I must have slept for some time, but it seemed to me my eyes had barely closed when a piercing, wailing scream in the tree above me brought me instantly to my feet--a scream so startling that it seemed to vibrate every nerve in my body. Even if I had never heard so much as a whisper as to the peculiar character of the "death-bird's" cry I should have recognised it, for never before or since have I heard such a wild, foreboding shriek. The cry was long and wailing--the first note sharp, like the crack of a six-shooter, then trailing off into a long-drawn-out, ominous wail. The bird was doubtless sitting on one of the dead limbs above me, and at the first note of alarm had flown off across the bottom, the cry becoming more weird and portentous the farther away it got. I took notice of this in a kind of subconscious way, for my faculties were strung to their highest tension to discover the danger that I was convinced menaced me. Even before the cry died away I heard my horse drawing in its breath in a sort of sob, as though uneasy and somewhat excited. Then I noticed that the lariat looped to my wrist was drawn suspiciously tight. This impression had hardly formed in my mind before the lariat suddenly drew a little tighter, then slackened perceptibly. Instantly it occurred to me that an Indian was out there with my horse, that he had the lariat in his hand, and was perhaps running his hand along it towards me to untie it, thinking it was tied to a stake, when, having got near enough to hear me as I sprang to my feet, he cut the line with a knife, causing the momentary tightness, followed by the slackening. The thought that an Indian was making off with my valuable horse so filled me with fury that I was driven almost to desperation, and forgot for an instant the necessity for caution. Slipping the looped lariat off my wrist, I drew my six-shooter and crept as softly as I could out in the direction of my horse. I could still hear him sniffing out there in the brush, and thought I heard him stepping among sticks as though he was being led away. This so enraged me that I pushed through the brush faster and more recklessly than ever, gripping my six-shooter, though I realized I was doing a foolhardy thing, for an Indian can see in the dark much better than a white man. Still, it seemed impossible for me to resist the impulse to pursue my horse.