“Listen!”
Anson whispered tensely. His poise was motionless, his eyes roved
everywhere. He held up a shaking, bludgy finger, to command silence.
A third and stranger sound accompanied the low, weird moan of the wind,
and the hollow mockery of the brook--and it seemed a barely perceptible,
exquisitely delicate wail or whine. It filled in the lulls between the
other sounds.
“If thet's some varmint he's close,” whispered Anson.
“But shore, it's far off,” said Wilson.
Shady Jones and Moze divided their opinions in the same way.
All breathed freer when the wail ceased, relaxing to their former
lounging positions around the fire. An impenetrable wall of blackness
circled the pale space lighted by the camp-fire; and this circle
contained the dark, somber group of men in the center, the dying
camp-fire, and a few spectral trunks of pines and the tethered horses on
the outer edge. The horses scarcely moved from their tracks, and their
erect, alert heads attested to their sensitiveness to the peculiarities
of the night.
Then, at an unusually quiet lull the strange sound gradually arose to a
wailing whine.
“It's thet crazy wench cryin',” declared the outlaw leader.
Apparently his allies accepted that statement with as much relief as
they had expressed for the termination of the sound.
“Shore, thet must be it,” agreed Jim Wilson, gravely.
“We'll git a lot of sleep with thet gurl whinin' all night,” growled
Shady Jones.
“She gives me the creeps,” said Moze.
Wilson got up to resume his pondering walk, head bent, hands behind his
back, a grim, realistic figure of perturbation.
“Jim--set down. You make me nervous,” said Anson, irritably.
Wilson actually laughed, but low, as if to keep his strange mirth well
confined.
“Snake, I'll bet you my hoss an' my gun ag'in' a biscuit thet in aboot
six seconds more or less I'll be stampedin like them hosses.”
Anson's lean jaw dropped. The other two outlaws stared with round
eyes. Wilson was not drunk, they evidently knew; but what he really was
appeared a mystery.
“Jim Wilson, are you showin' yellow?” queried Anson, hoarsely.
“Mebbe. The Lord only knows. But listen heah.... Snake, you've seen an'
heard people croak?”
“You mean cash in--die?”
“Shore.”
“Wal, yes--a couple or so,” replied Anson, grimly.
“But you never seen no one die of shock--of an orful scare?”
“No, I reckon I never did.”
“I have. An' thet's what's ailin' Jim Wilson,” and he resumed his dogged
steps.
Anson and his two comrades exchanged bewildered glances with one
another.
“A-huh! Say, what's thet got to do with us hyar? asked Anson, presently.
“Thet gurl is dyin'!” retorted Wilson, in a voice cracking like a whip.
The three outlaws stiffened in their seats, incredulous, yet
irresistibly swayed by emotions that stirred to this dark, lonely,
ill-omened hour.
Wilson trudged to the edge of the lighted circle, muttering to himself,
and came back again; then he trudged farther, this time almost out
of sight, but only to return; the third time he vanished in the
impenetrable wall of light. The three men scarcely moved a muscle as
they watched the place where he had disappeared. In a few moments he
came stumbling back.
“Shore she's almost gone,” he said, dismally. “It took my nerve, but
I felt of her face.... Thet orful wail is her breath chokin' in her
throat.... Like a death-rattle, only long instead of short.”
“Wal, if she's gotta croak it's good she gits it over quick,” replied
Anson. “I 'ain't hed sleep fer three nights. ... An' what I need is
whisky.”
“Snake, thet's gospel you're spoutin',” remarked Shady Jones, morosely.
The direction of sound in the glen was difficult to be assured of, but
any man not stirred to a high pitch of excitement could have told that
the difference in volume of this strange wail must have been caused by
different distances and positions. Also, when it was loudest, it was
most like a whine. But these outlaws heard with their consciences.
At last it ceased abruptly.
Wilson again left the group to be swallowed up by the night. His absence
was longer than usual, but he returned hurriedly.
“She's daid!” he exclaimed, solemnly. “Thet innocent kid--who never
harmed no one--an' who'd make any man better fer seein' her--she's
daid!... Anson, you've shore a heap to answer fer when your time comes.”
“What's eatin' you?” demanded the leader, angrily. “Her blood ain't on
my hands.”
