Until now, Hardy had lived in a state of apprehension, fearing the dangers of the trail less than he feared his inability to cope with them.  But now, suddenly, he found himself confident.  They had been on the trail for several days, and they had survived.

He was up on Big Red and the stallion was moving along at a pleasant gait.  Betty Sue was sleeping peacefully, and for the first time she was not whimpering in her sleep.  But above all, he felt that he was thinking well about their situation.

It was the fish that began it.  Hardy had crossed the stream twice during the last half-mile, and then had re-entered it and traveled a quarter of a mile upstream in the water.

There are few trails that, given time, cannot be worked out by a good tracker, and Hardy had small hope of losing the Indian.  All he could do was play for time; and perhaps he could gain as much as an hour - maybe several hours.

It was while riding in the water that he saw the fish, and for the first time he began to realize how much his worry had kept him from making the most of the country.

Back home he had often watched the Indian boys making fish traps of branches and reeds; in fact, he had helped them, and had caught fish by that method.  Here he was, going hungry with a stream close by that was filled with fish.  His arm was aching from supporting Betty Sue's head, but his mind was busy with the problem.  To make a fish trap he would need a little time... he could make one, with good luck, in an hour or less.  He could set it at night, and perhaps find fish in the morning.  His bad luck was that he had to keep moving....

Or did he?

Suppose he left the trail?  By now the Indian would be sure he was headed west, as most white men were, and was keeping to the trail.  What if he selected some not too obvious spot and left the trail entirely?  Suppose he took to the hills and camped beside some small stream until he could catch agood meal or two, perhaps even enough fish to smoke a few for the days ahead?

He could broil the fish over a fire, or in the coals. As far as that went, he could make a dish out of bark, as his father had taught him.  There were plants around that could be cooked with meat or fish... he just had not been thinking.

The air was fresh and cool, the stream rustled along over the rocks, and occasionally wind stirred in the trees.  When the wind came down off the snowfields on top of the mountains, it was chill.  Several times, topping out on small rises among the trees, he had looked back.  So far he had not seen the Indian once, but he felt sure he was back there.

The trouble with leaving the trail was that he might miss his father, who he still felt must be searching for him.  But his father was a man who used his head, and he knew how Hardy thought.  Of course, in the past there had been those signs they left for each other, signs to indicate a change of direction, or to show when the trail was abandoned.  Undoubtedly any sign he left for his father the Indian would see, too.  The usual way to leave sign was with rocks: one or two rocks piled on top of another, with a rock beside the pile to indicate direction, or a broken branch to point the way.