Across the brook he
could see the tracks no farther, for he was too little of a
woodsman to follow so old a trail, but as he stood behind a clump
of rhododendron, wondering what he could do, he heard the crack of
a dead stick down the stream, and noiselessly he moved farther
into the bushes. His heart thumped in the silence--the long
silence that followed--for it might be a hostile Tolliver that was
coming, so he pulled his pistol from his holster, made ready, and
then, noiseless as a shadow, the Red Fox slipped past him along
the path, in his moccasins now, and with his big Winchester in his
left hand. The Red Fox, too, was looking for that cartridge shell,
for only the night before had he heard for the first time of the
whispered suspicions against him. He was making for the blind and
Hale trembled at his luck. There was no path on the other side of
the stream, and Hale could barely hear him moving through the
bushes. So he pulled off his boots and, carrying them in one hand,
slipped after him, watching for dead twigs, stooping under the
branches, or sliding sidewise through them when he had to brush
between their extremities, and pausing every now and then to
listen for an occasional faint sound from the Red Fox ahead.
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