“It shore is,” shouted Wilson, shaking his hand at Anson. “An' you'll
hev to take your medicine. I felt thet comin' all along. An' I feel some
more.”
“Aw! She's jest gone to sleep,” declared Anson, shaking his long frame
as he rose. “Gimme a light.”
“Boss, you're plumb off to go near a dead gurl thet's jest died crazy,”
protested Shady Jones.
“Off! Haw! Haw! Who ain't off in this outfit, I'd like to know?” Anson
possessed himself of a stick blazing at one and, and with this he
stalked off toward the lean-to where the girl was supposed to be dead.
His gaunt figure, lighted by the torch, certainly fitted the weird,
black surroundings. And it was seen that once near the girl's shelter he
proceeded more slowly, until he halted. He bent to peer inside.
“SHE'S GONE!” he yelled, in harsh, shaken accents.
Than the torch burned out, leaving only a red glow. He whirled it about,
but the blaze did not rekindle. His comrades, peering intently, lost
sight of his tall form and the end of the red-ended stick. Darkness like
pitch swallowed him. For a moment no sound intervened. Again the moan of
wind, the strange little mocking hollow roar, dominated the place. Then
there came a rush of something, perhaps of air, like the soft swishing
of spruce branches swinging aside. Dull, thudding footsteps followed it.
Anson came running back to the fire. His aspect was wild, his face pale,
his eyes were fierce and starting from their sockets. He had drawn his
gun.
“Did--ye--see er hear--anythin'?” he panted, peering back, then all
around, and at last at his man.
“No. An' I shore was lookin' an' listenin',” replied Wilson.
“Boss, there wasn't nothin',” declared Moze.
“I ain't so sartin,” said Shady Jones, with doubtful, staring eyes. “I
believe I heerd a rustlin'.”
“She wasn't there!” ejaculated Anson, in wondering awe. “She's gone!...
My torch went out. I couldn't see. An' jest then I felt somethin' was
passin'. Fast! I jerked 'round. All was black, an' yet if I didn't see
a big gray streak I'm crazier 'n thet gurl. But I couldn't swear to
anythin' but a rushin' of wind. I felt thet.”
“Gone!” exclaimed Wilson, in great alarm. “Fellars, if thet's so, then
mebbe she wasn't daid an' she wandered off. ... But she was daid! Her
heart hed quit beatin'. I'll swear to thet.”
“I move to break camp,” said Shady Jones, gruffly, and he stood up. Moze
seconded that move by an expressive flash of his black visage.
“Jim, if she's dead--an' gone--what 'n hell's come off?” huskily asked
Anson. “It, only seems thet way. We're all worked up.... Let's talk
sense.”
“Anson, shore there's a heap you an' me don't know,” replied Wilson.
“The world come to an end once. Wal, it can come to another end.... I
tell you I ain't surprised--”
“THAR!” cried Anson, whirling, with his gun leaping out.
Something huge, shadowy, gray against the black rushed behind the men
and trees; and following it came a perceptible acceleration of the air.
“Shore, Snake, there wasn't nothin',” said Wilson, “presently.”
“I heerd,” whispered Shady Jones.
“It was only a breeze blowin' thet smoke,” rejoined Moze.
“I'd bet my soul somethin' went back of me,” declared Anson, glaring
into the void.
“Listen an' let's make shore,” suggested Wilson.
The guilty, agitated faces of the outlaws showed plain enough in the
flickering light for each to see a convicting dread in his fellow. Like
statues they stood, watching and listening.
Few sounds stirred in the strange silence. Now and then the horses
heaved heavily, but stood still; a dismal, dreary note of the wind in
the pines vied with a hollow laugh of the brook. And these low sounds
only fastened attention upon the quality of the silence. A breathing,
lonely spirit of solitude permeated the black dell. Like a pit of
unplumbed depths the dark night yawned. An evil conscience, listening
there, could have heard the most peaceful, beautiful, and mournful
sounds of nature only as strains of a calling hell.
Suddenly the silent, oppressive, surcharged air split to a short,
piercing scream.
Anson's big horse stood up straight, pawing the air, and came down with
a crash. The other horses shook with terror.
“Wasn't--thet--a cougar?” whispered Anson, thickly.
