You go down stream a ways an' scout round some, while I go up, an'
then circle down. Move slow, now, an' don't miss nothin'."
Joe followed the stream a mile or more. He kept close in the shade
of willows, and never walked across an open glade without first
waiting and watching. He listened to all sounds; but none were
unfamiliar. He closely examined the sand along the stream, and the
moss and leaves under the trees. When he had been separated from
Wetzel several hours, and concluded he would slowly return to camp,
he ran across a well-beaten path winding through the forest. This
was, perhaps, one of the bridle-trails Wetzel had referred to. He
bent over the worn grass with keen scrutiny.
CRACK!
The loud report of a heavily charged rifle rang out. Joe felt the
zip of a bullet as it fanned his cheek. With an agile leap he gained
the shelter of a tree, from behind which he peeped to see who had
shot at him. He was just in time to detect the dark form of an
Indian dart behind the foliage an hundred yards down the path. Joe
expected to see other Indians, and to hear more shots, but he was
mistaken. Evidently the savage was alone, for the tree Joe had taken
refuge behind was scarcely large enough to screen his body, which
disadvantage the other Indians would have been quick to note.
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