“Wal, it warn’t no coyote,” drawled the third of the boys attached to the Double Cross outfit, who revelled in the title of Deadshot Pete. “I been on these plains too long not to know every tone and variation of the songs them sneaks sing.”
“Then what was it?” demanded Sandy. “Seems to me, if it was some man or woman being done to death, they’d keep up more of a continuous yelling.”
“Unless it’s too late,” commented Deadshot, significantly.
This suggestion that perhaps the gruesome wails which had roused them all from their sleep might have been the dying protests or appeals for help of some human being caused the men to become silent.
“Don’t see how we can do any good so long as we don’t hear the thing again to give us a definite idea of its direction,” remarked the ranchman, after a period of several minutes peering into the darkness and listening had been productive of neither sight nor sound. “Guess we’d better get back to our bunks and wait till daylight.”
“Reckon you’re right, Sam,” returned his foreman. “It’s either too late, as Deadshot says, or we must hear it again so’s we can get our bearings.”
But neither the owner nor the outfit of the Double Cross was destined to get any more sleep that night!
While talking, the men had been looking toward the South.
Chancing to turn so that he was facing the cattle corral, Pinky suddenly uttered an exclamation of wild fear, then clutched Sandy by the arm, wheeling him about, as he pointed Northward with trembling hand.
Amazed at such action on the part of their bunkmate, the others followed his gaze.