“Stay down,” whispered the sheriff. “Maybe they’ll miss us. We don’t want trouble now.”
Before the men could leave the shelter of the house, the low drone of an incoming plane could be heard. Bob turned toward the east. A red and green light, marking the wing tips of a plane, were visible. The craft was low and evidently coming in fast.
Even above the noise of the plane, they could hear a shouted command near the old house, and one of the men who had stepped outside turned on a flash light and raced toward the pier, some distance away. He was followed, at a slower pace by the second man.
“That’s Hamsa, I’m sure,” said Bob.
“Let’s get inside and see if anyone is there,” said Sheriff McCurdy and they moved around so that the house was between them and the pier.
Landing lights of the plane blinked on as it circled over them and once the powerful beams swept down on the clearing, but Bob and the Sheriff, anticipating that, had dropped to the ground behind an old log and were safe, for the moment, from discovery.
“Must be either a seaplane or an amphibian,” said Bob as the plane prepared to alight on the water.
“Get inside,” urged the sheriff, who would feel better when he had some shelter.
The two men on the pier were concentrating their attention on the plane swinging over the lagoon and the hound which had sounded the alarm was beside them, so it was a comparatively simple matter for Bob to jump across the threshold.
Inside the door, where only an oil lamp cast faint illumination, he crouched with his rifle in his hands, accustoming his eyes to the light. There was, apparently, no one in the room.