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intrigued by newspaper and magazine stories. Slaves escaped their masters to run south, to join with the Indian bands there. For decades now Creeks and other Indians had found themselves pushed southward by the encroachment of the white man. They had joined with tribes all but extinct. Newly immigrated Creeks, Muskogee-speaking Seminoles, Hitichi-speaking Mikasukis, were all grouped together by the white man as Seminoles, Cimmarons, renegades, runaways.
    Treaty after treaty had been signed with them. Wars had raged. Treaties had been broken. And finally absolute violence had erupted with a December slaughter now known as the Dade Massacre, and since then the situation had only worsened. Teela read, and she listened to the army men, and she had no choice but toknow her stepfather’s opinions. The Seminoles, once quite loosely banded, had a hero now, a war chief or
mico
, a leader of extraordinary capabilities, a man called Osceola. Under his leadership the Indians had learned to fight and run, to create death and havoc and damage, and disappear into the wildness of their swamps. Amazingly—since the general white consensus had been that a few companies of good regular army men should be able to quell the disturbances of a handful of savages—the Seminoles had pitched the country into a dreadful war. Americans were expansionists. They wanted land, and they didn’t care if the Indians were on it or not. Reservations in the western section of the country would do for the native people, so the Seminoles were ordered to emigrate.
    Some had indeed been transported west.
    Many more had dug in, moving more swiftly than the wind, more silently than the whisper of a coming twilight. White settlers—men, women, and children—had been horribly slain and mutilated.
    Entire Indian villages had been decimated.
    But still they fought on. With an uncanny ability. And the trained and civilized army sent by the United States government was all but helpless against the tactics of the natives.
    Only Michael Warren would insist that a stepdaughter be brought into such wickedly dangerous circumstances, Teela thought. But then, Michael Warren assuredly believed that she should either learn to follow his dictates, or else deserve to die a wretched death at the hands of savages. Besides, according to Warren, they were close to a truce at the moment. March had brought another treaty.
    The problem was, like all other agreements between the whites and the Indians, this one seemed to be failing.
    Soldiers were starting to raid villages again.
    Seminoles were attacking white farms and plantations. The war continued even as Teela traveled toward the wild frontier of the peninsula. The long way, all aroundthe length of the east coast down the Atlantic and up the west coast within the Gulf of Mexico, because Warren would most probably be assigned to Fort Brooke, although it seemed that the sporadic fighting was now taking place just about everywhere.
    Teela didn’t care. She despised Michael Warren, but she was anxious to see the frontier territory of Florida, the exotic birds she’d read so very much about, the sunsets … she wasn’t even afraid of the mosquitoes, or the hardships of a military fort.
    While Lilly had lived, Teela had strived to be everything her mother had expected her daughter to be. She had entertained her mother’s friends—and even Michael’s associates—with all the grace and hospitality taught her by Lilly’s gentle hand. She had played the spinet and sung ballads for their guests, gone to teas and balls and dances, flirted and charmed to the exact expectations of her society. She had never missed church; she had followed Lilly constantly to bring aid to the needy and ill. She resented none of these things—in fact, she had enjoyed nursing, and would have loved to have studied medicine.
    But Lilly was gone now. And there was no pretense between her and Michael. She loved Charleston, but not beneath her stepfather’s