Zeke was astounded when he looked around the living-room and recognized Marshal Stone, together with the members of the posse. He suddenly became aware that the change in Uncle Dick was even greater than he had supposed. There had been a radical readjustment of the old man’s’ attitude toward life, which disposed him not only to acceptance of Zeke with affection and confidence, but also to toleration of, and alliance with, the “revenuers,” whom he had so consistently hated through a long lifetime. Zeke refrained however, from any open expression of his amazement, and at once joined the other men in devising a plan of operations to be begun at dawn.

It was decided that Uncle Dick should accompany the marshal and Brant, with the stag-hound, to the tracks of Hodges and Plutina on the north face of Stone Mountain, near Sandy Creek, where the dog could take up the scent, in the hope of solving the mystery that had baffled the human searchers.

Then Uncle Dick interposed a suggestion that suited Zeke well. 202

“If so be,” he exclaimed abruptly, “as how Dan Hodges is atop thet-thar mounting, an’ he gits the dawg nigh the precipice, he might throw the critter over. He’s powerful strong, Dan is, an’ desprit.”

“Yes, the fellow’s capable of it,” Stone agreed.

“I’m a-thinkin’ as hit mout be well fer Zeke to git atop the mounting fust off,” Uncle Dick continued, “an’ watch out fer Hodges. Hit’s pretty open up thar, and easy to waylay a body.”

“I’ll go,” Zeke declared, with eagerness.

The marshal directed the men of the posse to scatter to various points on the railway lines.

“Hodges’ll probably try to get out of the country, the minute he hears the hound after him,” Stone explained. “All of my men have seen him, and they’ll be able to stop him, if he manages somehow to cover his scent from the dog, and get off.”

Sutton, much against his will, was forced to remain inactive at the cabin as he was not physically fitted for the hard tramping over the mountains.

Zeke was the prey of emotions too deep to permit much interest in a stranger, but he had a friendly, if wan, smile for the veteran, whom he remembered from their single meeting. He attempted a display of attention on hearing of the marriage so recently achieved, but the effort failed pitifully. Seth Jones, however, took no offence, since he understood how great must be the young man’s misery. 203 On the contrary, his sympathies were deeply stirred, and he essayed a few words meant to comfort.

“An’ I reckon I’ll go ’long with you-all, Zeke, in the mornin’,” he concluded.

But Zeke shook his head at the offer.

“I got to cross over home fer my rifle-gun,” he explained, vaguely.

“I clean fergot to tell ye,” Uncle Dick cried. “Yer rifle-gun’s hyar, Zeke. I done fotched it over fer ye.”

“Thank ye, Uncle Dick,” was the grave response. But the young man did not rescind his refusal of the veteran’s company.

Uncle Dick offered a share of his bed to Brant and the marshal, but it was refused by both. There were blankets spread for the men on the floor of the porch, where the smoke gushed from a smudge kettle to keep off the mosquitoes. There, presently, the company stretched themselves for the brief dreamless sleep won by the day’s fatigues.

Even Zeke fell into a sound slumber, with the bull-terrier nestled at his breast. He had not thought to sleep, only to lie quiet for a little rest, and then, long before the dawn, to issue forth alone. Nevertheless, his repose was profound for two hours, or more. Perhaps, the stirring of the dog awoke him; perhaps, his own determination, subconsciously 204 exerted. Anyhow, he straightened up suddenly, and stared about him stupidly, reluctant to believe that he had actually slept thus, while Plutina cried out for succor. He was relieved when he perceived that there was not yet even a trace of dawn in the east. He realized that it was as well, for though he had lost little time, he felt vitally refreshed, with new vigors to battle in behalf of the girl he loved. It was but the work of a minute noiselessly to possess himself of his rifle, and to descend the steps. The bull-terrier kept close at his heels. With the dog still following, Zeke, pressed forward through the darkness toward Stone Mountain.

The other sleepers were aroused by Uncle Dick as the first gray light was flushing to the rose of dawn over the eastern mountains. There was some astonishment at finding Zeke already gone, but it subsided quickly, for all understood how great must be his anxiety. The men of the posse duly took their departure for the railway points designated by the marshal. Seth Jones set out in pursuit of Zeke. Stone, with Uncle Dick and Brant, made ready for the actual hunting of the outlaw.

“I’ve seen Jack more than once pick up a cold trail three days old,” the hound’s master declared, with a manifest pride in the creature’s prowess; “and run down his man. Can we get hold of something 205 to give him the scent—an old shoe, or cap—anything?”

“Got jest the thing fer ye,” Uncle Dick replied, leading the way from the cabin toward one of the out-buildings. “Hit’s an ole coat. Dan left hit one hot day when he stopped in at my forge, to tinker the rivets to the cap o’ the still. Hit was dum hot thet day, an’ he left ’is coat. ’Twa’n’t wuth comin’ back fer. I ’low the smell’s about all thet’s left to hit.”

Brant showed the tattered garment to the stag-hound, and bade the animal smell it. The dog sniffed obediently a few times, sneezed as if in disgust of the odor, regarded its master understandingly, and then walked away.

“That’s all that’s necessary,” Cyclone Brant declared. “The dog and I are ready.”

Forthwith, the three men, with the hound, set forth toward the southeast, to cut the track of the outlaw near Sandy creek. They followed the trail to a point some distance beyond the Woodruff Gate, and then left it to ascend the precipitous slopes near the eastern end of Stone Mountain. They were not far from Sandy Creek Falls, when the marshal halted, and pointed out the remains of a camp-fire.

“This is where Hodges stopped to cook his supper the first night,” he explained. “I followed the 206 tracks on to the creek, and up it to the falls, where I lost them. Now, it’s up to the dog.”

