“But we can try—don’t be so craven, Ned. It’s not like you to gi’ up so easy.”
“I know it—but something tells me that Fred is lost—if not dead, that we will never see him again. Why, I don’t know. I never felt so before to-night. Boys,” and his voice sunk to a whisper, “I believe that was a—a spirit that poor Fred chased!”
No one answered, and they rode on in silence. The true born and raised Westerner, is naturally superstitious. It seems inherent with them. Though some may deny this, I know it to be truth.
“Wal, I don’t know as Colton’s dogs kin trail a sperit, but I know that truer varmints don’t live. Ef they cain’t find Fred, then he is gone—shore!”
“Ha! listen—you hear that?”
Campbell’s voice trembled with excitement.
Two muffled reports came roaring over the prairie, unmistakably that of firearms. All heard them, and for a moment, believed that it was Hawksley signaling to them. But then Ruel—the keenest ear, by far, among them—cried:
“Ef it’s Fred, he’s at Colton’s. Them shots kem from thar.”
“He’d hardly have gone there—and if he did, why would he fire?”
“He wouldn’t—’tain’t him. Boys—you hear me; thar’s trouble thar!” muttered Ruel, as several more reports—sounding confused as though fired in an irregular volley—came faintly to their ears.