The man was twenty years my elder, but my
youth was of no avail against his iron strength. Though I was hard and
spare from my travels in the summer heat, 'twas all I could do to keep
up with him, and only my pride kept me from crying halt. Often when he
stopped I could have wept with fatigue, and had no breath for a word,
but his taciturnity saved me from shame.
In a hollow among the woods we came to a place which sent him on his
knees, peering and sniffing like a wild-cat.
"What make you of that?" he asked.
I saw nothing but a bare patch in the grass, some broken twigs, and a
few ashes.
"It's an old camp," I said.
"Ay," said he. "Nothing more? Use your wits, man."
I used them, but they gave me no help.
"This is the way I read it, then," he said. "Three men camped here
before midday. They were Cherokees, of the Matabaw tribe, and one was a
maker of arrows. They were not hunting, and they were in a mighty
hurry. Just now they're maybe ten miles off, or maybe they're watching
us. This is no healthy country for you and me."
He took me homeward at a speed which well-nigh foundered me, and, when
I questioned him, he told me where he got his knowledge.
They were three men, for there were three different footmarks in the
ashes' edge, and they were Cherokees because they made their fire in
the Cherokee way, so that the smoke ran in a tunnel into the scrub.
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