Roger lay hugging the ground, his finger on the rifle trigger, peering through the dancing heat waves and straining his ears for the crack of shots in reply. He could not see Flower Prairie from his post, but Blease could; and he knew that the squatter was on the alert, ready to throw in aid of Higgins. He kept his own position because all three had agreed that Garman's gang would attack from several directions. If a single shot answered Higgins the latter could deal with his adversary; if it was a volley Roger and Blease would rush to his assistance.

The tense, breathless seconds passed; they became minutes, but no second shot shattered the sultry silence. Roger relinquished his rifle and picked up his glasses. Again he scanned the muck land and its boundaries without result. Presently he saw Blease emerge from the elderberry jungle. The squatter stood staring toward Flower Prairie where the shot had been fired. Then with a movement of relieved tension he threw his rifle over a shoulder and started to walk easily in the direction toward which he had gazed.

Roger followed him on the run. When he came to the little spring lake in the prairie he saw Blease squatting on his heels calmly regarding Higgins who, at the lakeside, was carefully washing the bloody shoulder of the Seminole, Willy High Pockets.

"Darn it all, Willy, why didn't you sing out, why didn't you sing out?" the engineer chattered in deep self-reproach. "Holy smoked fish! I wouldn't have had this happen for a farm; you know that, Willy. Hold steady; that's the stuff. Hell, Willy, I'll kick myself for the rest of my natural!"

"'Twon't hurt him none; a little bleeding's good in this weather," drawled Blease.

"You shoot ojus quick," said the Indian.

"I had to, Willy; I had to," protested Higgins. "Couldn't make you out, and I couldn't risk any one getting the drop on me."

"Shoot first; look who is by'm by. Holowaugus. No good."

"I took him for one of Garman's gang," explained Higgins to Payne. "I couldn't see for the brush."

"Did purty well, consid'ring that," ventured Blease.

"Esoka—Bonus-che why-o-me," said Willy.

"What?"

"Why-o-me—me want some."

"Is that what you came for?" demanded Roger.

The Indian shook his head.

"Chobee eestee hotkee (big white man) send me."

"For whiskey?"

"No. Chobee eestee hotkee come soon himself. He say I go here. I come. Him shoot. Esoka—bonus—chee why-o-me."

"No. No whiskey," said Roger. "Who is this big white man, Willy?"

"Him come ojus soon. Etalitke. (Talk much) Friend you. Gimme tobacco."

Later, while Higgins and Roger were sewing up the wound in Willy's shoulder, Blease suddenly uttered a warning whistle.

"Some one coming—walking heavy—through the saw grass."

"No shoot first, look by'm by!" protested Willy. As the intruder broke out of the saw grass into plain sight he said: "Him chobee eestee hotkee."

The visitor was bearded and ragged from dwelling in the swamp, but he strode up to the camp with a confident, even aggressive step, such as no true swamp denizen would use; and presently, beneath the beard, the matted hair and ragged clothes Roger recognized Davis, the man whom they had helped to escape from the Cormorant that first day on the river. Davis' attention was concentrated upon Willy's wound.

"What?" he said hopefully. "Are there still some of them round?"

When the accident had been explained he turned to Roger.

"The United States Government missed by two hours last night the biggest round-up of egret shooters ever made. Garman tried a gang of pugs first, and you cleaned them out. Then he yanked his egret shooters out of the rookery and put them on the job. It was the first time in two years' work that I'd known 'em to be in a bunch. I got fifty government men assembled at Citrus Grove for a round-up; but the crooks down here got word of it somehow and streaked it into the cypress swamp. We've got the rookery, got twenty good men hidden there; they'll never shoot there again; and the rest of the men are after the gang in the cypress swamp. We lost out last night; but I think Garman's egret graft is broken up for good."

"Garman? Is he in that, too?"

Davis smiled.

"Payne, do you know anything round here that Garman isn't in? He's boss of the egret graft down here."

"Have you got evidence of that?"

"I'll say we have. A photograph of him trying out the gas gun he invented on a bunch of nests."

"Then why don't you get him if he's the head of the gang—first of all?"

Davis' lips came together in a bitter line.

"Did you ever hear of a big man—one of the really big ones of the country—being got for anything? No; the other big men, the whole gang of them up in Washington, won't let it be done. They can't afford to, as a matter of self-protection."

"Great Scott! Garman isn't so big that the Government is afraid of him?"

"How much do you know about Garman, Payne?"

