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.”