James Axler - Forbidden Trespass

After about six or eight miles, though, the wooded hills gave way to flatter karst country, more given to grass and patches of scrub than pine or hardwood forests. Dorden had suggested it was unlikely the outlanders laired up in such open country, despite the occasional harsh limestone ridge. She’d agreed.

“We’re what,” she said, “mebbe a mile south of the road by now?”

They were following a game trail. It was the best thing she could think of, and not even know-it-all old Dorden had come up with better.

“That’s right,” Mance said.

“And nobody we came across has seen hide nor hair of them,” Lou Eddars said. He was Mance’s friend and their chief tracker. His freckled face streamed with sweat, though nothing it seemed could keep down his frizz of orange curly hair. He had ears that stuck out, big buck teeth and an Adam’s apple that looked like a baseball lodged in his throat. But he was an accomplished hunter who knew the countryside around Sinkhole as well as any.

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