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.