It may be said that a turkey can and does fly in the air and leaves no trail, but Henry knew that the one for which they looked might leave no trail, but it did not fly in the air.
Time passed; noon and part of the afternoon were gone, and they were still curving in a great circle about the camp, when Ross, suddenly stopped beside a little brook, or branch, as he and his comrades always called them, and pointed to the soft soil at the edge of the water.
Henry followed the long finger and saw the outline of a footstep.
"Our turkey has passed here." The guide nodded.
"Most likely," he said, "and if not ours, then one of the same flock.
But that footprint is three or four hours old.

Come on, we'll follow this trail until it grows too warm." The footsteps led down the side of the brook, and when they curved away from it Ross was able to trace them on the turf and through the undergrowth.

A half mile from the start other footsteps joined them, and these were obviously made by many men, perhaps a score of warriors.
"You see," said Ross, "I guess they've just come across the Ohio or we wouldn't be left all these days b'il'n salt so peaceful, like as if there wasn't an Indian in the whole world." Henry drew a deep breath.

Like all who ventured into the West he expected some day to be exposed to Indian danger and attack, but it had been a vague thought.

Even when they came north to the Big Bone Lick it was still a dim far-away affair, but now he stood almost in its presence.