“Yes,” said Jack. “And from now on we’ll have our bearings pretty well laid out for us. Running Elk and myself hunted hereabouts two winters ago; that’s how we came to have the country so well in mind.”
They forded the river and camped for the night on the opposite bank; next morning, after breakfast, Frank got out his chart, roughly done upon a piece of tanned deerskin in the pigment used by the Indians.
“Here,” said he, his finger indicating the places on the chart, “is the Alabama. Just below is a place where a smaller stream flows into it, and upon the point of land between the two is a small clump of trees under which is written ‘Triple Oaks.’”
“The clump would be three trees, I think,” said Jack, “and pretty big ones, to make them stand out so as to be noticed more than others.”
“I should say so, too,” agreed Frank.
“There is such a place as that not far down-stream,” said Jack. “At least I think there is. I remember some big oaks, just at a place where a creek runs into the river. But how many there are, I don’t know.” Then turning to Running Elk, he asked, “What do you remember about it?”
The young Cherokee’s reply was brief and comprehensive.
“One, two, three,” he counted upon his fingers. “Three oak trees. Grow near creek on river bank. Half a sun’s ride.”
Jack chuckled and nodded to Frank.
“He never forgets anything like that.”