Wetzel had said little concerning this region, but that little was
enough to rouse all Joe's eagerness, for it was to the effect that
they were now in a country much traversed by Indians, especially
runners and hunting parties travelling from north to south. The
hunter explained that through the center of this tract ran a buffalo
road; that the buffalo always picked out the straightest, lowest and
dryest path from one range to another, and the Indians followed
these first pathfinders.
Joe and Wetzel made camp on the bank of a stream that night, and as
the lad watched the hunter build a hidden camp-fire, he peered
furtively around half expecting to see dark forms scurrying through
the forest. Wetzel was extremely cautious. He stripped pieces of
bark from fallen trees and built a little hut over his firewood. He
rubbed some powder on a piece of punk, and then with flint and steel
dropped two or three sparks on the inflammable substance. Soon he
had a blaze. He arranged the covering so that not a ray of light
escaped. When the flames had subsided, and the wood had burned down
to a glowing bed of red, he threw aside the bark, and broiled the
strips of venison they had brought with them.
They rested on a bed of boughs which they had cut and arranged
alongside a huge log. For hours Joe lay awake, he could not sleep.
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