Over the dry leaves, the pebbly earth, the fresh grass, the swampy hollow--everywhere, he followed it with unerring skill.
"That Injin has been on a hunt," he muttered, "and is going back home agin.

If it keeps in this direction much longer, I'll believe he's from the very village I'm hunting after.

Heigh! there's something else up!" He suddenly checked himself and began snuffing the air, as though it was tainted with something suspicious.
"I hope I may be shot if there ain't a camp-fire within two hundred yards of where I am standing." He looked sharply around in every direction, but saw nothing of the camp, although positive that his olfactories could not have deceived him.
"Whether it belongs to white or red can't be said, _sartin_; but it's a great deal most likely that it's red, and it's just about as sartin that that Injin ahead of me has gone pretty close to the camp, so I'll keep on follering him." A short distance further he became assured that he was in close proximity to the fire, and he began to use extreme caution in his movements.

He knew very well how slight an inadvertence would betray his approach, and a betrayal was almost fatal.

Advancing some distance further, he suddenly came in full view of the camp-fire.