“A good idea,” cried Gardiner, surprised by the mention of this expedient. “I should never have thought of that. You are cunning in devices.”
“So are the Injuns,” returned Glyndon, impressively. “Take care some of ’em don’t come down on you that way while I’m gone.”
“I’ll look out for them; you’ll find quite a fort here when you come back. I hardly think Smoholler will dare attack us here.”
Glyndon took a critical survey of the situation, and shook his head in the manner he had when any thing met his approval.
“It’s a good camping-ground,” he said, “and you can hold it ag’in’ a hundred Injuns, in daylight.” He laid particular stress upon this word. “An open attack is what you can beat off without any trouble, but it’s stratagem and trickery will bother you. But we can tell more about Smoholler when I come back. If he’s got a strong party near us he can’t hide the signs of them from me.”
“Can you judge of the number without seeing them?” asked Gardiner, in some surprise.
“Oh, yes.”
“How can you do that?”
“Every man to his trade; you know your tactics, and I know mine. I have learned to trail Injuns pretty well in all these years. I couldn’t very well explain to you how I do it—there’s a knack in it that some men can never pick up. But, to us old forest rangers, there’s tongues and voices in the running water, the rustling leaves, the waving grass, and the moss-grown stones. Where an Injun plants his foot he leaves a sign, and though they do their best to hide their trail, there’s always eyes keen enough to spy it out.”
“I have heard of the wonderful skill you hunters have in following a trail,” rejoined Gardiner. “You beat the Indians in their own woodcraft.”