The two stepped onto a metal grating. A steel ladder led down to the floor of the engine room ten feet below.
“You wait here while I have a looksee,” suggested Bill, and he ran lightly down the ladder.
From his stand on the grating, Osceola watched him make a hurried inspection of the main engines. “Diesels,” he called up, “they are certainly big ones—but there’s not a blooming thing wrong so far as I can see.”
He stayed below for about ten minutes, then joined Osceola above. “The machinery’s all in running order,” he began.
The young Indian suddenly raised a hand to his lips, cutting Bill short. He tiptoed across the grating and into the passage, and presently beckoned Bill forward, cautioning silence.
“There’s somebody on deck!” he whispered. “He walked across that passage one flight up just now, and went on deck over on the side by the captain’s cabin.”
“You certainly have a pair of ears,” murmured Bill. “I never caught a sound. Are you sure it wasn’t a cat or a dog that got left behind?”
“Dog nothing! My ancestry and early upbringing have been more or less of a hindrance in this white man’s country—but when it comes to distinguishing sounds, Bill, I’m one hundred per cent. Those were the footsteps of a human being. He knows we are down here, whoever he is—and he doesn’t want us to know he’s aboard, or he’d have come into the open long before this.”
“Well, let’s get after him then, and find out why he’s hiding.”
“Right. But let me go first. I’ve had more experience in tracking than you. Better take off your shoes. This is a ticklish business and it’s more than likely he’s armed.”