"That you, Frank?" 'Poleon remained fixed in his tracks. "Frank!" There was a moment's pause, then, "FRANK!"
Followed a rustle as of a body turning, then a startled mumble in answer.
"Was that you?" Joe McCaskey's voice again demanded.
"Me? What—?"
"Was you outside?"
"Outside?"
"I heard the dogs rowing. They're stirring now. Hear 'em? I'll swear I saw that fly drop—" McCaskey's words died out and again the interior of the cabin became soundless.
"Who's there?" the former speaker suddenly barked.
When another moment had dragged by, a sulphur match was struck. For a second or two it shed a sickly blue radiance sufficient only to silhouette a pair of hands cupped over it; then, as the flame ignited the tiny shaft, it burst into a yellow glow and sent the shadows of the cabin leaping.
Joe McCaskey uttered a cry, a scream. The flame was crushed in his palms and again the cabin was ink black. It remained as silent as before except for a dry rattling of breath in the elder brother's throat.