"There's about a mile of the stuff," Rick said. "It stops at the reef. I'm not sure how wide it is, but I'd guess it averages a quarter of a mile. It's called Brendan's Marsh, after an old man who got lost in it once. It was over a week before he was found." They were approaching the reef at a good clip. "What do we do first?" Scotty asked. Rick shrugged. He had no plan of action. "Guess we just sort of wander around and wait for a bright idea to hit us." "Lot of other people with the same idea, I guess." Scotty nodded toward the reef. Rick saw a number of figures moving around the wreck of the trawler. "Wonder who they are?" "Probably a lot of folks who are just curious--like two in this boat. And I wouldn't be surprised if the law was doing a little looking around by daylight, too." "We'll soon see." Rick turned the launch inshore as they approached the reef. "Let's tie up at the Creek House dock. Then we can walk down the reef and join the rest." "Suits me." Rick rounded the corner of the salt marsh and steered the launch into the creek, reducing speed as he did so. On their right, the marsh stretched inland along the sluggish creek bank. On their left, the high old bulk of the Creek House rose from a yard that was strewn with rubble and years' accumulation of weeds and litter. A hundred yards up the creek was the gray, rickety piling of the hotel dock. "That's it," Rick said. Scotty went up to the bow and took the bow line, ready to drop it over a piling. Rick started a wide turn that would bring him into the dock, then cut the engine. The launch slowed as it lost momentum and drifted into place perfectly. "Hey! Get out of there!" Both boys looked up. Coming from the hotel's side door on a dead run was a stocky youth of about their own age. He was between Rick and Scotty in height, and he had hair the color of a ripe carrot. Swinging from one hand was a rifle. "Is that hair real or has he got a wig on?" Scotty asked. "It's real," Rick returned. His forehead creased. The dock had never been considered private property--at least not since the hotel was abandoned. He waited to see what the redhead wanted. The boy ran down the loose wooden surface toward them, his face red and angry. "Get that boat out of here!" Rick looked into a pair of furious eyes the color of seaweed, set above a wide nose and thin mouth. "Why?" he asked. "This is private property. Cast off." "Where's your sign?" Scotty asked. The boy grinned unpleasantly. "Don't need a sign." He patted the stock of his rifle. "Got this." "Plan to use it?" Scotty asked calmly. "If I have to. Now cast off those lines and get out." Rick's temper began to fray a little. "You're using the wrong tone of voice," he said gently. "You should say 'I'm terribly sorry, fellows, but this is private property. Do you mind tying up somewhere else?' Ask us nicely like that and we'll do it."