ybody can shoot ducks from a boat, but it takes
real hunters to stalk turkeys! I suppose Eudo loads for you and Gray
pulls the triggers!"

"The turkey you get will be a water-turkey," observed Cardross; "or a
fragrant buzzard. Hamil, I'm sorry for you. I've tried that sort of
thing myself when younger. I'm still turkeyless but wiser."

"You'd better bring Eudo and let us help you to retrieve yourself!"
called back Shiela.

But he refused scornfully, and she waved them adieu; then, settling in
her stirrups, turned smilingly to Hamil who brought his horse alongside.

"Dad is probably right; there's not much chance for us this way. But if
there is a chance Little Tiger will see that we get it. Anyway, you can
try the ducks in the morning. You don't mind, do you?"

He tried to be prudent in his reply.

CHAPTER XII

THE ALLIED FORCES

Through the glades the sun poured like a red searchlight, and they
advanced in the wake of their own enormous shadows lengthening
grotesquely with every stride. Tree trunks and underbrush seemed afire
in the kindling glory; the stream ran molten.

Then of a sudden the red radiance died out; the forest turned ashy; the
sun had set; and on the wings of silence already the swift southern dusk
was settling over lake and forest. A far and pallid star came out in the
west; a cat-owl howled.

At the edge of an evil-looking cypress "branch" they dismounted, drew
gun from saddle-boot, and loaded in silence while the Indian tethered
the horses.

Then through the thickening twilight they followed the Seminole in file,
Hamil bringing up the rear.

Little Tiger had left turban, plume, and leggings in camp; the
scalp-lock bobbed on his head, bronzed feet and legs were bare; and,
noiseless as a cypress shadow in the moonlight, he seemed part of it
all, harmonious as a wild thing in its protective tints.

A narrow tongue of dry land scarcely three inches above the swamp level
was the trail they followed. All around tall cypress trees, strangely
buttressed at the base, rose pillar-like into obscurity as though
supporting the canopy of dusk. The goblin howling of the big cat-owl
pulsated through the silence; strange gleams and flashes stirred the
surface of the bog. Once, close ahead, a great white bird, winged like
an angel, rose in spectral silence through the twilight.

"Did you see!" she breathed, partly turning her head.

"Good heavens, yes! What was it; the archangel Michael?"