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.