His boast had always been that, when Wingenund sought to
elude his pursuers, his trail faded among the moss and the ferns.
Wetzel, calm, patient, resourceful, deliberated a moment. The
Delaware had not crossed this rocky ridge. He had been cunning
enough to make his pursuer think such was his intention. The hunter
hurried to the eastern end of the ridge for no other reason than
apparently that course was the one the savage had the least reason
to take. He advanced hurriedly because every moment was precious.
Not a crushed blade of grass, a brushed leaf, an overturned pebble
nor a snapped twig did he find. He saw that he was getting near to
the side of the ridge where the Delaware's trail had abruptly ended.
Ah! what was there? A twisted bit of fern, with the drops of dew
brushed off. Bending beside the fern, Wetzel examined the grass; it
was not crushed. A small plant with triangular leaves of dark green,
lay under the fern. Breaking off one of these leaves, he exposed its
lower side to the light. The fine, silvery hair of fuzz that grew
upon the leaf had been crushed. Wetzel knew that an Indian could
tread so softly as not to break the springy grass blades, but the
under side of one of these leaves, if a man steps on it, always
betrays his passage through the woods. To keen eyes this leaf showed
that it had been bruised by a soft moccasin.
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