They had almost reached the river's edge, when the Redman saw the glimmer of a fire through the mist and the trees. Crouching quickly, he pulled Dick and Fritz with him, and pointed in the direction of the blaze. Evidently the fire was but just started and not burning strongly as yet, for it would flare up and die down as a breeze encouraged it or the dampness retarded it.
"Indian," whispered the companion.
"How do you know?" asked Dick, searching about him for some sign of life.
The redskin pointed to the faint track of two moccasined feet, both exactly parallel with each other.
"White man no walk like that," said their companion.
"Wonder if they're friends or foes?" whispered Dick to Fritz.
The Dutch boy's teeth chattered with the cold when he started to talk, but the Indian motioned for them to be silent.
"Come," he said, leading the way into some long wet grass. Wriggling carefully along on their stomachs, the three made a detour about the spot where they figured the camp to be. The Indian left them for a few moments and approached nearer to the fire. In a moment he was back again.
"No good Indian," he said, in a low voice. "Not friend of Telca's people. Not friend of white boy."
"How many?" questioned Dick.