The water closed over Bill’s head. The shock of the plunge put new heart into him and he struck vigorously out keeping well under the surface. His plan was to make for one of the small islands of the lagoon, trusting that oncoming darkness would cover his escape. What he would do after reaching the island must depend upon circumstances.

The green depths of the lake were surprisingly clear. He could see myriads of small fish dart away as he forged ahead. Then a long dark body swept alongside of him. Osceola’s sinewy arm caught him by the shoulders and swung him round to the left. The Indian swam ahead, keeping parallel with the bank, his actions showing Bill that he wished him to follow.

By this time, Bill’s lungs were nearly bursting and his head throbbed with the strain of remaining under water. Feeling that he must have air or drown, he turned on his back and rose, careful that no more than his nose and mouth appeared above the surface. Two or three life-giving breaths, and he sank again, with the muffled sound of revolver shots in his ears. After another spurt under water in the direction indicated by Osceola, he came up to the surface again, sinking as soon as he had filled his lungs with air.

Rising for the third time, he was surprised to find the young Seminole at his side. Osceola was floating with his head just above the water.

“It’s safe to stay up now,” he murmured. “Make no sound—and follow me.”

The Indian turned on his side and glided forward with the speed and silence of an otter. Bill understood that a splash might be fatal in advertising their whereabouts, and followed in his wake. Though a strong swimmer and a fast one, he could not keep up with the Chief.

Then the sun, already low on the horizon, sank out of sight. Osceola’s sleek head disappeared under the canopy of overhanging boughs that lined the lagoon’s swampy shore. Soon Bill glided beside him, into the deep shadow under the branches, and although he could not see his friend, he heard his low voice.

“Give me your hand, Bill. We’ve got to get out of this. They will come here when they find no sign of us in the lagoon.”

“Lead on, old sport,” answered the white youth. “You’re a better man than I am if you can navigate in this gloom.”

“Oh, I’ve got eyes like a cat,” chuckled Osceola. “Come on now—there are roots below us—stand on them.”

Bill found a foothold on the slimy roots and hand in hand they scrambled out of the water. Osceola led him round the base of a huge tree and onto the sprawling roots of another forest giant.

“This is the one—I’ve had my eye on it ever since we’ve been working this end of the lagoon. There’s a cleft in the trunk, about thirty feet up that will hold us nicely.”

“Mmm—after we get there!” was Bill’s unenthusiastic reply.

“Oh, that’s not so difficult. There are plenty of vines.”

Bill followed Osceola a few steps round the trunk, then felt his hand touch a thick stem that clung to the bark of the tree.

“Follow that straight up,” directed the Seminole. “I’ll go ahead, for I can see.”

“I wish I could,” said Bill. “I’m as blind as a bat in this darkness!”

“You’ll get accustomed to it,” Osceola assured him. Then Bill’s hand was released from the Indian’s grasp and he heard the other moving upward. “Follow me,” he went on, when he was just above Bill’s head, “and if you get into trouble, grab my foot until you can find a toehold.”

The thick stem of the vine proved a comparatively easy means of ascent, and especially so to an Annapolis midshipman. Up he went, hand over hand, his rubber-soled shoes gripping the bark’s rough surface.

“Here we are,” said Osceola’s soft voice presently, “give me a hand—that’s right. Now step in here and squat down. Not so bad, eh?”

“Could be a lot worse,” agreed Bill, finding a seat next to his friend in the wide cleft. “If those guys can’t see any better than I can in this murk, they’ll have a time locating our hideout.”

“They’ll have torches to give them all the light they need,” replied Osceola. “But they’re not counting on their eyes to find us.”

“Listen!”

Across the swamp sounded the deep bay of a dog.

“Bloodhounds?”

“They keep four of the brutes in kennels over at the stockade.”

“Think they’ll be able to track us?”

“I doubt it. We were walking on roots under water until we started to climb. Of course we left a trail up the tree trunk, but the hounds are not likely to scent it.”

“Then you think we’re O.K. for a while?”

“We can’t stay here forever. When daylight comes, the guards can spot us easily from the end of the road. This tree isn’t more than thirty yards from there.”

“The question being—where do we go from here?”

“Well, where do we go! We’ve got neither food nor a boat. What with snakes, alligators and other pleasant companions, we won’t get very far on a hike through the swamps. You spoke of a plan some time ago. How about it?”

“Just a germ of one,” sighed Bill. “It needs working out—but with luck you and I will be able to get away from this vile place and go pretty much where we like. It all hangs on whether we can—”

“Hush!” warned Osceola. “They’re coming this way. Look over your shoulder!”

Bill did more than that. He twisted round in the niche and stared into the black opaqueness toward the corduroy road.

Lights, twinkling pinpoints of red, dotted the black night in wavering clusters which advanced along the road. And again the damp, lifeless air was burdened with the deep-throated cry of bloodhounds.

“Those lights will discover us if the searching party leaves the road and comes over this way,” whispered Bill.

“There’s only one thing to do,” admitted his companion. “And we’d better do it now.”

“What’s that?”

“Crawl out on one of these branches and lie flat. You take that one nearest you and I’ll lie on the one that parallels it. Don’t move if they come underneath us. Some of those guards have ears like their hounds.”

Bill had no difficulty in performing this feat, for the branch was thicker than his own body and he wriggled along until he lay fifteen or twenty feet from the trunk of the tree. His eyes had at last grown used to the inky darkness of this forest in the swamp. Peering down through the heavy screen of foliage and vines, the gnarled roots, underbrush and stagnant water below became dimly visible. To the left, possibly ten feet away and slightly above him, was the branch on which his Indian friend lay. Of Osceola he could see nothing, but he heard the Seminole’s muffled warning as he twisted his body to get a better view and in doing so, cracked a twig.

