When half way down the bill Wetzel paused.
"See anythin'?" he whispered.
Joe glanced on all sides. Many mistakes had taught him to be
cautious. He had learned from experience that for every woodland
creature he saw, there were ten watching his every move. Just now he
could not see even a little red squirrel. Everywhere were sturdy
hickory and oak trees, thickets and hazelnuts, slender ash saplings,
and, in the open glades, patches of sumach. Rotting trees lay on the
ground, while ferns nodded long, slender heads over the fallen
monarchs. Joe could make out nothing but the colors of the woods,
the gray of the tree trunks, and, in the openings through the
forest-green, the dead purple haze of forests farther on. He smiled,
and, shaking his head at the hunter, by his action admitted failure.
"Try again. Dead ahead," whispered Wetzel.
Joe bent a direct gaze on the clump of sassafras one hundred feet
ahead. He searched the open places, the shadows--even the branches.
Then he turned his eyes slowly to the right. Whatever was
discernible to human vision he studied intently. Suddenly his eye
became fixed on a small object protruding from behind a beech tree.
It was pointed, and in color darker than the gray bark of the beech.
It had been a very easy matter to pass over this little thing; but
now that the lad saw it, he knew to what it belonged.
Pages:
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181