swollen by the floods of tributary creeks and brooks, rose fast, bearing
upon their angry surface the wreckage of trees, but they did not reach
the stone shelf upon which the travelers lay.

Tayoga awoke before the morning, while it was yet so dark that his
trained eyes could see but dimly the figures of his comrades. He sat up
and listened, knowing that he must depend for warning upon his hearing,
which had been trained to extreme acuteness by the needs of forest
life. All three of them were great wilderness trailers and scouts, but
Tayoga was the first of the three. Back of him lay untold generations
that had been compelled to depend upon the physical senses and the
intuition that comes from their uttermost development and co-ordination.
Now, Tayoga, the product of all those who had gone before, was also
their finest flower.

He had listened at first, resting on his elbow, but after a minute or
two he sat up. He heard the rushing of the rain, the crack of
splintering boughs, the flowing of the rising river, and the gurgling of
its waters as they lapped against the stone shelf. They would not enter
it he knew, as he had observed that the highest marks of the floods lay
below them.

The sounds made by the rain and the river were steady and unchanged. But
the intuition that came from the harmonious working of senses, developed
to a marvelous degree, sounded a warning note. A danger threatened. He
did not know what the danger was nor whence it would come, but the soul
of the Onondaga was alive and every nerve and muscle in his body was
attuned for any task that might lie before him. He looked at his
sleeping comrades. They did not stir, and their long, regular breathing
told him that no sinister threat was coming to them.