The secret of this alarm was this—they all had heard that a once feared and malignant robber, who had been dead a year, was roaming nocturnally about the Land of Silence. Knowing him to be dead, they were satisfied it was his ghost. All men have at least a small amount of superstition innate—these were no exception. The guide had recounted his strange meeting with the robber, and had been implicitly believed, as his manner when relating it was not that of one who would joke or falsely speak. Having never seen him they were affected by the guide’s mistrust and vague fear, and by the sudden, strange, and real disappearance of Kissie. They never doubted she had been an occupant of the cave—was not her mustang just without? Then if she had not, Pedro never would have voluntarily shown himself if he had wished to keep her concealed. It was only too plain she had been there and had disappeared.
They would have been more alarmed had they seen what Pedro had seen—had they known what he knew; it was better they did not—far better.
Darkness reigned over the Land of Silence; the hill with its adjacent horses and wagons—with its inner, half-scared occupants, lay still as the cool breeze swept over it; only the mustang on the prairie quietly browsing made a faint noise as she cropped the short and wiry bunch-grass here and there—all was quiet in the vast desert, as the night waxed on toward midnight.
Nine o’clock. Now Pedro was sitting up, supported by the faithful guide, and plied and harassed with questions he chose not to answer. He told of Kissie’s appearance at the cave, of his conversation with her, of the way in which she had occupied herself during the time she had been with him, of the last he saw of her, where she was and what she was doing; but why he came, when he arrived, what he tarried for, and what he had seen, he refused to tell. He was firm and decided, though his nerves were shaken considerably.
Mr. Wheeler was overwhelmed and in a semi-stupor, and Carpenter was alarmed for his health. After being so near his loved daughter, after almost touching her and being within ear-shot, the shock of the sudden disappearance had unmanned him, and he had sunk into a state of imbecility.
Carpenter, loving Kissie and grieving for her, was more in a state to appreciate his sufferings than any one else, and did his best to comfort him, being assisted in a rude manner by the faithful Burt Scranton. But if he heard their words of comfort he did not reply—sitting motionless he grieved alone. The night wore on.
Ten o’clock. The group was gloomy and quiet, each one sitting or lying on the ground, some smoking, others chewing, and all reserved and moody. No watch outside had been set, as they were all strangely stupefied by the recent strange events. The horses attached to the wagons were quiet, the deserted saddle-horses were lying down, and the mustang out on the plain began to show very distinctly—the moon was rising.
Between eleven and twelve o’clock there was a slight movement outside among the horses, and a succession of stampings ensued; but it was soon quieted, involuntarily, and was still again.
Cimarron Jack, growing weary of the dead calm in the cell-like chamber, rose to his feet and started toward the door. As he did so, a clamor arose outside. A mare screamed viciously, stamping; a shrill “nicker” came from a horse, and there was at the same moment a sound of rushing and galloping hoofs.
He sprung to the trap and peered out, then yelled shortly.