Had there been light, they could have recovered this knowledge by observing the bark upon the trees—a craft well-known to the backwoods hunter—but it was too dark to make such an observation. Even amidst the darkness, Hickman alleged he could tell north from south by the “feel” of the bark: and for this purpose I now saw him groping against the trunks. I noticed that he passed from one to another, trying several of them, the better to confirm his observations.
After carrying on these singular manoeuvres for a period of several minutes, he turned to his comrade with an exclamation that betokened surprise:—
“Dog-gone my cats, Jim,” said he, speaking in an undertone, “these woods are altered since you and I war hyar—what the ole scratch kin be the matter wi’ ’em? The bark’s all peeled off and thar as dry as punk.”
“I was thinkin’ they had a kewrious look,” replied the other, “but I s’posed it was the darkness o’ the night.”
“Neer a bit of it—the trees is altered someways, since we war hyar afore! They are broom pines—that I recollect well enough—let’s git a bunch o’ the leaves, and see how they looks.”
Saying this, he reached his hand upwards, and plucked one of the long fascicles that drooped overhead.
“Ugh!” continued he, crushing the needles between his fingers, “I see how it are now. The darnationed moths has been at ’em—the trees are dead.
“D’yer think thar all dead?” he inquired after a pause, and then advancing a little, he proceeded to examine some others.
“Dead as durnation!—every tree o’ ’em—wal! we must go by guess-work—thar’s no help for it, boys. Ole Hick kin guide you no furrer. I’m dead beat, and know no more ’bout the direkshun o’ that ere pond, than the greenest greenhorn among ye.”
This acknowledgment produced no very pleasant effect. Thirst was torturing all those who heard it. Hitherto, trusting that the skill of the hunters would enable them to find water, they had sustained it with a degree of patience. It was now felt more acutely than ever.