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
sunshine. He counted seven—seven men approaching him.
“Morning,” he greeted affably as the leaders drew near. “All
passengers?”
“All but me—fer the island,” announced the man in advance of the rest, a
cadaverous person with a Vermont twang in his voice. “I got too much to
do round here to go joy ridin’. Guess I ain’t seen you before. Funny,
but I thought Thompson piloted the plane up last night.”
“Not this plane, Mr.—?”
“Weed’s my name, youngster. Who be ye anyway?”
Bill smiled at the matter-of-fact Mr. Weed. “First pilot of this
amphibian,” he answered calmly.
Several of the other men chuckled. “That’s one fer ye,” exploded one,
“what’s his moniker matter, so’s he can fly the plane?”
“That’s my business,” growled the Vermonter. “Shut yer face, Pete!
You’re too goldarned mouthy!”
“Who sez so?” Pete scowled at him and laid a hand on the revolver he
carried in a holster under his left arm. “Not you, you nosey hayseed—cut
yer cackle and let’s get goin’. I’m fed up to the eyes with you and this
stinkin’ swamp.”
He beckoned to the others to follow and the party filed aboard the
amphibian.
Weed splashed the dock with tobacco juice. “Guess you must be one of
them new aviators the boss has hired,” he observed in his nasal twang.
“I guess you’re right,” said Bill. “Made my first trip yesterday. Any
orders?”
“Nope—no orders. You’ve got a bunch of gold aboard—be careful of it,
that’s all. What’s become of Thompson? He wasn’t so goldarned stuckup as
most of you fellers.”
“Search me—I’m not wet nurse to every bum pilot Martinengo hires,” Bill
shot back carelessly. “If that’s all, I reckon I’ll say bye-bye and
shove off. The big boss doesn’t pay me to argue with slave drivers.”
“Is that so?” snapped Weed. “Well, let me tell you, young feller, that
I’m boss of this camp. What I say here _goes!_”
“Good!” said Bill. “That’s just what I’m going to do now!”
He cast off the lines that moored the plane to the dock. Then he sprang
aboard and slid the cabin door shut and locked it amid a torrent of
abuse from the camp boss.
Without a word to the grinning men seated in the cabin, he went forward
and into the pilot’s cockpit shutting this door after him as well. With
a wink at Osceola he slipped into his seat behind the wheel and after
giving the plane’s three engines a short test, he let in his clutch.
The big ship, which had been slowly drifting away from the dock and the
irate Mr. Weed, began to gather headway. Bill taxied her round in a wide
half circle until he got her head into the light wind with a long
stretch of open lagoon ahead. A slight widening of the throttle sent the
big bus hurtling down the straight-away. Then Bill jerked her onto the
step and a moment or two later she was in the air.
Bill climbed until the altimeter on the instrument board marked four
thousand feet. Then he leveled off and after a slight bank to port,
headed the big amphibian due east. Flying conditions were excellent. A
light wind blew out of the southeast, but the air was smooth, without a
ripple. A cloudless sky of light blue dipped to a sharply defined
horizon; and near the rim of the inverted bowl the pale green of the
Everglades contrasted with the darker foliage of the cypress swamps.
Here and there and everywhere, lakes, lagoons and wandering streams
sparkled and danced in the sun glare like uncut brilliants on a bed of
green velvet.
With his free hand, Bill unhooked a headphone set from the side of his
seat and adjusted it. At the same time he motioned Osceola to don the
set at the other end of the cord.
“So far, so good,” he spoke into the transmitter which hung on his
chest. “I don’t think we’ll have trouble with our passengers for a while
yet, anyway. They seem to have no suspicion but what we are Martinengo’s
pilots.”
“But you do expect trouble?”
“Bound to have it. We are off the regular course to Shell Island now.
Those lads aft probably won’t smell a rat until we get over the
Everglades. Then they’ll want to know the reason why.”
“What can we do about it?”
“Stall ’em off somehow. I’ll think of some gag to tell them. When we get
nearer Miami, I can wire the chief of police to bring some of his men
and meet the plane at the airport.”
Osceola’s tone was not encouraging. “I wonder,” he said.
“Wonder what?”
“I’m afraid you’re too sanguine, Bill. I know this type of bully and
scoundrel we’re up against. What is more—several of those men back there
in the cabin know me—I bear the marks of their whips on my back.”
“Umm!” grunted Bill, his fingers drumming a tattoo on the wheel.
“They’ll have to smash the cabin door to get out here. I shot the bolt
when I came forward.”
“But that door won’t hold them if they once get going,” he argued.
“They’ll probably bust through—stick a gun to your head and force you to
fly them to the Island.”
“But they won’t shoot,” replied Bill with conviction. ”They’ll know that
that would mean a crash and pretty certain death.“
“How do you figure that? If they don’t recognize me in this rig, they’ll
think I can take over from you and fly this ship—after your lights have
been put out. I tell you, Bill, we’re up against it, good and plenty!”
“I reckon you’re right,” sighed Bill, and was silent.
Presently he spoke again. “A captain should stay with his ship to the
last,” he murmured, as if giving vent to his secret thoughts. “But there
are exceptions to every rule.”
