"And I'm with you on that, Bill!"

Osceola ran up, accompanied by his band of painted henchmen, and immediately reeled off a series of fiercely shouted gutterals in Seminole.

"That will hold them for a while," he added in English to Bill.

"There'll be no scalping if I can stop it.-Sam! Where's that n.i.g.g.e.r?" he raised his voice.

"Here I is, Ma.r.s.e Osceola. Here I is, suh. 'Fore de Lord, I ain't scalped a prizner!"

"Oh, shut up, and pa.s.s over that electric torch you've been carrying for me. I want to get an idea of the damage done here."

"Yas, suh, boss! Here it am, suh." Sam was still stuttering as he handed Osceola the flashlight. "Truly, I ain't done no scalpin' tonight, Ma.r.s.e--"

"Keep still-or I'll scalp you!" The chief switched on the light. "Well, if you caught the lads afloat," he said to Bill, "this is the last of the gang ash.o.r.e."

"You mean they're all wiped out?"

"Well, hardly. Some are, of course, a good number, too. But the live ones are under lock and key in the jail."

"But Osceola-did you find Dad?" Bill's voice was trembling with eagerness.

"Sorry, old man-he's not on the island."

"What! Don't tell me he's dead?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. I captured the barracks boss, who seems to be a pretty sound egg. He says that Martinengo left for the workings in Big Cypress-it seems he is a trained pilot. He took your own plane, and forced your father to go with him."

CHAPTER XVIII-BIG CYPRESS AGAIN

Three o'clock on the afternoon of the next day found the two young men standing on the concrete pier, watching the narrow entrance to the bay.

Beside them stood the old negro, Sam, an incongruous figure in his war paint, and armed to the teeth.

"Here they come!" cried Bill, as two wicked-looking destroyers, belching smoke from their squat funnels, glided into the harbor. "The old U. S.

Navy is pretty prompt, once it gets started, eh? That isn't bad time at all from Key West!"

"Lucky we were able to reach them by phone. That second ship is letting go her anchor. The one in the lead seems to be making for this pier."

"I told them there was plenty of water," said Bill, and they waited where they were until the destroyer laid alongside and made fast. A young man whose smart white uniform bore the black and gold shoulder stripes of a lieutenant-commander ran lightly across the gangway. He was followed by a chief petty officer and a file of men carrying rifles.

Bill and Osceola stepped forward to meet them.

"Who's in command here?" inquired the officer.

"I am, sir." Bill stood stiffly at attention. He did not salute. It is not Naval etiquette to do so unless one is in uniform, wearing one's cap.

"Mr. Bolton, I take it," smiled the officer. "My name is Bellinger. If it's okay with you, Mr. Bolton, I'll take over now?"

"Please do." They shook hands.

Bill then introduced Osceola and gave Commander Bellinger a brief report of his experiences during the past ten days.

"We've buried the dead gunsters," he ended, "and the live ones are safely housed in their own jail."

"My word!" exclaimed the Commander. "You chaps have certainly put in an interesting summer vacation-if not a very pleasant one! You've seen more sc.r.a.pping in a few days than I have since the Armistice!"

"The Seminoles were a bit difficult to control, sir," Bill went on rather hesitantly.

Commander Bellinger nodded. "I'll bet they were. Probably scalped a few of the gunmen, eh? Well, what I don't know won't go into my report. The fortunes of war, you know. But I want you to understand now, Bolton, that the report won't do _you_ any harm with the Superintendent of the Naval Academy-quite the reverse, in fact. Both you and Chief Osceola have done well-very well indeed. And," he added, "I think we'd better look over this gangster outfit. You'll want to start your hop soon, I suppose."

Bill nodded as they walked toward the hill.

"I have orders to meet a squadron of seaplanes from Pensacola Air Station at four o'clock in Whitewater Bay, sir."

"How long will it take you to fly over there?"

"Something under an hour, sir. With your permission I'd like the small Loening moored out yonder, and take Chief Osceola with me."

"That's okay with me, Bolton. But we'll have to get going with this inspection. Before you leave I'll give you the admiral's orders, and another envelope which you will turn over to Commander Thomson when you meet the seaplane squadron."

"Aye, aye, sir," answered Bill, and the three breasted the winding road up the cliff.

Bill pushed forward the stick, at the same time he cut his gun and the Loening amphibian he was piloting shot downward. Far below, the island-studded waters of Whitewater Bay sparkled in the summer sunlight.

Lying on its quiet bosom like great waterbugs with wings spread were the five seaplanes of the Navy Squadron moored in simple V-formation. Even at that distance, Bill could make out the difference in design of the flying boats.

"Three Boeing PB-1's," he announced into the mouthpiece of his headphone. "The other two are PN-10's."

"I'll take your word for it," answered Osceola. "It's all Greek to me.

But how can you tell them apart at this distance?"

"Easily enough-knowing their construction. The PB boats have a tandem engine mounting, for one thing. Can't talk now-this has got to be a good landing. We've a bunch of experts watching us."

He brought his stick slowly backward, bringing up the nose to level.

Then he applied right aileron and simultaneously increased right rudder considerably. When the desired bank was reached, he checked the wing with the ailerons and at the same time eased the pressure on the rudder.

When the plane swung round so that it headed directly into the wind, Bill applied left aileron and left rudder. With wings level once more, he neutralized the ailerons and applied a normal amount of right rudder to steady her.

Once more he nosed over, and this time the Loening sped downward on a straight path into the wind, at an angle of 45 degrees. At a point equidistant from the two rear seaplanes of the moored squadron, Bill leveled off. A moment later, with hardly a splash his plane caressed the water and glided forward under its own momentum until it came to rest directly aft of the squadron's leading seaplane.

Bill loosened the chinstrap of his helmet, as a figure in a monkeysuit walked out on the lower wing section of the big PB boat, and waved.

"That you, Bolton?"

"Good afternoon, Commander. I've got the admiral's orders aboard."