“To begin with,” Tom said, “I set straight out, intending to follow up, if I could, the scarred footprint.”
“He sounds like Sherlock Holmes,” said Brent, poking a log into the flames. Tom took no notice of the interruption.
“At first I didn’t fare very well in that direction. Too much undergrowth. But, around noontime, up on the second slope, I discovered some soft moss under a huge tree. And I saw some footprints. Of an animal.
“I got curious and looked on further. No sign of any more. So after a while I went on back to the tree and tore up some weeds just beyond it. Found more footprints of the same animal and followed them on down the slope.
“And along with the animal’s tracks, sometimes a little ahead or just beside them; sometimes a trifle back—was the scarred footprint!”
“This is interesting,” I murmured. “Go on.”
“I followed it carefully. Every little way I stopped and examined the ground where it seemed to be soft. I’d find them together most every time—the human, bare footprints that had sunken in the soft ground under the frail weeds and those of the animal.
“Oh, I was pretty much convinced. But I wanted to make sure and when I got through fussing around, it was six o’clock.
“I took enough grub with me so I sat down and finished what I had left from noon. About that time the sun was setting. Somehow, it gave me a hunch to stick around.
“Well, I looked around and found myself a nice perch up in a tree overlooking the rocks and the camp. It wasn’t long after dark that the moon made a feeble effort to come through the clouds. It had quite a ring around it last night, if you remember; still there was enough light for me to see the rocks and a little beyond.