But upon their jarred nerves the great volume of sound, crashing nearer and nearer, beat like a gathering flood.
Turning out the lamp and half-smothering the fire, Jim Towers stole noiselessly to the back door and opened it to a narrow slit. He thrust forth his head and drew it back again as precipitately as though it had been struck by a fist.
"What did ye see?" came the whispered interrogation from stiff lips, and the man hoarsely gasped out his response.
"Thar was—a black ghost standin' thar—black as sin from head ter foot. He held a torch, an' each side of him stood another one jest like him—Good God! I reckon hit's jedgment day an' nothin' less!"
The woman had slipped out of sight, but now she came lurching back in wild terror.
"I peeked outen a winder," she whimpered. "Thar's score on' score of men—or sperrits out thar—all black as midnight. They've got torches flamin'—but they hain't got no faces—jest black skulls! Oh—Lord, fergive my sins!"
Then upon front and back doors simultaneously came a loud rapping, and the men inside fell into a rude circle, as quail hover at night with eyes out-turned against danger.
"I'm Bear Cat Stacy," came a voice of stentorian command. "Open the doors—and drop yore guns. We don't seek ter harm no women ner children."
Still there was dead silence inside, as eye turned to eye for counsel. Then against the panels they heard the solid blow of heavy timbers.
CHAPTER XXIV