The lights of the searching party were steadily moving nearer. For a few minutes they seemed to hesitate at the spot where the road ended. Then they came on again and he could plainly hear the dogs splashing noisily about in the swamp. Still nearer—and the glare of pine torches made it possible for Bill to see that the party were poling canoes—three of them. The flares lit up the swamp, sending weird shadows here and there as the canoes advanced.

“Them dogs is tryin’ t’ climb in this here canoe,” sang out a rough voice. “There ain’t no scent on th’ water fer them t’ follow.”

“Let’s go back, Pete,” argued another voice, “if dose guys is in dis swamp dey’ll have t’ stay put till mornin’. Den we can catch ’em easy.”

“Sez you!” returned Pete with a snort. Bill recognized his surly voice as that of the overseer he had felled with his shovel. “Them two can see in daylight just the same as us. An’ one of ’em is an Indian, don’t forget. They’s round here somewhere now an’ with sunup, they’ll hike it.”

“Oh, yeah?” sneered the other. “They ain’t got no boat nor grub. What’s de use of rustlin’ in here now, Pete? Them hounds ain’t no good. What we need is water-rats.”

“Shut yer trap—and step on it with dat pole!” Pete’s ire seemed to be at the boiling point. “Long as I’m bossing this job, we goes on—see? You bums is pushin’ yer faces into de wrong picture when yer bumps up against me. Scram now—an’ shut yer traps!”

Bill held his breath. The canoes were now directly underneath the spreading branch of the cypress where he and Osceola lay hidden. He hugged the limb close, praying that the blazing flares below would not disclose his whereabouts to the trackers.

Suddenly a sharp hiss sounded in his ear. Thinking that Osceola wished to attract his attention, he turned his head toward the neighboring branch. To his horror he saw a huge snake lower its long black body from the branch above. The reptile’s furiously hissing head was not over a foot from his face. Disturbed by the lights, the angry creature was bent on attack!

Bill clung frozen to his branch. If he moved, the men beneath the tree would be attracted by the sound, and would probably sight him at once. Far better a swift death in the gloom of the cypress than slow torture for Osceola as well as himself if they were discovered.

All this shot through his mind with the speed of light. Then a branch cracked, there came a swishing sound through the air and the snake slid downward, missing him by inches. He saw Osceola draw back the stick with which he had lashed the moccasin, and the air was rent with a terrified scream from below.

Peering down, Bill saw a horror which he would never forget. Twined around Pete’s throat and head was the viper that a moment before had nearly caused his own death. The frenzied overseer leapt shrieking to his feet and lurched into the water. The canoe capsized and its two other occupants were precipitated into the swamp with their leader.

For several minutes, bedlam reigned. Dogs barked, men shouted hoarsely, their yells awakening the forest birds whose cries of alarm echoed and reechoed throughout the night.

Pete’s companions splashed aimlessly about in the muck and water for a time, then with the help of the other two crews, their canoe was righted and they climbed aboard. The overseer’s body did not come to the surface.

“Youse guys can do what yer like,” declared one of the dripping men when the uproar had subsided, “Me——I’ve had enough. I’m goin’ back.”

“I’m wid ye,” agreed a voice from one of the other canoes. “Let’s fish Pete out an’ go home.”

“Say! If youse expects me ter wade round in this muck, lookin’ fer a stiff, wid dat snake ready ter bite and plenty more of ’em in dis here swamp, youse got another think comin’——” snarled the first man with profane emphasis. “Dis baby’s goin’ to catch some sleep before sunup—er somebody else is goin’ on de spot ‘long wid Pete. Hey dere, bozo—turn dis boat round. I want t’ get me feet on solid ground again before sumpin else falls outen de trees ter croak a guy!”

Grunts and shouts of approval greeted this lengthy speech. The canoes headed back toward the road. The trackers, by common consent, were through for the night.

When the lights of the party had disappeared in the distance, Osceola spoke to Bill.

“Come back to the niche on the trunk. Those chaps are off till morning. We’ve got to plan, now.”

Bill scrambled backward along his limb, and found Osceola before him at their perch. He grasped the young Indian’s hand and wrung it.

“You saved my life, Osceola! I thought I was a goner. Some day perhaps I may be able to show you that I appreciate what you did for me.”

“Oh, that’s all right!” Osceola’s voice showed his embarrassment. “And you did more than that for me on the muck heap this afternoon. Pete’s out for good now—and I must confess I’m not sorry.”

“Here, too.—You spoke of plans just now. Got any?”

“Not a single idea—but what about yours?”

“Well, I was tired and sleepy a while back. Couldn’t think. But that snake woke me up—and how!”

“What are you thinking of?”

“That we wait here for an hour—then hike over to the compound.”

“But—you mean—to give ourselves up?” Osceola cried in astonishment.

“Give ourselves up—nothing! I’m going to get us out of this rotten cypress swamp for good and all. But to get away from here we’ve got to go back there first.”

Osceola grunted. “What you are saying probably means something to you—to me it is as plain as mud. Sounds like a minstrel gag. Tell me, Mr. Bones, when and why we must go in there in order to get out of here!”

Bill laughed for the first time since his arrival at the workings.

“You’re a sketch, Osceola! But I guess you’re right. My plan in a nut-shell is just this. You may not believe me, but if we live, you and I are going out of here by plane—and I’m going to fly it. Do you see now?”

“The amphibian is here, all right,” affirmed the Seminole. “She won’t fly back to Shell Island until tomorrow. But there’s no stealing her, young fellow. First, she’s locked up tight. Second, she’s too well guarded.”

“Just so,” Bill declared, grinning in the darkness. “But my plan is not to steal the plane, you know.”

“What then?”

“Steal the pilots, my hearty!” This time Bill laughed outright.