He came hurriedly back to where
Wetzel was working, and spoke in a voice which he vainly endeavors
to hold steady:
"Come quickly. I have seen something which may mean a good deal."
He led the way down to the brookside.
"Look!" Joe said, pointing at the water.
Here the steam was about two feet deep, perhaps twenty wide, and had
just a noticeable current. Shortly before, it had been as clear as a
bright summer sky; it was now tinged with yellow clouds that slowly
floated downstream, each one enlarging and becoming fainter as the
clear water permeated and stained. Grains of sand glided along with
the current, little pieces of bark floated on the surface, and
minnows darted to and fro nibbling at these drifting particles.
"Deer wouldn't roil the water like that. What does it mean?" asked
Joe.
"Injuns, an' not fer away."
Wetzel returned to the shelter and tore it down. Then he bent the
branch of a beech tree low over the place. He pulled down another
branch over the remains of the camp-fire. These precautions made the
spot less striking. Wetzel knew that an Indian scout never glances
casually; his roving eyes survey the forest, perhaps quickly, but
thoroughly. An unnatural position of bush or log always leads to an
examination.
This done, the hunter grasped Joe's hand and led him up the knoll.
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