SCOUTING SERVICE
in the passage, and, as the night darkened, we became mere spectres, moving slowly, the only sound the occasional stumbling of a hoof. The very silence was oppressive, causing my strained nerves to throb almost painfully, as I leaned forward, striving to keep Daniels's dim outline in view. We passed through a cleft in the hills, along a narrow rock platform, a tree branch occasionally brushing my face, and a sound of tinkling water to our right. At the second sharp turn Daniels halted and swung down from his horse.
"We'll hev ter dismount yere, Leftenant," he whispered, "an' lead ther hosses. This yere is Sand Crick."
The stream must have obtained its name from its course through the valley, for here it was a typical mountain torrent; we passed along beside its rushing waters on what appeared to be a mere shelf of rock, at least twenty feet above the surface, although occasionally the path led down to the bank of the stream. We discovered little to reward our toil; the remains of two deserted camp-fires, and an old shack, doorless and containing not a scrap of furniture. It must have been considerably after midnight when we succeeded in crossing over to the opposite bank and continued on our way. For several hours, in single file, leading our horses, we struggled slowly down the course of the stream, peering anxiously through the darkness, and pausing now and then to listen for some guiding sound. But nothing rewarded our efforts. If Big Donald had any established camp in that neighborhood, it was certainly not along the ten miles of Sand Creek which we had so thoroughly explored.
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