At first the dogs were undecided about Joe’s shirt. They sniffed it and nosed it back and forth eagerly but refused to strike out on a course. Instead they ran around in circles, some of them off in one direction, others headed exactly the opposite way.
It was Drum who finally called the pack to order. He had been moving purposefully around the clearing, keeping his nose close to the ground, when suddenly he stopped and began to scratch the earth. After a few minutes of furious activity, he looked up and trotted back to the shirt for a second sniff. It seemed to satisfy him. Raising his head, he barked commandingly. The dogs around him stopped their aimless wandering and turned around. A series of deep-throated barks brought them scampering up as he led the way over the trail that curved deep into the mountains.
“That’s it!” cried Hank. “He’s got the scent! You can always tell.”
Hurriedly they formed a line behind the dogs. Hank was first, Mr. Cook second, while the boys brought up the rear.
After nearly an hour of breathless climbing, Sandy saw they were following the trail they had taken earlier that morning on the goat hunt that had almost ended in disaster. “Look,” he said, pointing to a tumbled pile of rocks spilled over the lower half of a peak. “Recognize that?”
Mike glanced over and grimaced. “I won’t forget it in a hurry.”
Sandy stopped for a moment and peered up. “You can’t even see the cave from here,” he remarked.
“That’s right,” Mike said. “No wonder Hank had a hard time finding us.”
“Hey, you two!” came a voice. “Stop admiring the view and keep moving.”
“We’re coming!” Sandy shouted. “Boy,” he said, panting, “those dogs can really travel.”