“We have been waiting for the English and their house. The trader Davidson said that Virginia was sending in men to clear land and build a house. I do not see them. You know this Washington, who makes lands. He should be getting near. Do you go with Scarouady and point him out, that we may tell him to hurry. I will show him a good place for a house with great guns.”
Now that was better than a regular hunt. Robert set out gladly enough, with Scarouady the famous warrior, his good friend. He had his ash bow, powder horn and bullet pouch, his tomahawk and hunting knife; Scarouady had his English rifle, his powder horn and bullet pouch, his tomahawk and knife. With flint and steel and with a blanket each they needed nothing else, although the settlements of the English were two hundred miles through the mountains and the forests, in the east and south.
They took the Shawnee Trail up to the Forks, and crossed in a canoe that Scarouady knew of. Then following game trails they struck off for Virginia, their eyes glancing sharply right and left and down before, that nothing should be missed. No one could say what the trees and bushes might conceal.
They had been out two days and nights, when on coming to another hill Scarouady said:
“Do you go round this side and I will go round that side, and we will meet. I think we will get a deer or turkey for camp tonight.”
This meant a half circle of ten or twelve miles, but that mattered little to a hunter and warrior. The time was afternoon; the forest lay silent, beautiful and wild, with the shadows from the sun stretching long across the grassy openings, and the air sweet with the drying leaves.
His bow strung and his arrows loose in his quiver Robert trotted upon straight-footed moccasins around the hill, and through the timber and whenever he sighted a little opening he paused, to spy, in hope of seeing deer or turkey.
The way was not smooth, of course. This was virgin forest, cut by ravines and cumbered with great fallen trees that made a boy seem very small. He had traveled almost half around the hill, and was expecting to meet Scarouady any moment, or at least hear from him, when he stopped, frozen.
The route he was taking had been crossed by fresh moccasin prints, heading toward where Scarouady should be.