She could only see twenty paces into the forest. An elephant could be walking thirty yards away, and she could not see it.
She felt absolutely helpless. Vast … The forest stretched for at least five miles down the slopes of the Appalachians on either side of the trail. It was over ten miles from where she stood to the abandoned trucks. It could take an expert tracker days to make visual contact in this dense forest.
She stood there, sweating, getting her breath back.
Well, there was only one remote chance, apart from going back to the Nolichucky and starting from scratch: go into the forest in a straight line and look for the spoor. If the animals had headed this way, if David Jordan was trying to get them out of this area but was avoiding the trail, she might cross their spoor.
She plunged off the trail, into the undergrowth.
It was late afternoon when she found it, half a mile down the steep forested slope on the North Carolina side of the mountain.
She clung to a tree, elated, exhausted, her arms covered with scratches, muscles aching, hair sticking to her neck and forehead. She stared at the spoor.
She could hardly believe it. … That a caravan of big animals could have left so little sign of themselves! There was just one sign of elephant, and that was a conspicuous lump of dung. The undergrowth was so thick and flexible, the dark earth so hidden and spongy, the light and shadows so difficult.
She crouched and touched the dung with the back of her fingers. It was cool.
She looked feverishly about her in the shadows for more signs. None. She knew that a whole troupe of gorillas could pass without leaving obvious sign of themselves—even an elephant over certain terrain—and if she got to her knees now she would find more spoor—but this terrain was so difficult …
She leaned against the tree, getting her breath back; then she started plodding after the spoor. She crept along for five minutes, then she clenched her fist and started stumbling across the mountain slope in the direction she thought they had taken. Surely they were headed out of this area of the woods where the sheriff was after them.
Exhausted, the underbrush grabbing at her, her ankles buckling, Elizabeth was desperate. With her poor physical condition, with the incompetence of her fellows—where was Dr. Bigwheel Ford while she beat her brains out and broke her neck?
After a hundred and fifty yards she slumped to a stop, gasping, heart pounding.
She could see no more spoor.
She looked back; she could not see even her own tracks in this undergrowth and she could see no more than twenty paces in front of her.
An hour later she heard the muffled sound of a vehicle, and she realized that she was near the highway again. Suddenly, twenty yards in front, was the open sunshine.
She knew now. She had long since lost the spoor, but that was where they would have gone: across the highway, into the forest beyond. While that sheriff and his men bumbled around on this side.
She slid down the bank. She wasn’t going to waste any more time looking for tracks here.
She toiled up to her car.
The Appalachian Trail continued on the south side, directly opposite, leading steeply up into the forest again. She reached into her car for the road map.
The next road to the south that crossed the Appalachians was Highway 23, at Sams Gap about eleven miles away. She took a big breath.
She started plodding up the narrow dirt trail again, head lowered, looking for spoor. Within thirty paces she was hidden from the highway, ascending steeply into pine forest and hemlock.
Suddenly she stopped in a patch of sunlight, and her pulse tripped with excitement.
She was not looking at an animal’s footprint. But the hard ground had been scraped by something: by a bunch of leaves, used like a broom.
She crouched, heart pounding, examining the mark. Then she stood and jogged back down the steep trail. She scrambled into the car and did a hard U-turn, back toward Erwin.
She pulled up in front of a sporting goods store. There were several pickup trucks parked outside, gunracks on the back. She hurried inside.
‘You accept these things?’ She held up her American Express card.
‘Sure do, ma’am.’
‘Where’re your knapsacks?’
There were a dozen men clustered at the gun counter. Some had their shirts off, showing tattoos; there was loud discussion and laughing. She selected the cheapest knapsack, and a sleeping bag, cursing herself under her breath—she had all these things at home. She found a cheap canteen kit, a pair of Pro-Ked basketball shoes and thick socks, a large-scale hiker’s map of the area. She hurried back to the counter and slapped down her credit card.
‘Hi, Sugar!’ a voice said. She ignored him. ‘Excuse me, ma’am?…’ She turned to the man disdainfully, then jerked wide-eyed as she looked straight into the muzzle of a rifle.
‘Bang!’ The young man grinned. ‘Right between the eyes!’
‘Put that thing down!’
‘Bang!’ the man repeated, sweeping the gun across the shop. ‘Bang!—bang!’ There was laughter.
‘Or like this,’ a youth snickered, holding an imaginary machine gun at his hip. ‘Er-er-er-er.’
Elizabeth stared, shocked. ‘What are you boys buying guns for!’
‘You the noo sheriff, ma’am?’
‘She’s from the Bleedin’ Hearts!’
‘Now listen here!’ She held out a trembling finger. ‘I know what you boys think you’re going to do—go and hunt those animals that were let loose today …’
‘Only in self-defense, Sugar.’ Hairy hand piously on hairy breast.
‘Now listen to me—’
‘She’s from the Bleedin’ Hearts,’ the youth said. ‘The No-Killum Club.’
‘You listen to me! I’m an officer of the Bronx Zoo and you’re not allowed into those mountains and by God if anybody shoots one of those animals they’re going to jail!’
‘Ooo-oh!’ the gunman said, then they all chorused, ‘Ooo-oh.’
She was shaking. ‘I’ve warned you,’ she whispered, ‘and I’ll give evidence against you. Not only do those magnificent animals belong to the Bronx Zoo, it would be a barbaric crime against nature!’
‘Aaaa-ah …’
She was aghast. Then she tried to look at them witheringly. ‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Why this despicable human appetite to go out and kill your fellow creatures at every excuse?’
‘She’s from the No-Trapums, No-Killums, Poor Little
