Then, white-faced and gasping, he drew rein, and looked up at the cliffs overhead.
“It warn’t the boy,” he said. “The voice didn’t sound like a human one. I’d call it a speerit, if speerits could handle sich rocks as that. Whar ar’ the boys with the strings?”
“Here, chief.”
Tom Terror looked; his band actually surrounded him.
“We must get away from here, for we can’t dodge sich bullets every time,” he said.
“No, monsters! the time is near at hand when they will strike and kill.”
“Great Jehosaphat!” ejaculated the Canyon Terror. “Thar’s vengeance and death in that voice. I recognize it now, though I only heard it once. It ar’ the voice of the girl who war with the boy last night—the girl what got the string.”
The red Thugs did not answer; but their gaze wandered from their chief to the top of the canyon wall.
The horse that carried Old Jack from the spot where Tom Terror had sacrificed him to the deadly cords of his inhuman miscreants, dashed through the canyon at the top of his speed.