A growl from the hound caused the three to look up, startled. There was an exclamation from Uncle Dick, and the rifle leaped to his shoulder.

“No, no—don’t shoot!” Stone ordered. He, too, had seen and recognized Garry Hawks, as the fellow, evidently disconcerted by their presence there, slipped stealthily into the laurel. “He’ll be more useful to us alive presently,” he explained to Uncle Dick, who had obeyed protestingly.

“Thet’s so, likely,” the old man conceded grudgingly. Then he chuckled harshly, for the first time since Plutina’s disappearance. “Got his right wing slung up! Did ye see hit? Tiny done hit—pore gal! Purty peart at shootin’, Tiny is. Thet-thar—”

“There’s a fresh track here made by Hodges,” the marshal exclaimed, interrupting. He pointed to a plain imprint on the dirt covering of a flat rock.

Brant brought his dog to the spot, pointed to the footprint, and slipped the leash. The hound lowered its head, snuffed at the ground, and gave tongue. In the same second, it was off at speed, running with muzzle low, with the continuous whining yelps that told of a warm scent. It did not vanish into the coverts as all had expected, but followed through the open place that led to the northward, skirting 207 the wood. As the men hurried after, they caught a final glimpse of the dog two hundred yards beyond, just disappearing over a ridge. They followed the sound of its baying with what haste they might, yet slowly, by reason of the difficult going. The dog’s cries guided them, much to the surprise of Uncle Dick and the marshal, straight toward Sandy Creek Falls, whither the first tracks of the outlaw and the girl had led, and where they had been so mysteriously lost. As the three scrambled up a steep ascent, scarcely a hundred yards from the sand-bar, there came to their ears from the hound a high, melancholy howl.

“It means that Jack is at fault, somehow,” Brant explained in answer to a grunt of inquiry from Uncle Dick. “Something puzzling him for a minute.”

The two listeners looked at each other with grave faces. Was it possible, they wondered, that the hound would be baffled, even as they had been, there at the pool? But their expression lightened the next moment, for two sharp, harsh barks came from the dog, which was evidently still in the neighborhood of the falls, and its master interpreted:

“Jack’s treed his game, sure’s you’re born!”

The three topped the ridge, and broke into a run down the slope, their rifles at the ready. Within the minute, they leaped from the thicket into the 208 open place below the falls. Then, with one accord, they stopped short and stood staring bewilderedly.

The hound continued its deep-chested baying. It stood erect on its hind legs, almost to a man’s height. It was supported by its fore-paws extended as far up as they would reach against the wall of the precipice, a little to the left of the waterfall. As it barked, the dog held its muzzle pointed straight upward. There could be no doubt, if the sensitiveness of the brute were to be relied on, that its quarry had, in some incomprehensible fashion, contrived to mount the sheer surface of the cliff. That the hound was sure, was made plain by the rigidity of its posture, by the fierce, challenging ululations, which pealed forth incessantly.

The three men went forward presently, their gaze wandering aloft from the dog, over the inaccessible expanse of vertical cliffs. They came down to the sand-bar, and followed it around the pool, still in silence, and still with their puzzled eyes roving hither and yon for some clue to understanding of this thing. But, of a sudden, Uncle Dick shouted:

“I see how ’tis! I shorely kotch on. Looky thar!”

The marshal and Brant followed the direction of his pointing arm, but they saw nothing to make the matter clear—only a tiny ledge, fifty feet above them, along which grew a few bushes and clumps 209 of ground pine. It offered no hiding-place for a child even, hardly footing for the outlaw’s heavy bulk. But Uncle Dick shook his head to rebuke their lack of comprehension, then explained:

“Dan’s a keen un, all right,” he said, with grudging admiration. “But this-hyar time he’s done left ’is mark fer my ole eyes to see. Now, you-all jest throw yer eyes o’ vision up the side o’ the cliff ag’in. If ye looks cluss, ye kin see a streak o’ dampness on the rock. Hit’s jet as if a mounting rattler mout ’a’ dove down the rock right thar. But ’twa’n’t thet. Thet-thar streak is the mark of a wet rope—er mebby a grape-vine. Thet’s the way them devils git up an’ down. I’ll bet every stick o’ my mounting timber them cusses got a cave up thar, offen the ledge. P’rhaps Garry Hawks jest got up, since we-uns seen ’im. An’ the rock hain’t had time to dry from the rope, er vine, a-gittin’ wet in the falls. Dan Hodges thought he had a mighty cute place to lay out in. But he’s kotched jest the same—damn ’im!... Good dawg!” The change in Uncle Dick’s voice as he spoke the last two words was startling.

The two listeners accepted the old man’s solution, but they did not share his enthusiasm. On the contrary, they were very grave, for the task before them appeared formidable, if not impossible, of achievement. As they continued silent, gazing upward 210 with frowning faces, Uncle Dick regarded them at first in perplexity, then in rapidly-mounting apprehension.

“What’s a-bitin’ on ye?” he demanded, at last.

The marshal replied.

“There’s no way of getting them out of there. They’re armed and not particular about murder. They can hold that fort till kingdom-come. Dan could alone. There’s nothing for it but to starve ’em out—if they’re there.”

“And the trouble about that is,” Brant added, “that they’ve got the girl for hostage. It seems to me that this Dan Hodges has the whip-hand.”

For a little, Uncle Dick, who had paled under the tan, stood silent, looking helplessly from one to the other of his companions. Then he groaned aloud. But in the next instant, he straightened to his full height. His face grew convulsed with rage, as he faced the cliff, and his great voice volumed above the clamor of the cataract:

“God A’mighty damn ye, Dan Hodges! Damn ye—damn ye!”

And then again:

“Damn ye, Dan Hodges, ferever an’ ferever!”