THE FRIENDLY BROOK
Then he heard a voice. It was not the voice of either of his comrades,
nor was it the voice of either outlaw. It was a voice soft and low, the
voice of the Rocky Mountains calling to him the way to go; the scarce
audible murmur of the stream far in the distance.
To Westy the sound was as welcome as a log would be to a man drowning.
He heard it, a low, steady ripple, far in the fathomless night. Here was
a voice he need not fear, thrice welcome voice that would guide him to
his friends and arouse no one.
He ran now in the direction of this distant sound. Now and again he had
to pause and listen, so faint was it. Once, when the fitful breeze was
wrong, he could not hear it. He paused in the still, lonesome night,
caught the faint murmur, and hurried on.
He was not running down hill, that was sure. But the murmur of the brook
was louder now; he was approaching it. Soon it had swelled into a merry,
little song with an accompaniment of splashing as it hurried over rocks.
The cheery preoccupation of the rushing stream was in odd contrast to
all about; it seemed so carefree and intent there in the very
neighborhood of the most harrowing experience of Westy’s life. It was
quite happy and at home, alone in the Rockies.
Presently he reached it and knew that he was at a point about half a
mile below the cleft. Instead of going straight toward the cleft he had
descended the hill southward, converging toward the brook, and reaching
it at a point where it had flowed down into comparatively level country.
He stood near a large rock which he remembered passing when they had
followed the stream up to the cleft.
And now, nerve-racked and fatigued in body, his bare feet sore and
bleeding, Westy paused for just a moment to make sure of his direction.
He knew where he was, the rock was like an oasis in the trackless
desert, and the brook was like a trail. But he was not going to trifle
with his good fortune now. He would verify every surmise. He would not
make a mistake in his elation. He could see nothing. In which direction,
then, was the cleft?
He was almost certain about this; yes, of course he was certain; he
laughed at the thought of there being any doubt about it. He found it
easy to laugh. Yet if the cleft lay upstream—— Well, first he would
determine which way was _upstream_.
And just then Westy Martin showed what kind of a scout he was. He was
just about to step into the water to _feel_ which way it flowed when
something deterred him. In that brief second of inspired thought he was
the scout par excellence. Instead of stepping into the brook he laid a
twig in the water and watched it hurry away in the rippling current. Of
course he was right about the direction of the flowing water, the twig
confirmed his assurance of this.
Well then, why could he not, looking upstream, see the light of his
companions’ fire in the cleft? In the afternoon, from this point, they
had seen the very spot where they later camped. He was puzzled and
looked in the other direction—downstream. There was no spark anywhere,
only dense blackness.
Well, he was sure anyway; he could not be mistaken. He knew which way
was upstream and his friends were there, light or no light. They were
there _if nothing had happened to them_. What _could_ have happened to
them?
Well, he was sure and he would play his trump card. He would show
Bloodhound Pete that there was at least one thing besides an airplane
that he could not trail. He took his next momentous step as thoughtfully
as he would have spent his last dollar. He stooped and selected a spot
where an area of soft earth bordered the stream. Here his footprints
would be clear. Then he walked into the stream, approaching it not
squarely, but _converging toward_ it at an angle.
He entered the water facing upstream so as to give the impression that
this was his direction, as indeed it was, as far as the cleft. If he
turned in the water and retraced his course, no one would see the
footprints disclosing this maneuver. The friendly brook had guided him
and now he used it as his good ally. Once in the stream he could move in
_either direction_ and no one would know in which direction he moved. A
pursuer would think that he had gone upstream.