The young pilot, red of face, skilful of control, flew along, and as they came almost on a level with the flare, burning still, he turned his head for a glower of triumph toward his victims.
Don, his eyes turned that way to watch the wing separation, saw a look of amazement change the triumphant scowl.
The Indian pilot put out and waved an arm—he pointed toward the airport.
Don nodded, banked, submissively, so astonished and mystified that he could not further plan. Why had that coppery face shown astonishment?
It was a puzzle added to many problems.
With the other craft riding hard, above them, circling swiftly, the captors, now captives, obeyed the signal already given.
Over the edges of the swamps, searchers’ parties showed lights as they realized that the chase had ended, as they supposed. To them it appeared that a ship was being compelled by a skilful adversary to go back. That was true—but it was the pursuing ship that had capitulated.
Hardly had Don run out of speed, and, with Garry and Chick, leaped out to clear the runway, before the lighter Dart came home.
“For the sake of all that’s mysterious!” called Don as the Indian cut his ignition. “We thought you were trying to escape. What made you turn on us?”
“I thought you were the pilot I’m after—and I meant to get the man who stole our treasure chart!” Again the chums were stupefied.