Januaey, 1919 
FOREST AND STREAM 
17 
A S the Mae put out into what, by 
grace of good will, they called a 
“Bay,” all simultaneously spied a 
strange object. It was eight o’clock, and 
the sun was so brilliant and dazzling that 
they could not be sure of their own eyes. 
Hendry immediately used the glasses. 
Instantly he gave a grunt of satisfaction 
and surprise. 
“John Billy!” was his exclamation. 
“Seminole?” asked Mr. King. 
“Good Indian,” the guide nodded, “I 
know Billy. I once live in Cow Creek 
country. Married Cow Creek squaw.” 
Hendry shrugged his shoulder in disgust 
at the very memory, “met John Billy 
there .... long time* ago. Thirty years. 
Only once, twice I see him since. I leave 
squaw. John Billy glad, for squaw bad 
woman. He never like her, either. We 
get Billy pilot us up Lossman’s. That 
a good idea.” 
“But will he do it?” inquired Mr. King. 
John’s gaze was fastened upon the queer 
object in mid-stream. As the Mae 
brought them nearer, he saw that it was 
a beautifully modelled cypress canoe, per- 
haps twenty-eight feet in length and sup- 
plied with a sail that scudded it along 
rather daringly. This leg-o-mutton of 
soiled cotton cloth was tied on a make- 
shift mast with buckskin thongs. 
It was reared at least twelve feet in 
air, and presented a rather odd appear- 
ance. The Seminole, attired in the out- 
landish costume of his tribe, sat astern 
with a paddle, at overboard steering. 
His canoe was pretty well loaded with 
a cargo of sundries from a trading post. 
But the moment the Indian looked up, 
as Hendry hailed him, a light of sudden, 
sure recognition illuminated his dull eyes. 
“You HENDRY!” said he, without a 
moment’s hesitation. 
The two grasped hands and made signs 
over their respective boats. Whereupon 
a conversation took place that was com- 
posed of parts of a half dozen mongrel 
’Glade tongues. 
“He says he will go with us ... . far 
’nuff,” said Hendry. 
“Splendid!” Mr. King exclaimed, “we 
have been aground on the oyster bars 
at least five times already .... we need 
a guide. Where was he going?” 
“Up one of the rivers from Harney,” 
said Hendry, who was acting as inter- 
preter, “he say he has been Chockolos- 
kee island for supplies. Goes one time 
every years .... no more. Take deer 
skins, coon, otter, 'gator skins .... 
they give him supplies in exchange. Fif- 
ty pounds rice .... grits .... flour. 
Some cartridges, shells, new beads for 
squaw.” 
The trading post at Chockoloskee, of 
which we shall learn more later on, first 
hand, dates back to before the great Se- 
minole wars. There are remnants of a 
fort on the island and quite a settle- 
ment of white men. Mr. King recalled 
this fragment of West Coast history. 
H endry and Johnny Billy continued 
to talk in voluble gutteral tones. 
They were rehearsing the past. 
“He says he no been to Miami in twen- 
ty-five years,” translated Hendry, “his 
birthday not long ago .... sixty-five 
year. Feel young.” 
And the Indian looked it! He was 
vigorous of build, strong, active and 
bright of eye. A life in the open, hunt- 
ing and fishing, had thrown a sort of 
magic halo of Health over his bronzed 
body. These good points were elabor- 
ated by his characteristic Seminole cos- 
tume .... the bright-colored tunic, ex- 
posed chest, and bare legs and head. 
Johnny Billy was of some account in 
the region, for, upon the death of Cypress 
Tiger, he became chief of his particular 
tribal unit, situated on an island at the 
headwaters of Lossman’s River, or some- 
times found on hunting expeditions out 
from Harney and Shark. Some very 
famous chiefs knew Lossman’s as their 
Here we see the gate house and 
dismantled remnants of Dr. Cy- 
press Tiger’s one-time home on 
the outskirts of the ’Glades. Great 
game country surrounds it, but 
superstitious natives never dis- 
turb the great Seminole’s last 
crumbling, vine-covered shrine 
A veteran of the ’Glades was 
smoke-curing a fine venison car- 
cass by a process peculiar to the 
’Glade folk for many generations 
primitive home .... Billy Buck Harney, 
Johnny Billy and the illustrious Tooth- 
pull Tiger, Son of Cypress Tiger, all of 
South Seminole tribes. Billy reigned su- 
preme over perhaps thirty sturdy bucks 
and women and children, to the aggre- 
gate of seventy-five. 
At 1 P.M. Billy had brought them 
safely into the still waters of Dr. Tiger’s 
Lake. John was beginning to experi- 
ence the mystery and thrill of a far 
country. For a reason he could not quite 
analyze, he found himself talking in sub- 
dued tones. Echoes were intimately 
clear and resonant. Swinging overhead 
and above the tops of cypress, mangrove 
and cabbage palm, there were birds of 
every Florida kind. Here would the 
rifle prove a handy weapon! They could 
have filled the boats with duck, heron, 
wild turkey and crane in an hour. It 
was obvious that the party had at last 
stepped across the line between average 
Gulf sport and a forbidden realm of en- 
chantment. As for the waters .... 
they were constantly rippled and sent 
into widening silver circles by the play- 
ful fish that swept eagerly to the sur- 
face after falling insects. 
And Hendry gTinned at John and 
John smiled at Hendry. Translated, this 
exchange of mutual gratification meant: 
“Here we will get out the rod and the 
flies and all our paraphernalia. It will 
be fishing such as no human ever en- 
countered before!” 
E very mile of the way up had been 
touched with beauty and unspoiled 
romance. Lossman’s is nothing 
more or less than a channel of three- 
fourths of a mile at its extremity in 
length, opening into a flowerful bay, 
shallow, shadowed and humming with 
the low songs of wild life. 
They were all hungry by this time 
and the Mae was nosed up, until her 
bow left the water on the low, smooth 
beach of Dr. Tiger’s Shell Mound plan- 
tation. Was there ever a more pictur- 
esque .... a more ghostly place! This 
immense shell mound foundation formed 
an island abutting the mangrove and 
cabbage palm shore, and it was over-run 
with the living things that Tiger had 
planted and that lived on, after his sad 
death. There was the ruins of what 
had once been a snug shack, back from 
the shore, but rains and summer heat 
had warped the planks or started dis- 
integration. An Indian might have sore 
need for fire wood, but all this island 
rendezvous of a much-loved person was 
sacred. Time might claim it ... . hu- 
man hands never! 
Mr. King and John stood rather 
breathlessly at the open door of the old 
shack. Earth there was for floor, and 
heavy flat fans of fern glorified it. 
Upon a broken shelf there were bottles 
.... low, sinister glass jars, long since 
empty, but once filled with those swamp 
concoctions which the Indians believed 
would bring eternal health. The odor 
of dead world sprang up heavily from 
dark corners, and little yellow and green 
lizards raced at their feet. 
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 36) 
