Dutch collapsed on a cot, covering his ears with his hands. The man was of a low order of intelligence, as full of superstition as a plantation Negro. His mind did not even seek for a rational explanation of the phenomena that startled him. He was a coward of conscience. The clock was striking twelve o’clock for him. He accepted that without debate.
With an uneasy glance at the window Buckley offered such sorry comfort as he could. “The wind plays damn queer tricks, Sam. You buck up an’ get a bottle out. We’ll play seven up for a spell.”
A high mocking laugh, thin and sinister, trembled out of the night as though in answer to Buckley’s suggestion. The two men looked at each other. Each read fear in the eyes facing his.
“It—that sounded like—like Al Morford the day I shot him,” gasped Dutch, clutching at his companion’s sleeve. “He—he was laughin’ at me when I drew on him and asked him where he’d have it.”
“You don’t want to get to thinkin’ about that now, Sam,” advised Buckley, moistening his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. “Let’s hit the grit back to the Glory Hole. We’ll feel better once we get outside of a few drinks.”
“He—said he’d come back an’ ha’nt me,” whispered the man killer abjectly. “Said it while they was takin’ his boots off, right before he passed in his checks.”
“Al Morford’s been dead an’ buried for years,” said the other man shakily. “Forget him. An’ le’s get outa here, sudden.”
Another wail soughed down from the gorge. Dutch shook like an aspen. “I—I can’t go out—there.”
“You gonna stay here all night? I ain’t.” Buckley mopped the sweat from his forehead and drew a revolver. He trod softly to the door, then turned to his companion. “Come on, Sam.”
Buckley had no mind to take the night walk alone, nor had Dutch the courage to stay without his ally. The big ruffian, his nerves a-quiver, crept after the other man.