“Well, you see, the Indian has no way to cut his wood except with a machete—that’s just a big, long butcher knife. He hunts for the fallen limbs and trees that don’t require much chopping.”
“Believe me, if I were a charcoal maker, I’d hunt an easier place to reach than that.”
After they had walked for some distance without noticing any sign of another path leading up the mountain, Jo Ann called, “Say, I believe we’ve gone too far. We must’ve missed their path. That smoke’s back of us now.”
“You’re right. So it is. We’ll have to turn around and go back. If we don’t find that path soon, I think we’d better go back home. The sun is terrifically hot now.”
They began retracing their steps, searching more carefully than before.
“That family would’ve been bound to leave some sort of a trail,” Jo Ann kept saying.
When at last they reached the spot where they had first seen the smoke, Florence said in a discouraged tone, “How about giving it up and going back home now? I’m tired and hot.”
“Not yet,” Jo Ann urged as she wiped the perspiration from her forehead. “Let’s sit down in the shade of this cliff and rest for a while, and then we’ll feel more like going on.” She dropped down on the ground and leaned back against the cool rock.
Wearily Florence followed her example and began fanning herself with her hat.
After she had rested a few minutes, Jo Ann rose, saying, “I’m going to take another look around here while you rest awhile longer.”