The Man of the Forest - Zane Grey (white hot kiss txt) 📗

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