It began to seem a fool's errand.
I thought of returning.
Perhaps it was a boyish feeling that took me to the sycamore. I looked
about. The ashes of our little fire still lay in a rounded pile, and
at the edge of the pile, printed deep in the yielding surface, was a
moccasin print. It was not the woman's moccasin, nor my own boot. One
look showed me that.
And then I went over the surrounding ground. I learned nothing, for
pebbles and short grass are as non-committal as a Paris pavement. The
print had been made before the mist fell, for the dew was unbrushed. I
looked at the encircling forest, and its dripping uniformity gave no
clue. I knocked the charred tobacco from my pipe, pulled my hat down
on my ears, and plunged straight ahead.
It was a fool's way of going at the matter, but a fool has as good a
chance as a philosopher in such a case. I clove my way through the
mist as blind and breathless as a swimmer in a breaker. The forest was
thickly grown and the trees stood about me as alike as water-reeds.
Whenever I touched one it pelted me with drops, and I was numbed with
cold. My feet slipped, for the ground was slimy with wet. But I was
not thinking of comfort, nor of speed.
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