Sandy fell to work with a will. The canoe was lodged in the mud rather securely and they strained for some minutes before it at last came loose with a suck and splash that nearly tumbled Sandy over. An instant later they had shoved the canoe out into the stream, where the current caught it and carried it past the sand point.
The young adventurers paused to gaze with satisfaction upon this blow they felt they had dealt the enemy, when a sound from the shore drew their startled attention.
“Listen,” whispered Dick.
They could hear a crashing among the trees. Looking toward the forest they could see nothing at first. Then suddenly, into a small clearing that led down to the river bank, burst three men, running and waving their rifles menacingly.
“Quick! The canoe!” cried Dick hoarsely. “Don’t stop to shoot. We’ve got to get away. They’re after that canoe. It’s the Indian with the scarred face!”
Sandy tumbled into the stern of the canoe in one flying leap, and as Dick shoved on the prow, he picked up his paddle and stroked backward. The canoe left the beach with a lunge, and Dick was nearly precipitated into the water as he leaped into his position in the bow. As they crouched to paddle, three shots sounded and bullets cut the water about them.
“Downstream fast,” shouted Dick. “Stay low, Sandy.”
Rifle balls were flying thick and fast as they rounded the sand point, paddling frantically after the canoe they had set adrift.
“Diable!” they could hear an enraged cry in French, as their pursuers found the canoe gone and the boys escaping.
Dick turned and looked back. All three of the men were kneeling with rifles leveled. “Duck!” he shouted to Sandy just in time.