“There!” cried Clement. “Straight ahead. Why, we’ve got ’em. We’re on top of ’em. We’ve got ’em sure.”
There was a sudden and appalling bump.
“Fer th’ love of Mike....” yelled the driver. He wrenched frantically at the wheel. “We’re off the trail ... off....”
There was a sudden succession of terrific and violent bumps. The car seemed to jump. It thrust forward, sank. Kicked again, buried its nose deep, and threatened to capsize. Then the hind part sank softly and squarely.... All movement ceased.
The all-but-buried headlights, the driver instinctively switched full on, shone on a flat, moist surface that threw back the rays with a curious, livid shine. The driver swore deeply.
“Steve,” he cried to Clement. “Steve, we’re done. We’re knocked. We’re beat.... We’re bogged.”
In the distance the red light dwindled and dwindled, and abruptly was lost.
In the first car Siwash, leaning towards Joe Wandersun, smiled his cold Indian smile. “They’re in it, pard,” he said. “In it up to the lamps. That settles them.”
II
Clement, in rage, tore at the door of the car, opened it and made to leap out.