The Man of the Forest by Zane Grey (read me like a book txt) 📗

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.