry Carl was not so well. Now that Dad is kinder to the little
chap, we could have left him at St. Augustine if he'd been well enough
to make the trip. It bothers me that you're not along. It's my first
time without you, and you're a better shot than Grant and more
dependable in mood. I can't make out what's come over him of late.
He's so moody and reckless that the Indians think he's a devil. He's
more prone to wild whims than ever. We've shot wild turkey and bear
but I like the 'gator sport the best.
There's a curious white man here who's lived a good part of his life
with the tribe.
Pages:
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368