“Kill me, then,” retorted the despairing girl, “for I shall never come with you; first will I kill myself.”
Flatfoot did not wish to kill her, nor did he wish her to escape, as she would be very likely to do should he be interrupted by the fellow who must even now be quite close to them.
Possibly if he could keep the girl quiet they might hide in the grass until their pursuer had gone by, and so Flatfoot, acting upon the idea, clapped a rough hand over Nadara’s mouth and dragged her back along the trail he had just made.
The girl struggled—striking and clawing at the hairy brute that pulled her along at his side—but she was as helpless in his clutches as if she had been a day-old babe.
She did not know that help was so close at hand, or she would have found the means to free her mouth and cry out once at least. As it was, she wondered that Flatfoot should attempt to silence her in this way if there were none to hear her screams.
For days she had known that the cave man was on her trail, for once in doubling back upon herself she had passed but a short distance from a ridge she had traversed the preceding day, and had seen the man’s squat figure and recognized his awkward, shuffling trot.
