Bill Bolton Flying Midshipman Part 13

"If there's trouble aboard the amphibian-with the pa.s.sengers, I mean-well-I'm not coming back unless I can bring a posse."

"You'll crash her first?"

"Just that-agree?"

"Of course I agree to it. I'd a thousand times rather be dead than live the life of the last few weeks over again. If there's no other way out, crash her. That's a quick end-but to be brought back here means death by inches for both of us."

Sam appeared in the doorway, carrying a couple of suitcases. "I'se all ready, gennulmen, when yo'all is."

"That being the case," smiled Bill, "my vote goes for a speedy departure. Ready, Osceola?"

"Rearing to go." He picked up his gold braided cap and clapped it on his head. "It always sets me on edge to wait-for danger."

"So you rush into battle so as to get it over with, eh?" Bill laughed.

"Something like that. To tell the truth, I think we're both just a bit beyond ourselves at present. Let's get out of here." He walked to the front door and flung it open.

Bill caught up his cap and followed Osceola, with Sam at his heels.

Sun from the cloudless sky poured down on the unlovely prospect before them in a deluge of steaming, tropical heat. The compound, except for a mangy cur or two and a remarkably thin cat, was deserted. The members of Martinengo's company who were not driving his slaves in the swamp preferred the shade afforded by their quarters rather than this blistering sunlight. Presently the little party came to the closed gates of the stockade.

A man shambled out of the guardhouse with a huge key in his hand.

"Youse high-flyers certainly have the life," he grumbled and rattled the padlock that held the gates. "Nuthin' ter do but take nice breezy rides and have n.i.g.g.e.rs to wait on you. And me sweatin' blood ter let you in and out of this here stockade!"

He pushed open the heavy doors just far enough for one man to pa.s.s through at a time, stood aside and scowled at them.

"So much obliged, Oswald, old chap," beamed Bill. "Sorry I've got nothing smaller than a demi-grand. Sam, if the worthy turn-key insists on a tip, hand him a cake of soap. He'll smell the sweeter for it."

He pa.s.sed out of the stockade behind Osceola, with Sam grinning from ear to ear, bringing up the rear. Through the closing gates came a torrent of sizzling invective.

"Kind of risky, wasn't it, Bill?" The Seminole waited for his white friend, then paced beside him down the winding corduroy road.

Bill grinned. "Maybe," he admitted. "But he seemed to expect an exchange of courtesies. He's used to getting an earful from the pilots, I'll bet.

And returning it with interest, for that matter. Well, here we are at the dock-and there's the old bus waiting for us!"

"And n.o.body around yet but our own sweet selves!" exulted his friend.

"But I'm a blus.h.i.+ng rose today when it comes to showing my lovely phiz.

Me for a helmet and goggles as soon as possible. Let's get aboard."

They slid back the door to the cabin and pa.s.sed inside. The long apartment was equipped with comfortable pa.s.senger seats, five on each side of the narrow central aisle. Big observation windows ran the length of the cabin, and a door at the rear led direct to the prison hold in which Bill had made the trip from Sh.e.l.l Island. Investigation proved that the wooden bars of the cells had been removed and piled at the farther end. Neatly stacked in bins arranged for the purpose were a goodly number of small canvas sacks. Each bag was padlocked.

Bill lifted one of the sacks. "Gold!" he cried. "Nothing else could be so heavy. The Martinengos certainly are making a fortune out of these diggings if this is a sample s.h.i.+pment!"

"They'll not get a chance to lay their filthy paws on that lot if I can help it," said Osceola grimly. "Let's go up front. I haven't seen a hole a mouse could hide in so far, much less Sam. Perhaps that door with the window in it, at the other end of the pa.s.senger cabin will solve the problem."

"I can tell you now that it opens into the pilot's c.o.c.kpit." Bill started forward.

Upon reaching it, he slid open the door to find himself in a roomy c.o.c.kpit, fitted with two pilots' seats and complete dual control of the wheel and column type. A three piece gla.s.s winds.h.i.+eld gave such protection that Bill knew goggles would not be necessary under normal flying conditions.

"It's a swell boat," he remarked. "Luxurious devils, these slave drivers."

Osceola nodded. "Looks pretty nice to me. Certainly is a big s.h.i.+p. Do you know anything about her? I mean to say, can you fly this kind of an airplane?"

Bill smiled good humoredly at the Seminole's worried expression. "This bus is a tailor-made job-no stock model was ever built like this. But I can fly her all right, once I've seen that her tanks are full and tested her three engines. The man who a.s.sembled this s.h.i.+p knew what he was doing. There's nothing better for commercial work than the 200 horsepower, air-cooled radial engines she's equipped with."

"I'll take your word for it, old man. But why not get busy and take off right now? If there are any pa.s.sengers, they're likely to spot us for what we are. I'm not eager to s.h.i.+rk a fight, you know, but things are sure to become hectic when they find out we're not bound for Sh.e.l.l Island."

"True," said Bill. "But I reckon we've got to go through with it. Your idea's a good one, Osceola, but it just won't work. I thought of the same thing on the way down here. Cast your eye yonder, old sport.

Martinengo's minions are taking no chances with pilots pulling anything phoney on their own hook!"

Both Osceola and old Sam glanced in the direction indicated by Bill. On a broad mound of earth, half way up the incline toward the stockade, the ugly nose of a field gun could be plainly seen, Beside the gun stood a sentry.

"That gun would blow this bus to kingdom come if I 'got busy'-as you call it. I'm going to give the s.h.i.+p a looking-over now, but that's all, till I get word to shove off."

Osceola's face was a study in chagrin and gloom.

"You're right, of course, Bill. I'd forgotten about that gun. Tell me-what are we going to do with Sam?"

"Oh, he can stay in this c.o.c.kpit. Crawl in behind the pilot's seat, Sam.

Lie down on the deck, and curl up so your legs don't show. The part.i.tion will screen you from the pa.s.sengers. Better hop in there now-there's no telling when they'll be along."

"Ya.s.suh, boss, Ise a-gwine dar now. I ain't takin' no chances."

Sam wriggled into his hideaway and Bill turned to Osceola.

"Slip into that jumper and put on your helmet," he suggested. "It looks no end professional. There's nothing for you to do but sit in that seat.

You can't very well put down your goggles until just before the take off. So if anyone shows curiosity, pretend to be fixing something on the instrument board. You'll find a screwdriver in the locker, I guess. That ought to help the picture fifty percent at least," he grinned, then went on-"But if you love your life, don't unscrew or tighten anything! There are some men coming down the road now. I've got an inspection to make and then-I've got to get out on the dock and meet them."

"Can't you stick around here, get the motors started or something?"

Osceola's voice was m.u.f.fled by the jumper he was pulling over his head.

"I'd like to," Bill a.s.sured him. "But it would look queer and somebody would be sure to smell a rat. There'll be a guy down here to give me orders, all right. From what we know, the pilots of this outfit keep pretty much to themselves. Here's hoping I don't run into any of their pals."

"I've got my gun handy, and you're wearing one," said Osceola pointedly, as he adjusted the chinstrap of his helmet. "If it comes to a pinch, we'll shoot it out-field gun or no field gun."

"That's the way to talk!"

Bill slapped his friend's shoulder and went into the cabin.

CHAPTER XI-WHAT HAPPENED IN THE AIR

Then there came the sound of tramping on the wooden planks of the dock.

Bill took a deep breath and stepped out of the cabin into the bright suns.h.i.+ne. He counted seven-seven men approaching him.