Side by side, the three detectives raced over the rotting undergrowth and leaves, and it was surely luck that prevented any of them dashing their brains out against some tree.
They had become somewhat used to the darkness by this time. What had appeared at first as merely a black wall resolved itself now into a forest, with trees spaced so that it was possible to get around them with some ingenuity, plus a great deal of agility.
Dodging, swerving, stumbling over fallen limbs and upheaving roots, occasionally gasping for breath, and conscious all the while that the enemy was gaining, the trio rushed on.
Not only was there danger from those who were making a rear chase of it.
Some of the natives had flanked them. Their spears glistened as they were brandished fiercely, while their owners uttered low guttural threats which sounded supernaturally awful in the darkness.
Nick Carter had had experience enough as an army officer to know a great deal about military strategy. He was aware that the menace of a flanking movement was something whose importance no general overlooked.
If once the wings of their black pursuers outstripped them far enough to close in and get them in a ring, they would be as helpless as rats in a trap.
“Get to the river!” was Nick’s low-voiced instruction to his two assistants.
“How far ahead is it?” asked Patsy. “I’ve lost track of distances since I’ve been in this wood.”
“A hundred and fifty feet,” replied Chick. “Keep quiet! Don’t talk! Save your breath!”