“Bound to have it. We are off the regular course to Shell Island now. Those lads aft probably won’t smell a rat until we get over the Everglades. Then they’ll want to know the reason why.”
“What can we do about it?”
“Stall ’em off somehow. I’ll think of some gag to tell them. When we get nearer Miami, I can wire the chief of police to bring some of his men and meet the plane at the airport.”
Osceola’s tone was not encouraging. “I wonder,” he said.
“Wonder what?”
“I’m afraid you’re too sanguine, Bill. I know this type of bully and scoundrel we’re up against. What is more—several of those men back there in the cabin know me—I bear the marks of their whips on my back.”
“Umm!” grunted Bill, his fingers drumming a tattoo on the wheel. “They’ll have to smash the cabin door to get out here. I shot the bolt when I came forward.”
“But that door won’t hold them if they once get going,” he argued. “They’ll probably bust through—stick a gun to your head and force you to fly them to the Island.”
“But they won’t shoot,” replied Bill with conviction. ”They’ll know that that would mean a crash and pretty certain death.“
“How do you figure that? If they don’t recognize me in this rig, they’ll think I can take over from you and fly this ship—after your lights have been put out. I tell you, Bill, we’re up against it, good and plenty!”