As he emerged, his hand had brushed the feathers of the wood duck. He took it down and slung it fumblingly to his roll of blanket. Less by taking thought than by old instinct, he remembered his cartridge belt, and found and strapped it on. Then he stood hesitating.
“Gotta tell ’em,” he suggested, looking at his father.
She had shouldered her pack and stood waiting.
“Why?” she demanded. “It’ll only be harder for him if they come. This way he won’t know, and he can tell ’em so.”
In this there was reason, but not, it seemed, enough reason. The Inger stood trying to recall something pressing on him for remembrance: if not his father, what was it that he must do or fetch, before he left. He put both hands to his head, but in there was only a current and a beating.
“There’s s’more to do,” he said indistinctly.
Lory Moor stepped toward him and laid her hand briskly on his shoulder, with a boy’s gesture of eager haste.
“The trail—the trail!” she said, with authority. “Find us the trail.”
Without a word he started, went round the end of the hut, and plunged into the wood, which ran down to the very wall. In a half dozen steps the ascent began.