They do not believe them to be spectres.

Wasted as their flesh may be, there will still be a banquet upon their bones.
Now and then Walt Wilder casts a glance up towards them.

He is anxious, though he takes care to hide his anxiety from his comrade.

He curses the foul creatures, not in speech--only in heart, and silently.
For a time the wearied wayfarers keep on without exchanging a word.
Hitherto consolation has come from the side of the ex-Ranger; but he seems to have spent his last effort, and is himself now despairing.
In Hamersley's heart hope has been gradually dying out, as his strength gets further exhausted.

At length the latter gives way, the former at the same time.
"No farther, Walt!" he exclaims, coming to a stop.