Therewasnomethod，nochannelwornthroughinanythingthatcouldbecalledaline。Whateverprimevaltorrenthadhoneycombedtheledgehadleftitsobeforeeveritswatershadformedastraightpassagethrough。HowEddieknewthewayhecouldonlyconjecture，rememberinghowhehimselfhadriddendevioustrailsdownontheTomahawkrangewhenhewasaboy。Itratherhurthispridetorealizethatneverhadheseenanythingapproachingthismadman’strail。
Withoutwarningtheyplungedintodarknessagain。DarknesssoblackthatBudknewtheyhadenteredanotherofthosemysterious，subterraneanpassageswhichhadcreatedsuchnamesasaboundedinthecountry：the\"Sinks\"，\"LittleLost\"，andSunkRiveritselfwhichdisappearedmysteriously。
Hewasbeginningtowonderwithagrimkindofhumorifhehimselfwasnotabouttofollowtheexampleoftheriversanddisappear，whenthesoftpaddingoftheirfootfallsblurredunderthewhistlingofwind。Fineparticlesofsandstunghim，ablastfullagainsthimhaltedhimforasecond。Buttheropepulledsteadilyandhewenton，half—draggedintostarlightagain。
Theywereinacanyon；deep，sombreinitsnightshadows，itswidthmadeknowntohimbythestripofstarlightoverhead。
Directlybeforethem，notmorethanahundredyards，alightshonethroughawindow。