THE CAMP
"The humans I have known lack root hold. Perhaps that is why they die and leave no trace."—The Murmuring Pine.
There was no clear-cut trail between the camp and the settlement. The settlement lay four miles northeast and there were little-used, needle-covered roads to be found that led here, there and everywhere, over which the initiated could find the way to the store.
But Lydia and Kent did not want to use the roads. It was with the old familiar sense of make believe adventure that they started on what they called a Bee-line southwest. And it was mid-afternoon before, hungry and leg weary, they reached the store that backed up against the Indian school!
They bought sardines, crackers and cheese and ate them perched on a dry goods box near the hitching rack.
"There! I feel happier," said Kent as he threw away the empty sardine cans. "How are you, old lady?"
Lydia swung her feet contentedly. "Fine! Let's start back. We'll be there by supper time, I'm sure we know the way now."
Kent nodded, offered Lydia a stick of gum, took one himself, put a huge supply in his pocket and they were off.
But alas for the vanity of amateur woods-craftsmen! The late June dusk found them still threading the endless aisles of pine, their sense of direction completely obscured by the sinking of the sun.
"Scared, Lyd?" inquired Kent as they paused for a moment's rest on a log.