"Ther newcomer," answered Thompson.
"What?"
"Shore."
Thompson was off again in a dead run before more questions could be asked. These cabineers had heard the call from the same voice before, and in the same manner, therefore did not hesitate to prepare. Thompson reached another cabin, and went through the same maneuver, and a third, the resultant effect being the same in every instance. He was quite satisfied. His lying tongue had done its work and the outcome did not worry him in the least. His heart and soul joined in crying for revenge, and it should come at any cost to others.
When the appointed hour of the night had come on, he, waiting until the last moment, would ride up, driving right through the waiting crowd, yell like a Comanche, and they would follow willingly. His plans were working well, his lying heart was satisfied. He snarled like a wolf which had found a piece of fresh meat.
The night was dark. Heavy black clouds obscured the vision of the stars. A clouded canopy overhung the entire world, the fierce lightning flashed and shook its fiery tints over the sleeping mountain. The thunder peals burst forth in loud report, the echo resounding down deep into the quiet valley below. Save for the flashing lightning and the pealing thunder all else was quiet. What a fearful night for a fearful deed! What a night for the use of a black-hearted scoundrel! What a time for deeds born of a charred heart!
Jack Wade made no effort to sleep; he did not retire to the bunk in the little room with Tom Judson. Old Peter did not wish to retire. It was in his nature to see the alpha and omega of such deeds, he wanted to see it all. Nora could not close her eyes in sleep, although prevailed upon to do so. No, Jack Wade's own burdened heart pervaded the quiet atmosphere about Peter Judson's home, and no one cared to seek rest. Even good old dog Rover discovered in the funeral-like few about him that something was about to go wrong, and went about from one to the other whining, looking questioningly into their faces. Wade walked up and down, to and fro, like a lion in a cage or a madman in confinement, so intense was his anger because he couldn't prevent that which Judson had predicted was sure to follow. He believed now that Peter Judson spoke the truth, there was no reason, as he could figure, for his speaking anything else. He believed Judson had warned him from his heart, because he wished to save his life. Why should this old reprobate of a murderer desire that he should live at all? He would not have warned other men, for he had done so at his own peril. The consequences even now might lead to his own death. The old man, who had been closely scrutinizing Wade's troubled face, opened his mouth to speak.
"Ye needn't take it so hard, boy," he said. "Ye kin build another cabin like that in a few days, after ye git ther logs an' lumber out, that ye kin, shore."
As old Peter was speaking there came even then, down from toward the mountain way, the wild yell of the Comanche.
"Listen," said Peter, blowing out his light. "Thar ye air now. Don't say a word nur make any noise. Let 'em go on by, a-thinkin' we air asleep, an' ye'll see a putty sight soon. The fiends! the fiends! They're bent on a-killin' of ye right now, Wade, an' gloatin' in their hearts cause ye air mout nigh dead, so they think."