you for that punch in the mouth last night. I'll let the boys pay you when they come back to put you in your Lancer. You're going to enjoy that.”
“Get out of here!” Red Gleason stormed at him.
“Close your trap, punk,” Lippy Freeman snarled.
“Let him talk. Let him talk,” Ogden said. “I like his spirit. At least he has enough guts to talk back.”
For fifteen minutes he tried to goad Bill into making some move for which he could retaliate. But Bill refused to even answer him. He kept his eyes on his food and would not be baited.
When they had finished eating, they were tied up again.
Slip wished them a mocking good night.
Throughout that long, horrible night Bill Barnes tossed and turned as much as the ropes that tied him would permit, cursed himself and his throbbing head. Both he and Red tried to free themselves, but their efforts only added to the tightness of their bonds.
“They have some kind of slip nooses on us,” Red gasped. “The more we struggle the tighter they get.”
“As Ogden said,” Bill grated, “we stuck our head in the noose and pulled it tight. But we're not through yet. We've got to get one break before this tiling is over.”
They were dozing at dawn when they heard the engines of the BT-4 and the motors in the noses of the red- and-black fighters roar to life.
Bill came out of the horrible nightmare that had engulfed him with his body soaked with perspiration. He struggled frantically for a moment while the cacophony of roaring motors beat against his eardrums. It took every bit of will power he possessed to lie still.
“It can't be true!” he said to himself. “If they succeed in using my bomber, it will be irrefutable evidence that I was helping them.”
Even if he escaped with his life, it would really be the end of things for him, he thought. Ogden would be clever enough to call his men by the names of Bill's men. He would carry out the whole thing before the officers and crew of the gold-carrying vessel to give the illusion that he was Bill Barnes. They would swear on their lives when it was over that it was Bill and his men. Not even the things they had done in the past could offset the evidence against them if they lived. And if they died, the reputation they had worked so hard to build would die with them.
Despair such as Bill had never known before seized him. Instead of fighting on and on against any odds as long as there was life left in his body, he was ready to quit. For the first time in his life he knew that he was beaten. Sucking sounds that were closely akin to dry sobs came from his throat.
“Take it easy,” Red said.
They heard six single-motored ships roar down the harbor for a take-off. Then came the full-throated roar of the 1500 h.p. engines in the nacelles of the bomber as she raced into the dawn.
Then all was silence—except for the lapping of the waters on the shore as the morning light crept across the doorsill. They strained their ears for the sound of voices or something that would tell them whether or not they had been left entirely without a guard. The thought of the Lancer and the Snorter ' riding in the harbor gave them new hope and strength.
“Get your eyes accustomed to the light and then try to study the knots,” Bill said. “We've got to get free.”
“Where yuh goin', sweetheart?” the voice of Lippy Freeman said from the doorway. Bill twisted his head and saw the scowling, snarling faces of Ugly Barillo and Lippy Freeman beside him.
All sense of reason or control seemed to snap inside Red Gleason as he heard Freeman's voice. His battered face became the color of his flaming hair as he screamed at them.
“You dirty, yellow rats!” he shouted. “You——”
Then his voice trailed away as suddenly as it had started. He cocked his head on one side with his mouth open a little. He held that position for a matter of fifteen seconds before he let his head drop back. He looked over at Bill and there was a smile on his face.
“Do you hear it?” he asked.
Bill nodded his head and there was new life in his eyes. He watched the faces of Lippy Freeman and Ugly Barillo as they, too, heard the deep, resonant throb of the three thousand horses in the Barnes twin-Diesel over- head and the wail of its two three-bladed opposed props as it nosed downward.
Lippy and Ugly heard it and ran out in the open to gaze skyward as Shorty eased the Snorter out of its long dive, shallow dived once and skimmed above the Lancer on the little harbor.
“I wonder if they know how to handle “that antiaircraft gun they have here?” Bill said to Red.
“It's doubtful,” Red said. “Their education doesn't go beyond a Tommy gun, probably. It must be Shorty up there.”
“It isn't any one else,” Bill said, and there was a new lilt to his voice now.
Shorty Hassfurther saw the two forms that were Lippy Freeman and Ugly Barillo scurry across the rocky surface of the island toward the long, low building near the wireless masts. He brought the Snorter around on one wing and dipped down again as he saw them come out of the building with a machine gun and run toward some brush that grew down to the edge of the water. He zoomed upward, cut his gun and came down into the wind. As the Snorter's single, long float spanked the water, Lippy Freeman's finger clamped down on the trigger of the machine gun they had concealed in the underbrush. Lead and fire spurted out of the muzzle and drummed through the metal skin of the Snorter.
Shorty blasted his engine and kicked his water rudder so that the nose of the Snorter was pointed directly at that spot in the underbrush. His two powerful .50-caliber guns sputtered their answer to the gangsters' challenge. A scream that was like the wail of nothing human sounded above the chatter of his guns. He released the trip and waited for an answering burst of fire.
But none came. Lippy Freeman and Ugly Barillo had committed their last murder. They were curled up beside their machine gun where Shorty's bullets had found them.
“All right, kid,” Shorty said into his intercockpit telephone. “Take an automatic and get over the side and see what you can learn. I'll stay aboard so we can get away quick if we have to.”
Young Sandy Sanders slid out of the rear cockpit of the Snorter and dropped into three feet of water. He held an automatic above his head as his feet touched bottom. Shorty climbed into the rear cockpit and swung the .30- caliber machine gun around so that be could spray the shore line.
“Get down on the ground so I can fire over your head if I have to use this thing,” Shorty said.
The roar that came from the island as Sandy stepped out of the water brought him to a complete stop. He crouched forward with the automatic out in front of him while he stared toward the hut a hundred feet back from the beach.
“Hey! Sandy!” came Red Gleason's bull roar again.
Sandy ran, still half crouched with the automatic out in front of him, toward the shack. He knew he had heard Bed's voice, but he didn't know what he was walking into. The sound of Bill's voice quickened his step. He went in the door cautiously, half expecting to be greeted with a fusillade of shots. Instead Red Gleason's roar greeted him.
“Quick, kid!” he said. “Get a knife and cut these ropes.”
Sandy turned and raced back toward the Snorter without a word. He cupped his hands and shouted at Shorty that he had found Bill and Red and told him to bring a knife to cut them loose.
A few minutes later they were staring at the badly dressed cut on the side of Bill's head and at Red's battered face. They saw that Bill's face was white and drawn underneath its tan.
“What about those two mugs who were guarding us?” he asked weakly.
“I think they're dead,” Shorty said.
“Make sure!” Bill snapped at Sandy. He suddenly realized that with the exception of Bev Bates, and he knew where to find him, all of his men were with him again. He seemed to take a new lease on life as color flowed back into his face.
“What about the Lancer?” he asked Shorty. “Is it ready to go?”
“I'll check it,” Shorty said. “Go where?”
Before he answered him he said to Red, “Is your Snorter 0. K.?”
“I'll find out.” Red said and he started for the rowboat tied up at the dock.
