But ere they reached the top they branched off onto another lateral path, still rougher and more tortuous, that led along the breast of the canyon.
"This way, master. It was here, most surely, the thing carried her."
"What kind of marks? Do you see signs of claws?"
"Claws? What are claws?"
"Sharp, long nails, like our nails, only much larger and longer. Do you see any such marks?"
Zangamon paused a second to peer.
"I seem to see marks as of hands, master, but--"
"No matter! On! We must find her! Quick--lead the way!"
Five minutes of agonizing suspense for Allan brought him, still following the guides, without whom all would have been utterly lost, to a kind of thickly wooded dell that descended sharply to the edge of the canyon. Into this the trail led.
Even he himself could now here and there make out, by the aid of his light, a broken twig, trampled ferns and down-crushed grass. Once he distinguished a blood-stain on a limb--fresh blood, not coagulated. A groan burst from between his chattering teeth.
He turned his light on the grass beneath. All at once a blade moved.
"Oh, thank God!" he wheezed. "They passed here only a few minutes ago. They can't be far now!"
Something drew his attention. He snatched at a sapling.
"Hair!"
Caught in a roughness of the bark a few short, stiff, wiry hairs, reddish-brown, were twisted.
"One of the Horde?" he stammered.
A lightning-flash of memory carried him back to Madison Forest, more than a year ago. He seemed to see again the obeah, as that monster advanced upon the girl, clutching, supremely hideous.
"The hair! The same kind of hair! In the power of the Horde!" he gasped.
A mental picture of extermination flashed before his mind's eye. Whether the girl lived or died, he knew now that his life work was to include a total slaughter of the Anthropoids. The destruction he had already wrought among them was but child's play to what would be.
And in his soul flamed the foreknowledge of a hunt a l'outrance, to the bitter end. So long as one, a single one of that foul breed should live, he would not rest from killing.
"Master! This way! Here, master!"
The voice of Zangamon sent him once more crashing through the jungle, after his questing guides. Again he fired the signal-shot, and now with the full power of his lungs he yelled.
His voice rang, echoing, through the black and tangled growths, startling the night-life of the depths. Something chippered overhead. Near-by a serpent slid away, hissing venomously. Death lurked on every hand.