“What we’ve seen already is worth the trip,” added Tom enthusiastically.
Old Billy Bowlegs must have had a poor sense of location. Twelve minutes later, the Anclote, soaring not over three hundred feet above the gray and black swamp, passed, without a sign to indicate it, a deep, clean-cut opening in the trees. It was almost like a well. At the bottom of it, on a treeless island, seven or eight ruined sheds caught the quick eyes of the young aviators. There was only time to note this, to detect human beings here and there, and to see that a wide, black canal surrounded the habited retreat, and the darting aeroplane closed the view.
“There—” began Tom, striving to turn for another look.
“Here—” exclaimed Bob, in turn.
Within a half mile of the tree encircled swamp island, rose a treeless mound. Bob intuitively slowed down the airship with a circling swing. As the peculiar elevation swept under the machine, it could be seen that the top of it was green with corn and beds of vegetables.
“That’s their garden,” shouted Tom. “There must be a way to get to it. There is—see the canal?”
Both boys instantly made out two Indians just landing from a canoe or pirogue in the swamp at the foot of the hill. Behind them, a dark colored creek or canal disappeared within the mossy oaks. The tilted aeroplane had come about in her course and was circling over the flat-topped hill like a lazy bird.
“We can’t land there,” announced Bob. “The ground is too soft to give us a starting run.”
“We’ve got to,” replied Tom, with determination. “It’s no good just seen’ it. I want to know. I’ve got to know,” he added, “if I’m goin’ to write about it.”
Bob knit his brows. “We can’t stop,” he repeated. Then he hesitated. “Are you afraid to meet those people alone?”