Either we had traveled in a southerly direction to where the river took a sharp bend, or were much deeper in the forest than had at first seemed possible to me, for a full hour was spent making our way through the tangled underbrush, now slowly because of the necessity for silence, and again pressing forward as rapidly as we deemed safe, and not until such a length of time had elapsed did we come to the bank of the stream.
That I had allowed myself to be completely turned around was proven by the current of the river, for without such evidence I would have gone toward the south, believing I was making my way northward.
"The canoe must be above us," Paul said as we halted, "and by following the shore it should be possible to come upon it."
This seemed no more than reasonable, and hope once more filled my heart as I led the way along the bank, now moving with greater caution because it was more probable we might come upon the enemy.
One place looked much like another in the darkness, and yet before midnight we arrived at a spot where I firmly believed the dugout had been left.
Paul was of the same opinion, even going so far as to declare that he had noted on coming ashore the gum tree which we were standing near while holding the consultation.
I was disposed to believe as he did, but yet the fact that the canoe could not be found caused me to think both of us were mistaken.
"Surely this can't be the place," I argued, "for none save Simon Kenton could have come upon the canoe in the darkness, and, on failing to find us, he would wait a certain time for our return."
"You can't say that positively," Paul replied, "for the scout realizes that the safety of the volunteers depends upon him in a measure, and would count our lives as of but little value compared with so many as are coming down the river."
"Then you think he has been here and gone away in the boat?" I asked.