Here was something tangible, something to give battle to, and a peril that one could see and face had few terrors for Grace Harlowe.
The bandit revolver that Grace had taken from Belle Bates was cautiously drawn from its holster. Grace took steady aim and pulled the trigger. A heavy report crashed out, echoing and buffeting the canyon walls far up the dark mountain gorge.
Grace fired again, and, this time, a scream of rage or pain, neither girl could decide which, again set the echoes screaming up the canyon, but the yellow eyes were no longer there when Grace got a clear view of the scene.
“There! Your friend, the lost soul, has at least one bullet in his body. You see how foolish you were to be so frightened,” rebuked Grace, forgetful for the moment that she too had been on the verge of giving way to the terror inspired by those agonizing wails. “I am going to see what I can discover.”
“Please, please don’t leave me alone,” begged Emma. “I can’t stand it.”
“I am not going away, just out front. Remain where you are. That beast may still be lurking about.”
Grace stepped out cautiously, carrying a flickering firebrand in her left hand, the bandit woman’s revolver in her right, ready for instant action. Upon examining the rocks for traces of their terrifying visitor, she found fresh blood stains. A trail of drops led up the canyon from that point, but the Overton girl did not follow it, knowing that peril might lurk on that trail.
“Don’t ever say that I cannot shoot straight,” cried Grace as she returned to her companion. “I hit the beast.”
“What was it?” questioned Emma, still pale and disturbed.
“I can’t say for certain. I know I never heard anything so blood-curdling as that frightful wail. I have been thinking, and it seems to me I have heard that the mountain lion, or cougar, has the wildest, most agonized scream of anything in the western mountains.”