“Shouldn’t we be coming to the log bridge?” Ken complained after a while.
“Seems like it,” Jack said, halting to shift his pack. “Around this next bend, I think.”
Realization that the long trek was nearing its end gave the four renewed strength. On they went through the darkness. The night air was cold and very still, and the only sound that of the rushing torrent.
Phillipe, who was a little ahead of the other three, abruptly halted. He uttered a grunt of surprise and dismay.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Livingston demanded.
Receiving no answer, he and the Scouts pressed quickly on.
They came upon Phillipe standing on the rocks, staring at the racing stream. For a moment, they could not comprehend the reason for his dead silence.
“Say, isn’t this the place where we crossed this morning?” Jack finally asked, noting several vaguely familiar landmarks.
Phillipe inclined his head. “Same place.”
“But it can’t be!” burst out Ken. “There’s no bridge!”