"I—I don't know what to do," faltered the young hunter, staring first at the helpless man before him and then at the gloomy surroundings. "Wait a minute, and keep your hands on your gun. But don't shoot me or Henry or your wife by mistake."
Leaving Risley in the center of the little opening Dave started to walk around in a wide circle. He did this with extreme caution, his head bent close to the ground and his eyes noting every root and rock that covered his path. Then he took another circle, still wider, and at last came back to where his companion stood, the picture of misery and despair.
"I found nothing," he said, in reply to the Englishman's questioning. "They are gone, and I don't believe there are any Indians close to us. I'm going to make a light and risk it."
He brought forth his flint and tinder and soon had a tiny light, which he applied to some dry leaves and then a stick of wood which was full of pine pitch. This latter made a fairly good torch, and holding it close to the ground he continued the search.
Suddenly he uttered a cry of horror. He had come to a spot where the ground was torn up by many footprints. Close at hand was a white birch tree and on its bark were several spots of deep red.
