With his aunt secure in the saddle, Old Smoke took the reins and brought the pinto to a slow canter, heading for the line of trees to the north. He let his eyes roam over the dazzling panorama of color, scanning for signs of activity. Except for the occasional leaf shower prompted by intermittent gusts of wind there was nothing.
"Are you going to tell me what you have in mind, nephew?" Short Leg said in her most patrician manner.
Old Smoke pointed to a pair of stunted trees--one a sugar maple, the other a hickory--framing the entrance to the path through the woods.
"When we get in there, I'll get off. Don't stop. Ride for another six hundred feet as if nothing happened. Then turn around and come back, but not too fast. I'll find you."
"What are you planning to do?"
"Climb a tree and look around," he said. "And if I see anyone ... do what I have to."
"They might see you getting off. Your plan won't work then."
"I don't think they will--too much foliage in the way. They'll eventually notice I'm not with you, but I should be on my way by then."
And if I'm not I'll be dead, his dreary logic insisted.
)
