“If you have, then you know that’s no panther,” another retorted.
Fear was written on every face but one. Old man Dodson—Old Bill Dodson, as he was known in the valley—had yet to learn what fear meant. But before another sunrise he was to know.
Shouldering his flint-lock musket, he opened the door and passed out into the pitch-black night, which now and again was illuminated by flashes of lightning, for a storm had threatened since early twilight.
Grouped about the fireplace, the others huddled together and listened, scarce breathing, for another of those cries which made the roots of one’s hair to tingle, and the spine to prickle creepily. For a time it came at almost regular intervals:
“Boom! Boom! A-i-e-h—”
At length a shot was heard, and several of the men sprang to their feet.
“He’s got it!” one cried. “Old Bill Dodson never missed a target in his life.”
And, thus reassured, they stood in the doorway, listening, and then called loudly. From the black, still night there came no answer. Across the ridge the rumble of distant thunder alone broke the awful quiet.
It was near daylight when they heard a shuffling step, and, opening the door, Dodson pitched headlong across the threshold. From his hands fell the stock and barrel of his musket—broken one from the other!
Physically, the old man’s injuries were slight. On his swollen neck were four blackened welts extending half way round it. Otherwise, he appeared unhurt—but his courage, his well-known bravery, was a thing of the past. For the remainder of his life the old pioneer, who had faced so many dangers, was a nerveless coward. At any unusual noise he would start in abject terror.