“Thet was a woman's scream,” replied Wilson, and he appeared to be
shaking like a leaf in the wind.
“Then--I figgered right--the kid's alive--wonderin' around--an' she let
out thet orful scream,” said Anson.
“Wonderin' 'round, yes--but she's daid!”
“My Gawd! it ain't possible!”
“Wal, if she ain't wonderin' round daid she's almost daid,” replied
Wilson. And he began to whisper to himself.
“If I'd only knowed what thet deal meant I'd hev plugged Beasley instead
of listenin'.... An' I ought to hev knocked thet kid on the head an'
made sartin she'd croaked. If she goes screamin' 'round thet way--”
His voice failed as there rose a thin, splitting, high-pointed shriek,
somewhat resembling the first scream, only less wild. It came apparently
from the cliff.
From another point in the pitch-black glen rose the wailing, terrible
cry of a woman in agony. Wild, haunting, mournful wail!
Anson's horse, loosing the halter, plunged back, almost falling over a
slight depression in the rocky ground. The outlaw caught him and dragged
him nearer the fire. The other horses stood shaking and straining. Moze
ran between them and held them. Shady Jones threw green brush on the
fire. With sputter and crackle a blaze started, showing Wilson standing
tragically, his arms out, facing the black shadows.
The strange, live shriek was not repeated. But the cry, like that of
a woman in her death-throes, pierced the silence again. It left a
quivering ring that softly died away. Then the stillness clamped down
once more and the darkness seemed to thicken. The men waited, and when
they had begun to relax the cry burst out appallingly close, right
behind the trees. It was human--the personification of pain and
terror--the tremendous struggle of precious life against horrible death.
So pure, so exquisite, so wonderful was the cry that the listeners
writhed as if they saw an innocent, tender, beautiful girl torn
frightfully before their eyes. It was full of suspense; it thrilled
for death; its marvelous potency was the wild note--that beautiful and
ghastly note of self-preservation.
In sheer desperation the outlaw leader fired his gun at the black wall
whence the cry came. Then he had to fight his horse to keep him from
plunging away. Following the shot was an interval of silence; the horses
became tractable; the men gathered closer to the fire, with the halters
still held firmly.
“If it was a cougar--thet 'd scare him off,” said Anson.
“Shore, but it ain't a cougar,” replied Wilson. “Wait an' see!”
They all waited, listening with ears turned to different points, eyes
roving everywhere, afraid of their very shadows. Once more the moan of
wind, the mockery of brook, deep gurgle, laugh and babble, dominated the
silence of the glen.
“Boss, let's shake this spooky hole,” whispered Moze.
The suggestion attracted Anson, and he pondered it while slowly shaking
his head.
“We've only three hosses. An' mine 'll take ridin'--after them squalls,”
replied the leader. “We've got packs, too. An' hell 'ain't nothin' on
this place fer bein' dark.”
“No matter. Let's go. I'll walk an' lead the way,” said Moze, eagerly.
“I got sharp eyes. You fellars can ride an' carry a pack. We'll git out
of here an' come back in daylight fer the rest of the outfit.”
“Anson, I'm keen fer thet myself,” declared Shady Jones.
“Jim, what d'ye say to thet?” queried Anson. “Rustlin' out of this black
hole?”
“Shore it's a grand idee,” agreed Wilson.
“Thet was a cougar,” avowed Anson, gathering courage as the silence
remained unbroken. “But jest the same it was as tough on me as if it hed
been a woman screamin' over a blade twistin' in her gizzards.”
“Snake, shore you seen a woman heah lately?” deliberately asked Wilson.
“Reckon I did. Thet kid,” replied Anson, dubiously.
“Wal, you seen her go crazy, didn't you?”
“Yes.”
“'An' she wasn't heah when you went huntin' fer her?”
“Correct.”
“Wal, if thet's so, what do you want to blab about cougars for?”
Wilson's argument seemed incontestable. Shady and Moze nodded gloomily
and shifted restlessly from foot to foot. Anson dropped his head.
“No matter--if we only don't hear--” he began, suddenly to grow mute.
