The Wyandot was eager to resume the trail, and led the van with a quick step. For several miles it remained plain, and then it was lost in the waters of a narrow creek.
“I am not surprised,” said Wolf-Cap. “He is breaking for the very place where I don’t want to find ’im.”
“Why does he not continue his flight?”
“Because his captive is tired. In Wolf’s Den he will rest until she recruits her strength.”
“In Wolf’s Den?” echoed Harmon. “I have heard of this place.”
“I should reckon you had, boy. Everybody in these parts has heard of it, and I’ve been thar. Why, thar are a thousand caves in one, and dark halls lead—perhaps to the iron gates of hell. Men have entered the “den” never to return. Strange winds blow torches out, and there are bats in the darkness as big as a coon. I have believed the Night-Hawks used it for their head-quarters, before they descended upon the ‘fire-lands’.”
“Then he is acquainted with its terrors.”
“Probably. But we’ll follow him to the greatest of them all—death.”
The trio waded down the creek whose banks were masses of solid rock, which ofttimes towered to a hight of a hundred feet above the water. The gray stone was covered with a loathsome species of the dark green creeper, and the repulsive head of many a glittering lizard protruded from the fissures.
“This is Satan’s land,” said Wolf-Cap, looking up at the spectacle just described, “and presently we’ll enter his cave.”