The character of the country did not change. Still the low
rolling hills, still the splendid forests of oak and elm, beech, maple and
hickory, and of all their noble kin, still the little brooks of clear
water, still the deer and the buffalo, grazing in the glades, and taking
but little notice of the strange human figure as it passed. Presently, the
shiftless one stopped again and he did another thing, yet stranger than
the pressing-in of the foot-prints beside the little stream. He drew the
hatchet from his belt and cut a chip out of the bark of a hickory. A
hundred yards further on he did the same thing, and, at three hundred
yards or so, he cut the chip for the third time. He looked well at the
marks, saw that they were clear, distinct and unmistakable, and then the
peculiar little smile of satisfaction would pass again over his face.
But these stops were only momentary. Save for them he never ceased his
rapid course, and always it led straight toward the south. When the sun
was squarely overhead, pouring down a flood of golden beams, he paused in
the shade of a mighty oak, and took food from his belt. He might have
eaten there in silence and obscurity, but once more the shiftless one
showed a singular lack of caution and woodcraft.
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