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 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 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!"