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 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 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 with frowning faces, Uncle Dick regarded them at first in perplexity, then in rapidly-mounting apprehension.