No living thing could be seen. Along the edge of
the forest the ground was level, and the horse traveled easily.
Several times during the morning Joe dismounted beside a pile of
stones or a fallen tree. The miles were traversed without serious
inconvenience to the invalid, except that he grew tired. Toward the
middle of the afternoon, when they had ridden perhaps twenty-five
miles, they crossed a swift, narrow brook. The water was a beautiful
clear brown. Joe made note of this, as it was an unusual
circumstance. Nearly all the streams, when not flooded, were green
in color. He remembered that during his wanderings with Wetzel they
had found one stream of this brown, copper-colored water. The lad
knew he must take a roundabout way to the village so that he might
avoid Indian runners or scouts, and he hoped this stream would prove
to be the one he had once camped upon.
As they were riding toward a gentle swell or knoll covered with
trees and shrubbery, Whispering Winds felt something warm on her
hand, and, looking, was horrified to find it covered with blood.
Joe's wound had opened. She told him they must dismount here, and
remain until he was stronger. The invalid himself thought this
conclusion was wise. They would be practically safe now, since they
must be out of the Indian path, and many miles from the encampment.
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