The pay phone was at the end of a long mahogany bar. It hung among an old calendar showing a young lady who had caught the hem of her pinafore while casting a fly with her fishing rod, a stuffed mounting of a jack rabbit with antlers attached, and a flyer advertising Amos Smith & Sons Cascade Mountain Pack Station. It was dangerous making a call in public. Against procedure. But the team felt that a lovesick cowgirl's lament pouring out of the jukebox would cover their report. And the old man tending the combination grocery store and saloon didn't appear to be capable of noting any happening other than his simple minded concentration of trying to swat a fly with a bar rag.

Up to this point, following their trail, Jed had to rely on skill alone. This bit of luck was well appreciated.

Jed had noticed at the first encounter that the backpackers' outfits appeared brand new, right off the shelf, and that their lug sole imprints were sharp and unworn. It had not been difficult to identify their tracks among others on the trail, even when the pair, now and then, had tried to leave a false trail. Experienced hikers broke in new boots before undertaking a trip as rugged as the Round the Mountain Trail.

Confirmation that he was on the correct pursuit came about as the long shadows of a mountain twilight overtook them. Two standard sized flashlights were flicked on ahead in the failing light, and the beams seemed to leap from tree to tree. Seasoned backpackers would have tried to develop their night vision until the moon lit the scene, or at the minimum would have only pointed a small "AA" cell lamp at the ground as they looked for an exposed root or rock.

At the turn-off to the trail leading to the pack station, Jed shucked the saddle off Pokey, and cached it high enough in a tree to keep porcupines from feasting upon the salty taste of sweaty leather. He turned his horse loose with a slap on the rump and the admonition to "Head it on home!"

Jed continued his tracking, neither too close, or too far away. Ironically the pair led the way to a car, parked directly behind the model described by Jenny as her rental. Thanks to this coincidence, he was able to follow the backpacker's car —with Jed driving the familiar gravel road without the use of headlights —to ONLY'S.

Slipping in through the kitchen, Jed found out, from the sharpest eyed hunter in the whole county that the strangers had called a 402 area code number, collect, and then after angrily hanging up (really making him curious) had turned to the yellow pages of the slender Cascade County Telephone Directory before dialing an 800 number with a 247 prefix.