"Not much, I admit."

"I'll give you his number: He has among a lot of other things, a home in Washington, an office in Jacksonville and the house here and the Egret. When he is at home in Washington, some of the most powerful statesmen in this great nation regularly infest his house to prove what truly great poker players they are. No statesmen ever lost any money there, for only those whom Garman can use and who will listen to business reason are invited. No statesman accepts a vulgar bribe, but several who attend Garman's stags win heavily and consistently at poker.

"At Jacksonville, in his suite of offices, there is one door without a name on it, and that is Mr. Garman's private office.

"On his boat, the Egret, he has as his guests during the tourist season some of the most prominent people of the country.

"When the season is over, or before it is on, he has no guests down here. That is his vacation time, the time when Garman plays.

"There are more criminal refugees in the wilds of this swamp country than anywhere else in this land. There is no man in Garman's employ, white, black or red, who hasn't got a price on his head somewhere. There are bandits from Cuba, crooks from large cities, negroes escaped from chain gangs, men of unspeakable crimes, the most vicious men of mixed blood ever gathered together since the old pirate days; and these are Garman's playfellows of his vacation time. He is absolutely their boss.

"Why does he do it? Because there's money in it. How? There!" Davis reached into his grub bag and threw on the ground the limp, snow-white corpse of a beautiful egret. "That's one of the side issues. There's money in it. Garman saw the rookeries, and couldn't keep his hands off them. These snow-white birds, feeding young ones in the nest, are worth money. Garman's gang gets a living, food, liquor and immunity out of the slaughter, an average probably of one dollar a bird. Garman gets the rest. And his boat Egret in his harvest time is nothing but a damn slaughter house, the hold packed with the skins of thousands of murdered birds."

"But I thought the Government had taken steps to stop the slaughter.
Aren't there guards about the rookeries?"

"There are. Who do you suppose got them their jobs? Garman—in Washington. How do you suppose they guard? They guard so carefully that nobody can get into the rookeries, not a soul except Garman's gang. Officially the egret shooting is stopped. Actually it is an industry and is in Garman's hands.

"But there are good, progressive men down here—men who really wish to develop the country on a sound, honest basis," said Payne. "Why, don't they get after this rotten business?"

"Few of them know anything about it. Garman has the business monopolized; only a few shooters, those absolutely under his control, and the birds spirited away in the Egret. All done so efficiently that few people believe there is any shooting done. Formerly the egrets were to be counted by millions, they were uncountable. They are good breeders. But since their shooting has been 'stopped' officially there hasn't been any noticeable increase in their numbers, which certainly would have been the case if the shooting actually had been done away with.

"Do you know why Garman wants to bust you? Principally because your settling here and draining and developing that piece of drowned land would be the opening wedge in the settlement of the district. You've shown what can be done with this land. People would come flocking in, farmers, real settlers, not the fugitives nor the crooked real-estate men who so far have had a monopoly down here. The outlaws would have to go. Egret shooting would have stop. Garman couldn't play king here any longer. That's why he's out to bust you, Payne. Keep your eyes skinned. He'll try to smash you in a hurry now."

"You are not going to try to get him then?" asked Roger slowly.

"No use. We'll break up his gang and stop the egret shooting, but
Garman——"

Davis shrugged his shoulders.

"Garman is too big!" said Roger. "He will still be cock-o'-the-walk round here. Is that it?"

"Well, he won't have his gang," replied the detective.

"But he will still be—Garman."

"Well—you know what he is."

Roger nodded.

"He'll want to be boss of the district—— He'll try to hog your land."

"Hog is a good word there," ruminated Roger. But he was not thinking about his land.

The arrival of Davis had in no way affected the situation as Roger had suddenly seen it just before Higgins' shot had attracted his attention.

Garman had discovered that Annette was not at Payne's camp. Otherwise he would have returned to get her. And this discovery meant that he knew of her whereabouts and was taking steps to pursue her, to get her into his power again. Perhaps he had even succeeded in doing so.

Roger slipped away from camp while supper was being prepared, and returned to the dugout which he had left in the big ditch near the river. Precious time had been lost through the arrival of Davis. Garman, for the nonce a jungle beast running wild with the reek of rage and lust about him, had had hours of opportunity to wreak his revenge.

Roger leaped into the dugout and paddled down the river toward Garman's house. The place seemed dead and deserted as he stepped onto the dock, and his heart sank with dismay. The Egret was gone.