The night was spent in seeing to rifles and pistols and getting some snatches of sleep. At the first faint sign of dawn the trailing party, in which was Boone, Oliver and his two friends, took up the signs at the river brink and followed them off into the woods.
As cunning as foxes the Indians, knowing that they would be swiftly hunted by the whites, took pains to hide their trail from the very start. And the methods used threw off the trackers for a short time. Into a dense cane-brake led the tracks, and then they seemed to disappear. Keenly, eagerly the hunters sought here and there, but the wile of the savage baffled them.
“Lads,” said Boone, finally, wiping his brow, and leaning upon his long rifle, “there’s no use in wasting time. As soon as the varmints got into the cane they separated and slipped through it like ghosts. And we might hunt for hours and never pick up the trail.”
“Well?” asked one of the men. “What shall we do?”
Boone led the way to the point at which the footprints ceased.
“Here’s where they separate,” said he, “but the separation is not for good; they keep the same general direction. And that shows that they intend to meet somewhere further on when they think we’ve been thrown off the track completely.”
The woodsmen looked at the tracks once more and nodded their appreciation.
“Suppose we work on that,” proceeded Boone. “This bit of cane is a big one; let’s skirt it and run the chance of coming on the trail at the other side.”
At once this was decided on by the party; with the long, swinging stride of the hunter they journeyed around the cane; this forced them to cover some thirty miles, but at the end they found that Boone’s reasoning had been correct; the Indians had come together somewhere in the tangle and there lay their trail, plainly read by all.
Trained woodsmen all, with the exception of the three boys, and even these possessed no mean skill, the settlers looked to Boone for the word of command.