Then he heard a voice. It was not the voice of either of his comrades, nor was it the voice of either outlaw. It was a voice soft and low, the voice of the Rocky Mountains calling to him the way to go; the scarce audible murmur of the stream far in the distance.

To Westy the sound was as welcome as a log would be to a man drowning. He heard it, a low, steady ripple, far in the fathomless night. Here was a voice he need not fear, thrice welcome voice that would guide him to his friends and arouse no one.

He ran now in the direction of this distant sound. Now and again he had to pause and listen, so faint was it. Once, when the fitful breeze was wrong, he could not hear it. He paused in the still, lonesome night, caught the faint murmur, and hurried on.

He was not running down hill, that was sure. But the murmur of the brook was louder now; he was approaching it. Soon it had swelled into a merry, little song with an accompaniment of splashing as it hurried over rocks. The cheery preoccupation of the rushing stream was in odd contrast to all about; it seemed so carefree and intent there in the very neighborhood of the most harrowing experience of Westy’s life. It was quite happy and at home, alone in the Rockies.

Presently he reached it and knew that he was at a point about half a mile below the cleft. Instead of going straight toward the cleft he had descended the hill southward, converging toward the brook, and reaching it at a point where it had flowed down into comparatively level country. He stood near a large rock which he remembered passing when they had followed the stream up to the cleft.

And now, nerve-racked and fatigued in body, his bare feet sore and bleeding, Westy paused for just a moment to make sure of his direction. He knew where he was, the rock was like an oasis in the trackless desert, and the brook was like a trail. But he was not going to trifle with his good fortune now. He would verify every surmise. He would not make a mistake in his elation. He could see nothing. In which direction, then, was the cleft?

He was almost certain about this; yes, of course he was certain; he laughed at the thought of there being any doubt about it. He found it easy to laugh. Yet if the cleft lay upstream—— Well, first he would determine which way was upstream.

And just then Westy Martin showed what kind of a scout he was. He was just about to step into the water to feel which way it flowed when something deterred him. In that brief second of inspired thought he was the scout par excellence. Instead of stepping into the brook he laid a twig in the water and watched it hurry away in the rippling current. Of course he was right about the direction of the flowing water, the twig confirmed his assurance of this.

Well then, why could he not, looking upstream, see the light of his companions’ fire in the cleft? In the afternoon, from this point, they had seen the very spot where they later camped. He was puzzled and looked in the other direction—downstream. There was no spark anywhere, only dense blackness.

Well, he was sure anyway; he could not be mistaken. He knew which way was upstream and his friends were there, light or no light. They were there if nothing had happened to them. What could have happened to them?

Well, he was sure and he would play his trump card. He would show Bloodhound Pete that there was at least one thing besides an airplane that he could not trail. He took his next momentous step as thoughtfully as he would have spent his last dollar. He stooped and selected a spot where an area of soft earth bordered the stream. Here his footprints would be clear. Then he walked into the stream, approaching it not squarely, but converging toward it at an angle.

He entered the water facing upstream so as to give the impression that this was his direction, as indeed it was, as far as the cleft. If he turned in the water and retraced his course, no one would see the footprints disclosing this maneuver. The friendly brook had guided him and now he used it as his good ally. Once in the stream he could move in either direction and no one would know in which direction he moved. A pursuer would think that he had gone upstream.