"We're near the horses!" Shan Kar encouraged. "Diril will be waiting with them."
Again, from much closer behind them, came Tark's terrific hunting-cry. Lefty Wister stopped and whirled around, his pinched face a white blur, his voice hoarse and wild.
"I won't be hunted by that brute! I'll kill him!" He had his gun raised, was crouched, looking back.
"Lefty, keep your head!" cried Nelson, checking in mid-stride to turn back.
"Leave the man or you die with him!" cried Shan Kar from the darkness ahead.
He ought to, Nelson knew. It was sheer folly to try to save the Cockney, whose brain had given way to unreasoning hatred and horror.
He owed no more to Lefty than to the others. Mere fortune of war had thrown him into company of the hardbitten, crime-stained little band and he had no loyalty due to any of them. But the ingrained tradition of supporting a comrade-in-arms was too much for Nelson.
He turned back, grabbed the Cockney's arm. "Lefty, come—"
It was as far as he got. That brief delay had been enough for those who followed to overtake Lefty and himself. Dark, leaping shadows of wolf and tiger came plunging through the dry brush. Tark's thought-cry leaped ahead of him.
"We will not kill if you—"