The leading canoes were now abreast of the boys, and Dick and Fritz rose to their feet and hailed them. The hail was entirely unnecessary, however, for almost as soon as they had spoken the boys were covered by a dozen rifles.
"Put your hands up, palms forward," said Dick, quickly setting the example himself.
"Friends," he called to the Indians, who, despite their lack of paint, seemed very well prepared for hostilities.
"Maybe we should schnell run for the woods already," said Fritz, rather startled by the sudden display of firearms, and sorry now that he had not stayed secure in the grass.
"Too late now, Fritz," said Dick. "These fellows look all right, even if they are supplied with more arms than a regiment."
Dick and Fritz approached the edge of the creek walking waist deep in the tall marsh grass.
"Us no like Redcoats," Dick volunteered, pointing toward Fritz. "We are Americans. No like Redcoats."
"Dot's right," chimed in Fritz, trying hard to smile into the mouths of a score of threatening rifles at once, and almost dislocating his neck in the endeavor. "And what's further they don't like us, not for something—nothing, I mean——" he ended, lamely.
One of the redmen, a short, heavily built man, with fierce, dark eyes and a sharp nose, motioned to the boys to stand still while they held a short parley among themselves in a dialect that Dick could understand but little of.