Before midnight he struck the hard forest. Here there was no trail at all, only spreading outcrop of crock under dying leaves.
He could see a few stars. Cautiously he ventured to shine his compass close to the ground. He was still headed right. The ghastly sink country lay behind him.
About of him, somewhere in the darkness — but how far he did not know
— Quintana and his people were moving swiftly at Clinch's Dump.
It may have been an hour later — two hours, perhaps — when from far ahead in the forest came a sound — the faint clink of a shod heel on rock.
Now, Smith unslung his pack, placed it between two rocks where laurel grew.
Salzar's red bandanna was still wet, but he tied it across his face, leaving his eyes exposed. The dead man's hat fitted him. His own hat and the extra torch he dropped into his basket-pack.
Ready, now, he moved swiftly forward, trailing his rifle. And very soon it became plain to him that the people ahead were moving without much caution, evidently fearing no unfriendly ear or eye in that section of the wilderness.
Smith could hear their tread on rock and root and rotten branch, or swishing through frosted fern and brake, or louder on newly fallen leaves.
At times he could even see the round white glare of a torch on the ground — see it shift ahead, lighting up tree trunks, spread out, fanlike, into a wide, misty glory, then vanish as darkness rushed in from the vast ocean of the night.
Once they halted at a brook. Their torches flashed it; he heard them sounding its depths with their gun-butts.