He was what his ancestors had been for unnumbered generations, a primeval son of the wilderness, seeking the life of the enemy who came seeking his.
He kept to his hands and knees, and made no sound as he advanced, but at intervals he dropped his ear to the ground, and heard the faint rustling that was drawing nearer.

He decided that it was a single warrior who by some chance had struck their trail in the dusk, and who, with minute pains and with slowness but certainty, was following it.
His course took him about thirty yards among the bushes and then through high grass growing luxuriantly in the open.

In the grass his eye also helped him, because at a point straight ahead the tall stems were moving slightly in a direction opposed to the wind.

He took the knife in his teeth and went on, sure that bold means would be best.
The stalking warrior who in his turn was stalked did not hear him until he was near, and then, startled, he sprang to his feet, knife in hand.

Tayoga snatched his own from his teeth and stood erect facing him.