Westy found the water refreshing to his bare, scratched feet. And he was happy now and hopeful. He was puzzled about not seeing a light, but he would not worry about that. He was proud of what he had done; it had a flavor of real scouting about it—if it worked. He had deliberately given a clew to his direction, and for the time being this constituted a peril. But he could retrace his steps without its being known and escape south while his pursuers were proceeding north. Eluding pursuit was just a question of getting away quickly now. His little subterfuge acted like a tonic to his exhausted nerves and weary body. He was having some fun. His success so far and the need of haste were exhilarating. He hurried along through the cool, murmuring, enveloping water, feeling indeed that this little Rocky Mountain brook was his friend. There were no telltale footprints now for the grim, invincible outlaw to follow; he had cut his trail. He liked that expression cut his trail. It was every bit as good as the coyote stunt. . . .
Soon the rocks began enclosing him, and the brook flowed swiftly and noisily. He could feel the swish of the oncoming water against his ankles. In a few moments he was bucking a tiny waterfall, and it was hard for him to lift himself up over the mossy, slippery rocks. But he kept in the stream; nothing could have tempted him out of its protection.
 
IN A FEW MINUTES HE WAS BUCKING A TINY WATERFALL.
He was climbing up where he and his two companions had climbed late that afternoon, except that he was in the water. He knew the spot well enough, even in the dark. It seemed an age since he had seen his friends. His return was almost like going home to Bridgeboro. If he could only know they were there! Suppose they had gone searching for him on the hill!
At this appalling thought he paused and listened, fearful of hearing a pistol shot in the darkness. But all he could hear was the rippling water merrily covering his tracks. What he did not realize was that he was confusing actual time with the strain he had been under. He had lived a whole lifetime in less than an hour, and he seemed to have been absent from his comrades for days.
Soon the narrow way he had been climbing spread into the cleft, with the slope on one side, the precipitous wall on the other, and the little area of shore on either side of the stream. The place looked different in the darkness, but he knew it.
“Warde—Ed—are you here?” he scarce more than whispered.
There was no answer.
“Where are you, anyway?” Westy asked, emboldened by his fright to speak louder.
............