It was a wonderful bear country. Their signs were everywhere
along the stream, and their number and freshness made Baree restless.
David travelled until dark. He had the desire to go on even then. He
built a small fire instead, and cooked his supper. For a long time after
that he sat in the moonlight smoking his pipe, and still listening. He
tried not to think. The next day would settle his doubts. The Girl? What
would he find? He went to sleep late and awoke with the summer dawn.
The stream grew narrower and the country wilder as he progressed. It was
noon when Baree stopped dead in his tracks, stiff-legged, the bristles
of his spine erect, a low and ominous growl in his throat. He was
standing over a patch of white sand no larger than a blanket.
"What is it, boy?" asked David.
He went to him casually, and stood for a moment at the edge of the sand
without looking down, lighting his pipe.
"What is it?"
The next moment his heart seemed rising up into his throat. He had been
expecting what his eyes looked upon now, and he had been watching for
it, but he had not anticipated such a tremendous shock. The imprint of a
moccasined foot in the sand! There was no doubt of it this time. A human
foot had made it--one, two, three, four, five times--in crossing that
patch of sand! He stood with the pipe in his mouth, staring down,
apparently without power to move or breathe.
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