When a council had been held, three parties set forth. Seth Jones was the guide for one, which went to the northeast, through the Bull Head Mountain region, whither, in all likelihood, the outlaw would make his way, if he meant to escape out of the country. The marshal, with one companion, skirted Stone Mountain. Uncle Dick led two of the posse to the yellow poplar where the struggle had occurred, after which they would follow the general direction of the tracks. The marshal expected to make a circuit of the mountain rapidly enough to effect a junction with Uncle Dick's party by noon, at the Woodruff Gate. The veteran and his two men, who would have by far the roughest going, were not to report until sundown at the Siddon cabin.
From the poplar, Uncle Dick and the deputies were able, with great difficulty, to follow the tracks of the outlaw and his prisoner toward the south for a full mile. But at this point, an expanse of outcropping rock baffled them completely. Search as they would, there was no least sign of footsteps anywhere. After an hour of futile questing, they gave up in despair, and hurried to the rendezvous at the Woodruff Gate.
The marshal and his men had already reached the gate, and Stone had wherewith to give the distraught grandfather new hope.
"I came on their tracks a mile below where you lost them," he explained. "They still keep to the south. We followed as far as the sand bar below Sandy Creek Falls."
"Come on!" Uncle Dick cried, fiercely. "Let's arter 'im this-yer minute."
The marshal shook his head at the old man's enthusiasm.
"We're not much better off yet," he declared. "We found the place where he camped last night. 'Twasn't far. I reckon the girl made his going as slow as she could. She naturally would." Uncle Dick nodded somberly. "But the trouble is, the trail ends at the sand bar--ends absolutely."
"We'll find hit ag'in," Uncle Dick exclaimed, stoutly. "We jest got to find hit. Come on!"
The marshal urged the other to rest in preparation for the hard climb--down the ridge, and then up the sharp slopes and ledges of the mountainside. But the old man would have none of it. So, straightway, the two moved off, leaving the others, less hardy, to repose, and in due time they came to the bar below Sandy Creek Falls.
High among the embattled cliffs of Stone Mountain's eastern end, Sandy Creek races in tumultuous course. The limpid stream cascades in vertical sheen of silver from ledge to ledge. It writhes with ceaseless noisy complainings through the twisting ways of bowlder-strewn gorges. Here and there, in some placid pool, it seems to pause, languid, resting from its revels of flight. Such a pool lay at the foot of the longest fall. A barrier of sand circled from the cliff as the brim for this bowl of the waters. To this point, Marshal Stone and Uncle Dick were now come. The tracks were plainly discernible in the sand, along the edge of the pool. There were the huge misshapen outlines of the outlaw's bare feet, deep-sunken from the heavy weight of the man. Beside them showed the slender prints made by the captive, lightly pressed. These tracks followed the curving bar, along the water's edge. They reached to the foot of the cliff, close to where was the outer edge of the cataract. There they ceased.