Free Over the Misty Mountains by Gilbert Morris Page A

quickly arose, made up his pack, and after feeding the horse a bagful of oats, he swung into the saddle and made his way along the creek. Josh’s eyes moved from side to side, for he had already developed the habit of watching, as much as possible, for any movement that might signal danger.
    He had a sudden memory of Saul Elliott, an old backwoodsman who had taught him, when he was just a boy, much of what he knew about his woodsmanship. “Don’t ever fix your eyes on an object, Josh,” Elliott had said. “Kind of shift ’em back and forth, from side to side, and as far ahead as possible. If you get to starin’ at somethin’, you can be trapped. Kind of freezes you, like.”
    Moving briskly through the deep woods, his mind studied the trees and their various uses. Some of the ash trees grew a hundred feet high, and he knew they would be good for paddles and for oars and for leaching lye. It made good wood for a puncheon floor because it whitened under use. Then there was hickory, the best of all woods for an ax or a hatchet handle. He saw the stands of oaks, and already his mind was thinking of the cabin he would build somewhere. Once he saw a young elm bordering on a hazelnut thicket, and he thought, I remember Ma saying that makes a good poultice for cuts and bad wounds .
    All day long he moved forward steadily, not pushing his animal, but simply soaking in the silence of the dense woods about him. He saw a few animals, but no bear. They’ll be all holed up . A humorous thought struck him. I wish a man could do that. Just go hide out somewhere and sleep all winter long, and come out in the spring all fresh and ready for the world. Don’t reckon I’d miss too much if I did that .
    Once Josh saw a flash, a movement by a frozen stream, but by the time he had unlimbered his musket, the small animal was gone. Must have been a fisher or a mink or maybe a rabbit . . . .
    Worry suddenly crept like a worm into his thinking. Even in the peace that had enveloped him like a warm cape since leaving Williamsburg and putting his life behind him, somehow arose the thought, What am I going to do with myself? I can’t wander around the woods until I’m an old man .
    The thought nibbled at the edges of his consciousness, and he could not get rid of it. One part of him was imaginative, creative, but the other was analytical—his mother had once said to him with exasperation, “I do declare, Josh! You have to organize everything and put it into a compartment—like a woman storing her spices!”
    Josh had never forgotten that statement, and now he tried desperately to throw off all thoughts of the future. Reaching down, he patted his horse on the shoulder, saying firmly, “I don’t want to have any more worries than you do, Rusty. As long as you got something to eat, you’re all right. I envy you that.”
    Still, the little voice that served as a spokesman for the analytical side of his spirit said, “But a man’s not a horse. He can go back and relive the past. And even more, he can jump ahead in his mind and know that something lies out there ahead of him.”
    Turning aside from the disturbing thoughts that gnawed at him, Josh deliberately forced himself to think on his immediate needs. Need something for the pot tonight , he thought and checked the priming in his rifle. Tying the horse out, he fed him some of the oats, noting that one more feed was all the bag held. He moved on into the deep thickets. Finally he found a trail with some tracks and stopped with his back up against a huge beech tree. He held the rifle loosely but firmly in his hands. That was another secret Elliott had given him. “When you’re huntin’, boy, just become a tree yourself. Animals see movement quicker than they smell things. So if you can just be still long enough, something’s gonna show its head.”
    For thirty minutes Josh remained absolutely still. An itch developed on his lip, but he would not even reach up with his lower teeth and