And here."
He was giving the dog the scent from the deserted car. His voice
rang out sharply in the night air, "Come on Garrick and Marshall.
She's got it. I've got her on leash. Follow along, now, just a few
feet behind."
Cherry was on the trail and it was a hot one. We could just see
her magnificent head, narrow and dome-like, between the keen ears.
She was working like a regular sleuthhound, now, too, slowly,
picking up the trail and following it, baying as she went.
She was now going without a halt or falter. Nose to the ground,
she had leaped from the bandit's car and made straight across a
field in the direction that Garrick had suspected they would take,
only a little to the west.
"This is a regular, old-fashioned man hunt," called back Dillon,
as we followed the dog and himself, as best we could.
It was pitch dark, but we plunged ahead over fields and through
little clumps of trees, around hedges, and over fences.
There was no stopping, no cessation of the deep baying of the dog.
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