With eyes bent upon the trail, the two comrades moved forward over the spongy ground in the direction of the distant hills.
Two miles they covered, then a certain peculiarity about the trail struck Haverly.
“Say, Seymour,” he remarked, “have you noticed? The footprints of the critturs we’re followin’ run close alongside the trail of the Triceratops. I reckon that looks considerable queer!”
“I think I can tell you what it means,” replied the baronet, after a moment’s thought.
“Wal?” Haverly inquired.
“The brutes must have seen Mervyn carried off,” Seymour asserted, “and have followed the trail in the hopes of his being pitched off the animal’s back, when, of course, they could capture him, if he were still alive, without much trouble.”
“I guess you’re right,” returned the American, and once more silence fell between them.
Three hours went by, and then Silas called a halt.
Flinging themselves down in the shadow of an enormous boulder—only one of many with which the plain was dotted—they made a hasty meal.
They were sitting resting for a short time, ere resuming their journey, when, sudden and terrible, the hideous wolf-cry they knew so well trembled over the plain.