each for himself, and they had not noted whether he led or followed until he stopped and pointed to the sand with a horrid effort to articulate. But they followed the guidance of his hand and stared, stupidly at first and then with growing wonder and awe at the weird spoor imprinted on the desert floor, slightly blurred by the wind, but not obliterated. There were only four of the marks. Perhaps the breeze had defaced others—perhaps …?
The things were sharply outlined by the low rays of the sun shading the edge of the impressions. What was this trail, cloven, enormous, portentous? The first chilly breath of the night blew over the mesa and they shivered. Then a hideous cackle broke from Healy's split lips. Harsh syllables formed croakingly.
"In hell! Trail of the devil!"
Certainly the things seemed no track of anything earthly. Far or near there was nothing in sight. Snakes had glided away during their pilgrimage, Gila monsters had puffed at them, lizards run, furry spiders hopped, but the bulk of this creature must be enormous, incalculable of belief, yet indisputable. Healy's insane gabbling seemed nearest to hit the mark. Absurd as it would be in normal circumstances, in the brooding, terrible silence of this place all things seemed possible, even the cloven hoof of some supernatural monster, as if Satan himself had touched the solitude that was fittingly a part of his dominion, and winged away.
It must be remembered that all of them were at the ebb of their strength, almost automata. Their
