“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.