Pirate

I was just about to ask for more details when I saw his gaze move to the bushes, and the look on his face changed to panic. Before I could turn to see what had alarmed him, I heard someone move behind me and grab the pistol from my side. The gun fired before I could react, and the man fell over, a red spot forming on his chest.

“Bastard!”

She pulled the trigger again, but nothing happened, then threw the pistol down and went for the dagger. I grabbed her, and we wrestled, landing with a thump on the ground. She fought back, but my weight subdued her.

“We need him.” I tried to reason with her.

“Bastard!” She screamed again and fought with renewed vigor.

I kept my grip on her and stole a glance at the man. “Well, the bastard’s dead,” I said, as I rolled off her.

She sat up and looked at him with a wild look on her face. “He’s the one that sold me,” she said, as tears streamed down her face.

Not sure whether she would reject me if I tried to comfort her after our struggle, I remained where I was and waited for her to compose herself. “He said he was a trader,” I said, and realized my mistake as soon as the words left my mouth.

She glared at me, and I looked away. “He made a deal with one of your mates. They came for me one night, and I saw the gold change hands as he bound me and then took me to the Indian camp.”

I was so focused on her and her story that I failed to notice the other men standing behind me. They must have heard the shot and came to investigate.

“Got a mess here,” Rhames said from behind them. “You two, get the body out of here. The others can drag the canoe back toward camp and clean up the beach.”

I realized he was doing my job. “Swift, take the watch,” I said, as I stood up and brushed the dirt from my clothes. Rory was still sitting, and I reached for her. “Come on. What’s done is done. Let’s go back to camp and sort this out.” She took my offered hand and rose.

“Did he work alone?” I asked her, as we stood in a circle. I was worried that if he had accomplices they might be on the river as well.

“Yes,” she muttered, finally meeting my eye.

The group relaxed with her statement. We had a watch on the river in case there were more, but it appeared, unless someone distant heard the gunshot, that we would remain unnoticed.

I went to the canoe and started piling the clothes and trinkets on the ground. Many Indians favored our style of clothes, and he probably did good business trading with them. As I pulled out the last coat, I saw the dull glint of metal hidden below it. I withdrew two pair of handcuffs, spotted with blood, and held them for the group to see. I looked over at Rory, but she was looking down. The men seemed to murmur approval at what she had done.

The hull was nearly empty when I discovered an oilskin folder. I opened the flap and removed several hand-drawn maps. One I recognized immediately as the area around Gasparilla Island, and the other looked unfamiliar. I only took a minute to realize it was a map of the area we sought to travel; the big lake labeled Mayaca. It showed the shores and a small river exiting from the south. I knew from the sun that we were traveling east and knew the southern outlet was the river of grass.

17

It’s a different feeling, having arrows fly over your head when you are used to steel weapons and inaccurate firearms. The projectiles whistled as they passed overhead and thumped when they struck in the dirt or a tree. We huddled in a small cove, our backs to the beach, using the overturned canoes as a barricade. Our group had been quiet and on alert since the incident with the trader yesterday. Aside from the circumstances surrounding his demise and the loss of the information unspoken from his lips, it was almost a blessing. A crew suspicious and looking for any unusual activity was easier to manage than a bored band of pirates.

We had combined all the treasure into four heavy chests, which allowed us to transport each one to a canoe. It was an awkward arrangement, but the only one we had. With the trader’s vessel, we now had four canoes, six men, and Rory. At dawn yesterday, we had pushed off the shores of the river after carrying the two empty chests to the depression where the boats were stashed. We then buried the trader in a shallow grave to avoid the telltale buzzards that would seek out his rotting flesh.

I had studied the map, memorized any distinguishing feature before we left. The problem was that Rory had killed the trader before he could disclose our location on the river. Another few minutes with the man might have saved us from our present situation, as I feared we had come up on the lake and the large village marked there sooner than we expected. Had I known this, we would have set up a camp further downriver and sent scouts to the river mouth.