Time passed; noon and part of the afternoon were gone, and they were
still curving in a great circle about the camp, when Ross, suddenly
stopped beside a little brook, or branch, as he and his comrades always
called them, and pointed to the soft soil at the edge of the water.
Henry followed the long finger and saw the outline of a footstep.
"Our turkey has passed here."
The guide nodded.
"Most likely," he said, "and if not ours, then one of the same flock.
But that footprint is three or four hours old. Come on, we'll follow
this trail until it grows too warm."
The footsteps led down the side of the brook, and when they curved away
from it Ross was able to trace them on the turf and through the
undergrowth. A half mile from the start other footsteps joined them, and
these were obviously made by many men, perhaps a score of warriors.
"You see," said Ross, "I guess they've just come across the Ohio or we
wouldn't be left all these days b'il'n salt so peaceful, like as if
there wasn't an Indian in the whole world."
Henry drew a deep breath. Like all who ventured into the West he
expected some day to be exposed to Indian danger and attack, but it had
been a vague thought.
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