This was to his mind suggestive, and portended danger. He thought it meant Indians.
Whether they were crawling on him or not, he could not tell, but that Indians were moving about seemed probable, even in the deathly stillness.
His horse, which had been grazing peacefully, became restless. However, after a few snorts it settled down again to nibbling at the scanty grass, though soon it ceased to feed.
The scout rose now, undoubling his tall form and standing erect in the darkness, with rifle in hand and head bent in a listening attitude. He saw the dark shape where the woman lay.
“No use to arouse her,” was his thought; “she needs all the sleep she can get.”
Pizen Jane was still an enigma to him, in spite of the vast amount of talking she had done. The information given of herself had not been much more informing than word puzzles, but she had clung to him, refusing to leave him, while stoutly declaring that her mission there was the same as his—to hunt down outlaws.
When he heard nothing, the scout walked out to his horse. He found it with head up and ears pricked forward, as if it either saw or heard something suspicious.
Standing by his horse, with hand on the lariat close to its nose, the scout looked out into the silent darkness, while his imagination pictured there crawling Indian forms. He did not think of outlaws.
The moon rose, lighting the rim of the hollow where he had pitched camp; but the rim was covered with a thick growth of bushes and small trees, and so concealed from his searching eyes the forms of the desperadoes who had crept up there.
Suddenly they jumped into view, in the red moonlight, yelling as wildly as if they were Indians; and, with revolvers cracking, they sprang down into the hollow, where they expected to find the scout asleep.