It was a beautiful morning; the dew glistened on the green leaves, the sun shone bright and warm, the birds warbled in the trees.  The hunter’s moccasins pressed so gently on the moss and leaves that they made no more sound than the soft foot of a panther.  His trained ear was alert to catch any unfamiliar noise; his keen eyes sought first the remoter open glades and glens, then bent their gaze on the mossy bluff beneath his feet.  Fox squirrels dashed from before him into bushy retreats; grouse whirred away into the thickets; startled deer whistled, and loped off with their white-flags upraised.  Wetzel knew from the action of these denizens of the woods that he was the only creature, not native to these haunts, who had disturbed them this morning.  Otherwise the deer would not have been grazing, but lying low in some close thicket; fox squirrels seldom or never were disturbed by a hunter twice in one day, for after being frightened these little animals, wilder and shyer than gray squirrels, remained hidden for hours, and grouse that have been flushed a little while before, always get up unusually quick, and fly very far before alighting.

Wetzel circled back over the hill, took a long survey from a rocky eminence, and then reconnoitered the lowland for several miles.  He located the herd of buffalo, and satisfying himself there were no Indians near—­for the bison were grazing quietly—­he returned to the cave.  A soft whistle into the back door of the rocky home told Joe that the hunter was waiting.

“Coast clear?” whispered the lad, thrusting his head out of the entrance.  His gray eyes gleamed brightly, showing his eager spirit.

The hunter nodded, and, throwing his rifle in the hollow of his arm, proceeded down the hill.  Joe followed closely, endeavoring, as Wetzel had trained him, to make each step precisely in the hunter’s footprints.  The lad had soon learned to step nimbly and softly as a cat.  When half way down the bill Wetzel paused.

“See anythin’?” he whispered.

Joe glanced on all sides.  Many mistakes had taught him to be cautious.  He had learned from experience that for every woodland creature he saw, there were ten watching his every move.  Just now he could not see even a little red squirrel.  Everywhere were sturdy hickory and oak trees, thickets and hazelnuts, slender ash saplings, and, in the open glades, patches of sumach.  Rotting trees lay on the ground, while ferns nodded long, slender heads over the fallen monarchs.  Joe could make out nothing but the colors of the woods, the gray of the tree trunks, and, in the openings through the forest-green, the dead purple haze of forests farther on.  He smiled, and, shaking his head at the hunter, by his action admitted failure.

“Try again.  Dead ahead,” whispered Wetzel.

Joe bent a direct gaze on the clump of sassafras one hundred feet ahead.  He searched the open places, the shadows—­even the branches.  Then he turned his eyes slowly to the right.  Whatever was discernible to human vision he studied intently.  Suddenly his eye became fixed on a small object protruding from behind a beech tree.  It was pointed, and in color darker than the gray bark of the beech.  It had been a very easy matter to pass over this little thing; but now that the lad saw it, he knew to what it belonged.