Holding the Dragonfly barely higher than the wires he must top as he took off, Don sent the craft toward the swamp.
As soon as they swept beyond the cottages that backed their small yards on the undrained swamp, Chick sent overside his first white-light parachute flare.
“It’s only for safety’s sake,” he muttered. “That young Indian, if he knows the swamp at all, has had time to get across to the Dart. But he might try to fool us, and stop to hide. Not likely—but we must be sure!”
He, and Garry, watched over the side, a little afraid that with the craft of his forefathers the red-skinned John might so cleverly crouch in the eel grass that they might not see him.
Don dropped the nose, however, allowing the Dragonfly barely to skim the low patches of water, and clumps of gently waving marsh vegetation.
As soon as they got beyond the vivid glow of the light slowly floating down toward the marsh, Don climbed the ship three hundred feet, came around, side-slipping to lose altitude as soon after the next flare was ignited and launched as he could.
By these tactics, continued for several minutes, the three chums satisfied themselves that the Indian was at least not visible; and if he remained hidden for that long they had him!
“By now,” Garry decided, as he strained his eyes overside, “the police must have gotten out here to surround the swamp. Mr. McLeod agreed to get the Chief to bring all his force, and to send out his private detectives, and get every waterman to help as guides.”
Don, climbing away from the final flare, gestured ahead. As he gave a glance backward he saw Garry’s signal of agreement. They must get within easier guarding distance of the Dart at the piling of the boathouse.
As quickly as he saw that the swamp was being surrounded, the Indian might resort to flying for escape. It was not known whether or not he could fly the Dart; but Don surmised that he could. He had managed the helicopter.