“Here he comes!” the Indian called over his shoulder. “If we hustle, we’ll reach the shore soon after he lands.”
The white lad could hear nothing but the soft thud of his own footsteps and the gentle swish of the night wind in the treetops. Then, dimly at first, came the almost imperceptible drone of an engine far away. Within a very few minutes, the hum grew to a roar and the dark shape and tail-light of an airplane passed above their heads, flying low in the same direction they were traveling.
Osceola slowed down to a brisk walk. The ground sloped upward and rocky outcroppings made running impossible. Then he stopped altogether and waited for his companion.
“There we are!” He pointed forward and down.
Bill, who was not sorry for the breather, saw that they stood on the crest of the rise. Straight ahead the ground slanted sharply downward. Through breaks in the foliage, a wide stretch of moonlit water could be seen. Floating gently on the rippling cove near the shore lay the seaplane.
“You’re a wonder, Osceola! How were you able to draw a bead on Parker like that? I was sure we were in for at least a mile’s tramp along the shore before we’d get within hailing distance.”
“Nothing mysterious about it. That’s a cove off the main harbor you’re looking at. Parker told me of his rendezvous with you. I knew about this cove, and made it a bit more definite, that’s all. I’ll give him the signal and we’ll go on down.”
Two sharp barks of a fox came from Osceola’s throat. Immediately the idling hum of the airplane motor increased to a roar, awakening forest echoes and the amphibian commenced to move through the water toward the shore. Without a word the two friends scrambled down the rocky incline to meet it.
“Is that you, chief?” called Ezra Parker’s voice as they neared the water.
“Sure is. And I’ve got Bill Bolton with me.”