I’m sorry Carl was not so well.  Now that Dad is kinder to the little chap, we could have left him at St. Augustine if he’d been well enough to make the trip.  It bothers me that you’re not along.  It’s my first time without you, and you’re a better shot than Grant and more dependable in mood.  I can’t make out what’s come over him of late.  He’s so moody and reckless that the Indians think he’s a devil.  He’s more prone to wild whims than ever.  We’ve shot wild turkey and bear but I like the ’gator sport the best.

There’s a curious white man here who’s lived a good part of his life with the tribe.  He’s a Spaniard, a dark-skinned, bitter, morose sort of chap—­really a Minorcan—­whose Indian wife is dead.  He has a daughter, a girl of twenty or so whom the Seminoles call Nan-ces-o-wee.  He calls her simply Nanca.  She speaks Spanish fluently.  The morose old Spaniard has taught her a fund of curious things.  Her heavy hair, black as a storm-cloud, falls to her knees.  Grant says her wonderful eyes remind him somehow of midnight water.  Her eyebrows have the expressive arch of the Seminole.  Her color is dark and very rich, but it’s more the coloring of the Spanish father than the Seminole mother.  Altogether, she’s more Spanish than Indian, I take it, though she’s a tantalizing combination of each in instinct.  Her grace is wild and Indian—­and she walks lightly and softly like a doe.  Ann, her face haunts me.

Young as she is, this Nanca of whom I have written so much to you, has, they tell me, had a most romantic history.  With her beauty it was of course, inevitable.  Men are fools.  At eighteen, urged into proud revolt against her Seminole suitors by her father, who for all his singular way of life can not forget his white heritage, she married a young foreigner who came into the Glades hunting.  He seems to have been utterly without ties and decided to live with the Indians in the manner of the Spaniard.  A year or so later, a young artist imitator of Catlin’s made his way to the Seminole village with a guide.  He had been traveling about among the Indians of the reservations painting Indian types, and had heard of this old turbaned tribe buried in the Everglades.  Nanca’s beauty must have driven him quite mad, I think.  At any rate he wooed and won.  Nanca begged the young foreigner to divorce her, which he did.  The Seminole divorce custom is lenient when the marriage is childless.  The artist, I fancy, was merely a wild, reckless, inconstant sort of chap who did not regard the simple Seminole marriage tie as binding.  After the birth of his daughter, a tiny little elf whom Nanca has named “Red-winged Blackbird,” he tried to run away, and the Indians killed him.

Red-winged Blackbird!  Keela then was the child of the artist!