Bill stared gloomily over the prairie-like monotony of the Glades. Smoke from the wreck had now entirely disappeared. He shuddered as his mind dwelt for an instant on the horrible fate of its gangster-passengers. Then his eye caught the deeper green of trees in the far distance.
“There seem to be a lot of islands in this big swamp,” he said. “Many of them inhabited, Osceola?”
“Not in this part of the Glades, Bill. My people are practically the sole inhabitants of this part of the world. And they live on islands, of course. But a long, long way from here.”
“Have you any plan?”
“Yes—I think so.”
“Well, spring it then, old top. You’re in command from now on. I know as little about this kind of thing as—”
“As I do about flying,” supplemented Osceola with a grin.
“Rather less, if you ask me. Let’s hear what you propose, Chief.”
The young Seminole did not reply at once. His bronzed forehead was corrugated in a frown. For several minutes he seemed lost in thought.
“There are just three things we’ve got to have,” he said suddenly. “And we’ve got to have them right away.”