Bill smiled good humoredly at the Seminole’s worried expression. “This bus is a tailor-made job—no stock model was ever built like this. But I can fly her all right, once I’ve seen that her tanks are full and tested her three engines. The man who assembled this ship knew what he was doing. There’s nothing better for commercial work than the 200 horsepower, air-cooled radial engines she’s equipped with.”
“I’ll take your word for it, old man. But why not get busy and take off right now? If there are any passengers, they’re likely to spot us for what we are. I’m not eager to shirk a fight, you know, but things are sure to become hectic when they find out we’re not bound for Shell Island.”
“True,” said Bill. “But I reckon we’ve got to go through with it. Your idea’s a good one, Osceola, but it just won’t work. I thought of the same thing on the way down here. Cast your eye yonder, old sport. Martinengo’s minions are taking no chances with pilots pulling anything phoney on their own hook!”
Both Osceola and old Sam glanced in the direction indicated by Bill. On a broad mound of earth, half way up the incline toward the stockade, the ugly nose of a field gun could be plainly seen, Beside the gun stood a sentry.
“That gun would blow this bus to kingdom come if I ‘got busy’—as you call it. I’m going to give the ship a looking-over now, but that’s all, till I get word to shove off.”
Osceola’s face was a study in chagrin and gloom.
“You’re right, of course, Bill. I’d forgotten about that gun. Tell me—what are we going to do with Sam?”
“Oh, he can stay in this cockpit. Crawl in behind the pilot’s seat, Sam. Lie down on the deck, and curl up so your legs don’t show. The partition will screen you from the passengers. Better hop in there now—there’s no telling when they’ll be along.”
“Yassuh, boss, Ise a-gwine dar now. I ain’t takin’ no chances.”
Sam wriggled into his hideaway and Bill turned to Osceola.