Right upon them, from some place, just out the circle of light, rose a
scream, by reason of its proximity the most piercing and agonizing yet
heard, simply petrifying the group until the peal passed. Anson's huge
horse reared, and with a snort of terror lunged in tremendous leap,
straight out. He struck Anson with thudding impact, knocking him over
the rocks into the depression back of the camp-fire, and plunging after
him. Wilson had made a flying leap just in time to avoid being struck,
and he turned to see Anson go down. There came a crash, a groan, and
then the strike and pound of hoofs as the horse struggled up. Apparently
he had rolled over his master.
“Help, fellars!” yelled Wilson, quick to leap down over the little bank,
and in the dim light to grasp the halter. The three men dragged the
horse out and securely tied him close to a tree. That done, they
peered down into the depression. Anson's form could just barely be
distinguished in the gloom. He lay stretched out. Another groan escaped
him.
“Shore I'm scared he's hurt,” said Wilson.
“Hoss rolled right on top of him. An' thet hoss's heavy,” declared Moze.
They got down and knelt beside their leader. In the darkness his face
looked dull gray. His breathing was not right.
“Snake, old man, you ain't--hurt?” asked Wilson, with a tremor in his
voice. Receiving no reply, he said to his comrades, “Lay hold an' we'll
heft him up where we can see.”
The three men carefully lifted Anson up on the bank and laid him near
the fire in the light. Anson was conscious. His face was ghastly. Blood
showed on his lips.
Wilson knelt beside him. The other outlaws stood up, and with one dark
gaze at one another damned Anson's chance of life. And on the instant
rose that terrible distressing scream of acute agony--like that of a
woman being dismembered. Shady Jones whispered something to Moze. Then
they stood up, gazing down at their fallen leader.
“Tell me where you're hurt?” asked Wilson.
“He--smashed--my chest,” said Anson, in a broken, strangled whisper.
Wilson's deft hands opened the outlaw's shirt and felt of his chest.
“No. Shore your breast-bone ain't smashed,” replied Wilson, hopefully.
And he began to run his hand around one side of Anson's body and then
the other. Abruptly he stopped, averted his gaze, then slowly ran the
hand all along that side. Anson's ribs had been broken and crushed in
by the weight of the horse. He was bleeding at the mouth, and his slow,
painful expulsions of breath brought a bloody froth, which showed that
the broken bones had penetrated the lungs. An injury sooner or later
fatal!
“Pard, you busted a rib or two,” said Wilson.
“Aw, Jim--it must be--wuss 'n thet!” he whispered. “I'm--in orful--pain.
An' I can't--git any--breath.”
“Mebbe you'll be better,” said Wilson, with a cheerfulness his face
belied.
Moze bent close over Anson, took a short scrutiny of that ghastly face,
at the blood-stained lips, and the lean hands plucking at nothing. Then
he jerked erect.
“Shady, he's goin' to cash. Let's clear out of this.”
“I'm yours pertickler previous,” replied Jones.
Both turned away. They untied the two horses and led them up to where
the saddles lay. Swiftly the blankets went on, swiftly the saddles
swung up, swiftly the cinches snapped. Anson lay gazing up at Wilson,
comprehending this move. And Wilson stood strangely grim and silent,
somehow detached coldly from that self of the past few hours.
“Shady, you grab some bread an' I'll pack a bunk of meat,” said Moze.
Both men came near the fire, into the light, within ten feet of where
the leader lay.
“Fellars--you ain't--slopin'?” he whispered, in husky amaze.
“Boss, we air thet same. We can't do you no good an' this hole ain't
healthy,” replied Moze.
Shady Jones swung himself astride his horse, all about him sharp, eager,
strung.
“Moze, I'll tote the grub an' you lead out of hyar, till we git past the
wust timber,” he said.
“Aw, Moze--you wouldn't leave--Jim hyar--alone,” implored Anson.
“Jim can stay till he rots,” retorted Moze. “I've hed enough of this
hole.”
“But, Moze--it ain't square--” panted Anson. “Jim wouldn't--leave me.
I'd stick--by you.... I'll make it--all up to you.”
“Snake, you're goin' to cash,” sardonically returned Moze.
