His rifle was swung back for the third blow when a voice answered him, the voice of a girl, clear but troubled, uncertain, thrilling him strangely with the note in it he had heard this morning when he awoke, suggesting as it did the wild.
“Wait,” said the voice. “Wait—a—little—while.”
To describe the voice, to put a name to the subtle quality of it which made it different from any other voice Sheldon had ever heard was as impossible as to describe the perfume of a violet to one who has no olfactory nerve.
But in one respect her speech was definitely distinctive, in that each word came separately, enunciated slowly, spoken with the vaguest hint of an effort, as though her tongue were not used to shaping itself to words at all.
“All right,” answered Sheldon. “That’s fair. How long do you want me to wait?”
“Just—little—bit,” came the clear answer, the little pauses seeming to indicate that she was seeking always for the right word. “Not—damn—long.”
“Oh!” said Sheldon.
“Go over by that house that is all broken,” continued the voice. “Then I will open the door.” There came a pause, then the words uttered with great impressiveness: “Do what I say almighty quick or I’ll cut your white liver out!”
Sheldon obeyed, wondering more than ever. As he went he dropped the bearskin close to the door.
“I’m putting your—your dress where you can reach out and get it,” he said as he went.