With noisy barks, the dogs began running about the camp with noses to the ground, sniffing at the ponies again and again, the little party in the meantime, watching them with keen interest.
All at once, with a deep bay, Mustard struck out for the bushes, followed an instant later by Ginger.
"They've got it! They've got it!" shouted Lige. "That's the way Tad went. Now, if those brutes don't get sidetracked on the trail of a bob-cat, we ought to round up some of our missing friends."
Lige bade Ned to accompany him on Jo-Jo, and directed the others to remain in camp—not to move from it until their return. Then the two horsemen set off at a gallop, following the swiftly moving dogs.
Lige knew that he was on the right track, for Tad, as he was dragged through the bushes, had left a plainly marked trail—that is, plain to the experienced eyes of the mountain guide, who nodded his head with satisfaction as he noted the course the dogs were taking.
Tad pulled up his pony, and, leaning forward, listened intently.
He faintly caught the distant baying of a hound.
Placing a hand to his mouth, he gave a long, piercing war whoop.
The dogs' baying seemed to come nearer. Now and then, as the animals sank into a ravine, the sound would be lost momentarily, only to be taken up again with added force when the crest of the hill was reached.
Once more, Tad sent out his long, thrilling war-cry.