A current leaped all through Anson's stretched frame. His ghastly face
blazed. That was the great and the terrible moment which for long had
been in abeyance. Wilson had known grimly that it would come, by one
means or another. Anson had doggedly and faithfully struggled against
the tide of fatal issues. Moze and Shady Jones, deep locked in their
self-centered motives, had not realized the inevitable trend of their
dark lives.
Anson, prostrate as he was, swiftly drew his gun and shot Moze. Without
sound or movement of hand Moze fell. Then the plunge of Shady's horse
caused Anson's second shot to miss. A quick third shot brought no
apparent result but Shady's cursing resort to his own weapon. He tried
to aim from his plunging horse. His bullets spattered dust and gravel
over Anson. Then Wilson's long arm stretched and his heavy gun banged.
Shady collapsed in the saddle, and the frightened horse, throwing him,
plunged out of the circle of light. Thudding hoofs, crashings of brush,
quickly ceased.
“Jim--did you--git him?” whispered Anson.
“Shore did, Snake,” was the slow, halting response. Jim Wilson must have
sustained a sick shudder as he replied. Sheathing his gun, he folded a
blanket and put it under Anson's head.
“Jim--my feet--air orful cold,” whispered Anson.
“Wal, it's gittin' chilly,” replied Wilson, and, taking a second
blanket, he laid that over Anson's limbs. “Snake, I'm feared Shady hit
you once.”
“A-huh! But not so I'd care--much--if I hed--no wuss hurt.”
“You lay still now. Reckon Shady's hoss stopped out heah a ways. An'
I'll see.”
“Jim--I 'ain't heerd--thet scream fer--a little.”
“Shore it's gone.... Reckon now thet was a cougar.”
“I knowed it!”
Wilson stalked away into the darkness. That inky wall did not seem so
impenetrable and black after he had gotten out of the circle of light.
He proceeded carefully and did not make any missteps. He groped from
tree to tree toward the cliff and presently brought up against a huge
flat rock as high as his head. Here the darkness was blackest, yet he
was able to see a light form on the rock.
“Miss, are you there--all right?” he called, softly.
“Yes, but I'm scared to death,” she whispered in reply.
“Shore it wound up sudden. Come now. I reckon your trouble's over.”
He helped her off the rock, and, finding her unsteady on her feet, he
supported her with one arm and held the other out in front of him to
feel for objects. Foot by foot they worked out from under the dense
shadow of the cliff, following the course of the little brook. It
babbled and gurgled, and almost drowned the low whistle Wilson sent out.
The girl dragged heavily upon him now, evidently weakening. At length he
reached the little open patch at the head of the ravine. Halting here,
he whistled. An answer came from somewhere behind him and to the right.
Wilson waited, with the girl hanging on his arm.
“Dale's heah,” he said. “An' don't you keel over now--after all the
nerve you hed.”
A swishing of brush, a step, a soft, padded footfall; a looming, dark
figure, and a long, low gray shape, stealthily moving--it was the last
of these that made Wilson jump.
“Wilson!” came Dale's subdued voice.
“Heah. I've got her, Dale. Safe an sound,” replied Wilson, stepping
toward the tall form. And he put the drooping girl into Dale's arms.
“Bo! Bo! You're all right?” Dale's deep voice was tremulous.
She roused up to seize him and to utter little cries of joy
“Oh, Dale!... Oh, thank Heaven! I'm ready to drop now.... Hasn't it been
a night--an adventure?... I'm well--safe--sound.... Dale, we owe it to
this Jim Wilson.”
“Bo, I--we'll all thank him--all our lives,” replied Dale. “Wilson,
you're a man!... If you'll shake that gang--”
“Dale, shore there ain't much of a gang left, onless you let Burt git
away,” replied Wilson.
“I didn't kill him--or hurt him. But I scared him so I'll bet he's
runnin' yet.... Wilson, did all the shootin' mean a fight?”
“Tolerable.”
“Oh, Dale, it was terrible! I saw it all. I--”
“Wal, Miss, you can tell him after I go.... I'm wishin' you good luck.”
His voice was a cool, easy drawl, slightly tremulous.
The girl's face flashed white in the gloom. She pressed against the
outlaw--wrung his hands.
“Heaven help you, Jim Wilson! You ARE from Texas!... I'll remember
you--pray for you all my life!”
Wilson moved away, out toward the pale glow of light under the black
pines.