Even Zeke fell into a sound slumber, with the bull-terrier nestled at his breast. He had not thought to sleep, only to lie quiet for a little rest, and then, long before the dawn, to issue forth alone. Nevertheless, his repose was profound for two hours, or more. Perhaps, the stirring of the dog awoke him; perhaps, his own determination, subconsciously 204 exerted. Anyhow, he straightened up suddenly, and stared about him stupidly, reluctant to believe that he had actually slept thus, while Plutina cried out for succor. He was relieved when he perceived that there was not yet even a trace of dawn in the east. He realized that it was as well, for though he had lost little time, he felt vitally refreshed, with new vigors to battle in behalf of the girl he loved. It was but the work of a minute noiselessly to possess himself of his rifle, and to descend the steps. The bull-terrier kept close at his heels. With the dog still following, Zeke, pressed forward through the darkness toward Stone Mountain.
The other sleepers were aroused by Uncle Dick as the first gray light was flushing to the rose of dawn over the eastern mountains. There was some astonishment at finding Zeke already gone, but it subsided quickly, for all understood how great must be his anxiety. The men of the posse duly took their departure for the railway points designated by the marshal. Seth Jones set out in pursuit of Zeke. Stone, with Uncle Dick and Brant, made ready for the actual hunting of the outlaw.
“I’ve seen Jack more than once pick up a cold trail three days old,” the hound’s master declared, with a manifest pride in the creature’s prowess; “and run down his man. Can we get hold of something 205 to give him the scent—an old shoe, or cap—anything?”
“Got jest the thing fer ye,” Uncle Dick replied, leading the way from the cabin toward one of the out-buildings. “Hit’s an ole coat. Dan left hit one hot day when he stopped in at my forge, to tinker the rivets to the cap o’ the still. Hit was dum hot thet day, an’ he left ’is coat. ’Twa’n’t wuth comin’ back fer. I ’low the smell’s about all thet’s left to hit.”
Brant showed the tattered garment to the stag-hound, and bade the animal smell it. The dog sniffed obediently a few times, sneezed as if in disgust of the odor, regarded its master understandingly, and then walked away.
“That’s all that’s necessary,” Cyclone Brant declared. “The dog and I are ready.”
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 206 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.