All-Story Weekly, Vol. 112, No. 1 — page 54: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

44 almost better than any man had ever known them—the treacherous flats—eighty or a hundred miles across to the east coast, almost that many to the wést; wilderness of the same sort to north and south. ‘Ten men,” said Blue Otter softly, lis- tening, and his glancing eyes indicated that the enemy was scattered. ‘“ Think so— get ready—shoot us—’’ He completed his declaration by a rising motion of his hand from the direction of the east, meaning when the sun came up. “You know this country?” asked La- throp. 7 Yes.”’ “How far could we get on foot?” There was a long pause. ‘“ He could go anywhere by himself,’’ Muriel whispered, “but he wouldn’t leave me.” ‘““ Two miles,” said Blue Otter. ‘“Couldn’t we go back the way you came—give these fellows the slip that way?” “Three trails,” said Blue Otter softly. “There are only three trails,” whispered Muriel. ‘‘ He showed me to-day... They are held—or watched—to-night more than ever.” “They wouldn’t dare—” But Lathrop checked himself,.even if he had intended the remark for the consola- tion of the girl. He was going to say that these men would not dare to fire upon him. Men had been murdered for lesser prizes than the sum of money that Muriel San- gree represented. He saw that Blue Otter had turned and was looking down at them through the gloom. Blue Otter spoke: ‘““Mebbe so—the water come before the sun.” | They saw him for a flickering moment longer, the stripes of his Seminole shirt showing vaguely in the darkness and noth- ing else. Then he was gone. “Did he mean—rain?” Lathrop asked. ‘He meant — he meant,” said Muriel, with her thought echoing what Blue Otter had said to her about hearing a “ Voice ” —‘‘ oh, I don’t know what he meant, but I do know that he is a prophet.” They huddled there where Blue Otter had left them, with the void about them— ALL-STORY WEEKLY. darkness, silence, the sort of dread born of expectancy when the straining senses get no response. Muriel had surrendered to Lathrop completely. Both of his arms were about her. His face rested against her head. She had dressed herself again in the clothing she had worn when Blue Otter found her. Lathrop had illusory flights of dream — he and the girl were safe; they were not in the midst of the Everglades with a stranded plane and with deadly enemies creeping up on them; this was the garden of the hotel at Miami; by and by Muriel would have to bid him good night; to-morrow they were going to be married. But there was another sort of dream in the mind of Blue Otter. He had looked at the white man and the white girl. He had seen them in each other’s arms. And instead of this hurting him in any way there ran through him a surge of power. It was like a flood of fine magnetism in all the fibers of his body. It was as if some other voice than his own—yet a voice from his heart—had said: “ You are a Seminole! This ts the hour of the one gift!” The power was so strong in him that it made him drunk. He shut his eyes and bowed his head. He straightened himself up again and looked up, shaking his head. Silently and swiftly he turned back to where the embers of the fire still glowed, There he cast off his shirt and he wore no other clothing than his breech-cloth. He next took a dry palmetto fan and blew it into flame. With this flame he lightly anointed his whole body. “What is that?” whispered Lathrop. Muriel gasped and watched. She couldn’t speak. It was as if the two of them looked at some pagan miracle —a slender, wonder- fully wrought statue of bronze brought to life and warming itself to an intenser life with flame. The muscles played. The surface of the living statue glowed. Then there was darkness as the fire went out. Blue Otter, purified, unscathed by the flame, retraced his steps. The others saw him pass, walking lightly and proudly like CO DOO AMC S C©