It was Black Roger's voice, and as he listened, it
called over and over again the Broken Man's name,
"Andre--Andre--Andre--"
Something in the cry held Carrigan. There was a note of terror in
it, a wild entreaty that was almost drowned in the trembling wind
and the moaning that was in the air. David was ready to turn back.
He had already approached too near to the red line of death, yet
that cry of Black Roger urged him on like the lash of a whip. He
plunged ahead into the chaos of smoke, no longer able to
distinguish a trail under his feet. Twice again in as many minutes
he heard Black Roger's voice, and ran straight toward it. The
blood of the hunter rushed over all other things in his veins. The
man he wanted was ahead of him and the moment had passed when
danger or fear of death could drive him back. Where Black Roger
lived, he could live, and he gripped his club and ran through the
low brush that whipped in stinging lashes against his face and
hands.
He came to the foot of a ridge, and from the top of this he knew
Black Roger had called. It was a huge hog's-back, rising a hundred
feet up out of the forest, and when he reached the top of it, he
was panting for breath.
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