Our two friends sprung erect, and listened.
“What is it?” whispered Midnight Jack, whose voice was accompanied by the low clicking of the revolver which he held in his hand.
“A corpse hez been found,” was Rube's quick reply. “I've heerd that yell afore.”
The natural words, “If a murder has been committed, they may suspect us,” struggled to the road-agent's lips.
Rube did not reply, but with lips firmly set, was apparently listening to the echoes of the weird cry that had shaken the still air of the summer's night.
But he felt the full force of his companion's utterance.
“Did you hear me, Rube?” asked Midnight Jack, impatiently.
“I heerd,” was the answer, which was almost drowned by the lonely howling of some gaunt Indian dogs. “Thar's a good deal o' truth in what you said, but a 'stiff upper lip' is the motto. Thar goes the devil-cry ag'in! Gosh! it sends chills down a fellar's back.”
The cry that had first assailed their ears was now repeated—and certainly divested of none of its repulsiveness.
“I'm goin' out,” said the old borderman. “The Injuns are turnin' out, we must not stay hyar an' give 'em cause fur suspectin' us, even if murder has been done an' we are innercent.”