The big fleet came sweeping steadily on, headed directly for the landing where the little party stood.
An exultant yell burst from the convicts as they saw the dreaded attack so quickly abandoned.
A hundred yards from the landing, the fleet of canoes seemed to slacken speed, many of the Indians stopped paddling, and the long line was thrown into confusion.
An Indian in the leading canoe stood up and seemed to be haranguing the others.
"That's Little Tiger," said Walter eagerly, as he recognized the orator. "He's making a speech."
The hunters could, of course, make nothing of the speaker's words, but the tone of his voice told him that the young Indian was terribly in earnest. His clear, resonant voice seemed to now ring with despairing scorn, now sink to touching appeal.
"My, but he's a born orator!" exclaimed Charley in admiration. "It sounds as though he was lashing them up to some desperate undertaking."
The Indian at last ceased speaking and resuming his paddle sent his craft forward, his companions following in his wake.
He grounded his rude canoe at the hunters' feet and sprang out with the light, lithe leap of a panther.
"How," he said, gravely, extending his hand to each in turn.