Footprints in the Forest

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

With the help of dried leaves, small dead twigs, and the swift blows of the steel across the face of the flint, a spark speedily darted to the combustible material and stuck there. Jack did not use the rag soaked in chemicals, which was common among the settlers, but caught the fire from the direct source, as it may be called. The tiny twist of flame was fanned and nursed by gently blowing until, in a brief space, a big fire was roaring, and scorching the shaggy bark of the oak.

It was impossible to tell from the looks of the Indian whether he was pleased or not. He stood a few paces off, watching the operation, and, when the fire was well under way, sat down cross-legged like a Turk, where he could feel the warmth, though, as I have stated in another place, the weather was not cold.

It was now growing dark. The shadows were on every hand, and the trunks of the trees looked grim and ghostly, as revealed by the fire, which Jack continually fed, until the circle of illumination was several rods in extent.

"I would give a good deal to know what he is thinking about," said the lad to himself, furtively watching the face on the other side of the fire; "something seems to have gone wrong with him, though why he should want to keep his movements from his friends across the river is more than I can guess; may be he has had a quarrel; they have taken his gun and set him adrift."

This theory, however, did not sound reasonable, and the lad was unsatisfied; whatever the cause of the redskin's erratic conduct, his captive could not explain it.

For a half hour the warrior was as mute and motionless as the oak against which the fire had been kindled. All that time, he sat six or eight feet from the flames and about the same distance from the captive. The fire, the Indian and the youth, each formed the corner of a triangle. He who was master of the situation retained his Turk-like pose, the captured gun between his arms and knees and his small eyes fixed on the flames, which the industry of the prisoner never allowed to grow less.

Strange musings must have stirred within the bronzed skull, but it is useless to speculate, since we have no more means of knowing their nature than had Jack Carleton, who wondered and guessed without satisfying himself.

But one thing was certain: whatever the thoughts of the warrior, they were of a disturbing nature. Jack could not mistake the scowl which wrinkled the brow, while now and then an evil light shone in the eyes.

"He doesn't think of supper, or, if he does, he knows there is no way of getting any thing to eat. He must make up his mind pretty soon what he intends to do with me. If he decides to stay here all night, I know I shan't close my eyes for a single second."

But the test did not come, and it can not be known, therefore, what the result would have been. The Indian seemed to rouse all at once to a sense of the situation, probably concluding that he was wasting time by indulging in such musings. His awaking was characteristic. He sprang to his feet, threw his gun aside, and placed his hand on the knife at his girdle. As he did so, his countenance flamed with ferocity, and the meaning of the look he bent on Jack Carleton could not be misjudged.