“What are you saying?” Osceola was puzzled.
Bill hesitated for a moment, then went on with sudden energy.
“Open the locker under this seat. There are three or four parachutes
stowed away there. I saw them when I first came aboard. Pull out three
of them—one for each of us. When you and Sam have got into yours, I’ll
put on mine.”
“How are you going to fly the plane and do that, too?”
“Get yours on and I’ll show you.”
Osceola brought forth two of the parachutes and passed one over the seat
to Sam. A motion or two from Bill gave them an idea of how to adjust the
harness, and presently Osceola brought out the one for Bill. That young
gentleman laid it on his wheel and began to issue further instructions.
“Place your feet on your rudder pedals, Osceola, and keep her nose
pointed just as she is. That’s right. Now take hold of your wheel.
No—don’t clamp onto it that way. Hold it lightly—that’s better. This
wooden yoke to which your wheel and mine are attached controls the
elevators, those horizontal planes on either side of the rudder—Push
your wheel forward and with it the yoke—your plane flies downward. Pull
back your wheel and she flies upward.”
“I didn’t expect to be given flight instruction today—”
Bill laughed. “That isn’t the half of it, boy. I’m telling you this much
just so you can guide the ship while I put on my parachute. But here’s
some more dope. These wheels are attached by wire cables to the
ailerons, those hinged surfaces at the end of each wing. Their function,
as they say in the Air Service, is primarily to impress a rolling
movement to the airplane; just as the elevators are to impress a
pitching movement. You see, in flying a plane, one not only has to steer
it and balance it for the roll to either side like riding a bicycle,—the
plane has to be balanced for the pitch fore and aft as well.”
Osceola nodded his understanding. “I get you. Balance for the roll
sideways by turning this wheel in the opposite direction from which
she’s tipping.”
“Right-o!”
“To raise the nose, I pull back the wheel; to lower it, I push it
forward.”
“Go to the top of the class,” grinned his friend. “You’re letter
perfect, at least.”
“Good enough. But those gauges on the instrument board?”
“You can keep half an eye on the inclinometer and fore-and-aft level if
you want to; but I always think it is better to learn by the feel of the
plane.”
“I’ll do my best,” asserted Osceola, intent now on what was before him.
“Good fella! Some day I’ll start giving you real flight instruction.
This is just a makeshift. Oh, I forgot—this plane is a bit noseheavy.
Don’t let it worry you. Keep pulling back on your wheel as she dips. All
ready to take over?”
“—Ready’s brother!”
“Okay. She’s yours. Fly her!”
With an eye on his assistant, Bill gave up the controls and busied
himself with the parachute. That job completed he made sure the release
cord was in working order and spoke to Osceola.
“You’re doing fine. I’ll take her back now. There’s something else I
want to say. We’ll be over the Everglades in a few minutes. And those
guys in the cabin will be getting nervous. When the trouble comes, it
will come fast. If the ship gets out of control—don’t stay with it—jump!
And don’t forget to pull the release cord on your parachute. Pass the
word to Sam and tell him to stand up. And, by the way, if I should wave
a hand above my head, jump anyway—don’t wait for me—get that?”
“You bet.”
Osceola pulled a pencil and small pad from the pocket of his jumper. He
wrote a few lines and passed the slip of paper to Sam.
“Just one thing more and then we’re set,” added Bill into the
transmitter on his chest. “Have your gun handy—and don’t be afraid to
use it. Good luck, old skate.”
“Good luck, Bill.”
“Get rid of your phone set now. We won’t need it for the present. The
cord might get tangled in things if there’s a rough-house.”
He stripped his own headgear and turned his full attention to guiding
the amphibian.
They were past the Big Cypress now, and far below lay the Everglades.
This western edge of the great lake was dotted with uncounted islands,
some large, some small, and all covered with a luxuriant forest growth.
High sawgrass hid the water, save in numerous little channels wandering
in a network, sometimes coming to a blank end, sometimes broadening into
clear spaces abloom with pond lilies. This flat, rather monotonous
landscape spread on and out as far as the eye could see.
Bill had decided that it would be well to head farther into the north,
when he felt the vibration of a sudden jar. His head snapped round as
the cabin door crashed open and two men sprang into the cockpit. Both
held revolvers and behind them crowded the other passengers.
Instinctively he pushed his wheel forward, then pulled it sharply toward
him. The plane nosed over and with increased momentum from the dip it
shot upward at a precipitous angle. The result so far as her passengers
were concerned was much as though they had been standing on the broad
back of a steady circus horse who suddenly metamorphosed into an
outlawed bronco—and bucked! Losing their balance as the amphibian nosed
over, the gangsters were hurled backwards by the second maneuver and
landed in a sprawling heap by the door, and along the cabin aisle.
A bullet crashed into the instrument board. It had missed Bill’s head by
the fraction of an inch. And although he knew that the duration of his
life would probably be a matter of seconds, he stuck to his post.
Forward went his wheel again, the plane leveled off and with a glance at
the calm-eyed Indian beside him, he held up his right hand.