“Watch that old windfall,” he whispered.
Walter looked in the direction indicated and studied the tangle of fallen timber a hundred yards away, but for the life of him he could make out nothing that in any way resembled an animal. A slow smile dawned on the good-natured, sun-browned face watching him. Then slowly Big Jim stooped and picked up a good-sized stick, which he broke in his hands with a sharp snap.
Instantly there was a startled whistle, followed by a sudden crash at one end of the fall, and Walter caught a glimpse of two slim reddish-brown legs and a white “flag” ridiculously like a magnified edition of the little bunch of cotton which had been his last glimpse of Brer Rabbit early that morning. There were two or three diminishing crashes beyond the windfall and then all was still.
Walter turned to look at the guide, whose mouth was broadly stretched in a hearty but noiseless laugh. “Did you see her all the time?” he whispered.
Big Jim nodded. “Sure,” he replied. “Yer see, son, yer was lookin’ fer somethin’ thet wasn’t thar—Mrs. Lightfoot right out on full dress parade like yer’ve seen ’em in a park, mebbe, and o’ course yer didn’t see her. Now I was lookin’ fer jest a leetle patch o’ red, which couldn’t nohow be leaves at this season o’ year, and I see it right away. Yer most generally see what you’re lookin’ fer—if it’s thar. In the woods th’ thing is t’ know what t’ look fer.”
His face clouded suddenly as he continued. “I don’t nohow like th’ way she dusted out. If it was th’ huntin’ season I wouldn’t think nothin’ o’ it. But it ain’t, and she ought not t’ hev run more’n a couple o’ hundred yards afore she got so blamed curious thet she’d hev stopped and then come a-sneakin’ back t’ see what had given her thet sudden attack o’ heart disease. She was sure scared, and she’s been worse scared quite lately.”
They resumed their tramp in the same cautious manner as before, finding several old tracks and two or three fresh ones, to none of which Big Jim gave more than a moment’s attention. Then they ran across a trail which, from the size of the prints, Walter knew must have been made by a big buck. The guide wet a finger and carefully tested the direction of the wind, which was so faint as not to be perceptible to the dry skin. Satisfied that the trail led directly into the wind he started to follow it, explaining as they went along that had the trail led down wind it would have been useless to waste time following it, for the game would have scented them long before they were near it.
The course now led up to higher ground and only such trained eyes as the guide’s could have picked it out. As they approached the top of the ridge Big Jim suddenly left the trail and made a wide détour to the left, then circled back to the top of the ridge, along which he led the way with the utmost caution, stopping at every step to study the landscape in front and below. Finally in the shelter of a young hemlock he stopped and nodded for Walter to join him.
“Look in thet thicket o’ young hemlocks a couple o’ hundred yards down from th’ top o’ the ridge,” he whispered.
Walter looked as directed, but for a few minutes could make out nothing unusual. Then he recalled his lesson earlier in the day and looked for a “patch o’ red.” Almost at once he saw it, low down under the hemlocks, and by looking intently soon made out the form of the buck lying down in unsuspicious contentment.