292 WILD SPORTS IN THE SOUTH. 



sand could be seen. It looked like a floating garden. Under the 

 fan-like leaves of the plants the hunter had made a pathway like 

 an otter from the farther side to the landward edge, and thence he 

 looked out on the light, a hundred yards across the open water and 

 the long extended beach. 



No boat could appear on the open water, or any approach be 

 made to the lighthouse, without its being seen from the island. 

 Mike knew that the Indians would not expose themselves either 

 in the one way or the other, although they outnumbered him seven 

 to one. That they were watching him he was perfectly assured, 

 and he did not give them the opportunity of seeing him by any 

 unwary motion. He merely stretched out an arm over the deep 

 muzzled head of his hound, and waited. 



From the other side of the narrow straits the Indians frowned 

 on the island, consulted together, or passed from clump to clump 

 to examine it the more closely, carefully screening their bodies 

 from the hunter, though careless as to all observation from the 

 light-house. Among them, pre-eminent in gracefulness of figure, 

 was one who wore on his breast a silver medal, like those given to 

 Indians of distinction by the government of the United States as 

 a reward, or inducement to fidelity. He had crawled down almost 

 to the beach, and from behind some broken timber kept a steadfast 

 watch of the island. Although they had seen neither the marks- 

 man, his trail, nor any of his signs, there was no doubt as to whom 

 the island concealed. Mike's character was too well known to 

 doubt whose daring act had cost the band two of their warriors. 

 Even had they not known his intimacy at Far Away, or been 

 warned by the diamond cut, his well-known monogram, that he had 

 marked on their canoe. Tiger-Tail would have given his rifle and 

 squaw for the scalp Mike wore, and yet there slept the scout, almost 

 in sight of him and his band, and they dared not go and take him. 



Had a stranger looked on the scene he would have considered 

 the beach a desolate ruin, never more to be inhabited. The lonely 

 tower was blackened and marred, the place was deserted, and the 

 two dead bodies lay on the sand, watched by the vultures that, 

 with braced wings, crept in slow circles like motes in the upper 

 air. The storm of the previous night had passed away. 



The descending sun sullenly set in the everglades, the wind 



