He got up and moved forward cautiously. Lower down was trap number two, and as he approached it his sharp, ear caught the unmistakable sound of a turkey in distress. It was a wild, penetrating note which he and all the Bushwhackers had learned to imitate by sucking wind through a straw. The man chuckled with delight and drew a sack from under his coat.
Arrived at the trap, he walked around it until he found the door. It was not necessary for him to feel inside for the game he was sure was there. After listening intently Amos stood his gun up against a tree and, dropping on all fours, crawled into the trap. As he drew his feet in from the doorway a heavy log dropped from without and closed it effectually. With a growl like a trapped beast the man sprang erect and dashed his heavy form against the logs of his prison. But his efforts to throw down those walls were vain. They were too strongly built to topple, even before his prodigious strength. Then he poured forth a torrent of incoherent profanity, cursing his trappers. Without, all was silent as the grave. Suddenly the turkey-thief began to tremble.
“Outside thar,” he called, “for God’s sake, if you be human, speak to me.”
A low wail came from the heavy timber and grew into a shrill scream, drawing nearer to the man crouching now on the inside of his prison.
“Witches!” he gasped, and groveled among the leaves.
“Amos Broadcrook,” spoke a voice, seemingly close beside him, “your hour has come—prepare.”
“Let me out,” begged Amos, “oh, let me out o’ here.”
“Amos,” again came the voice, “we see it’s useless to give you time to repent. The devil has sent us for you. We must hurry away. Which will you have, Amos, rifle-ball or fire? Speak quick.”
“Gimme time,” groaned the distracted Broadcrook, “only gimme time.”
Something like a laugh came from the darkness outside, but it was so closely followed by another long-drawn wail that Amos hid his face among the leaves again.