They saw Indian signs, once a feather that had fallen from a scalp lock, once footprints, and once the bone of a deer recently thrown away by him who had eaten the meat from it.

The country seemed to be as wild as that of Kentucky.

Small settlements, so they had heard, were scattered at great distances through the forest, but they saw none.

There was no cabin smoke, no trail of the plow, just the woods and the hills and the clear streams.

Buffalo had never reached this region, but deer were abundant, and they risked a shot to replenish their supplies.
They camped the second night of their march on a little peninsula at the confluence of two creeks, with the deep woods everywhere.