“You black devil! Get hence! Avaunt!”
Anson plucked up courage enough to touch her.
“Aww! Now, Ophelyar—”
Probably he meant to try to humor her, but she screamed, and he jumped back as if she might burn him. She screamed shrilly, in wild, staccato notes.
“You! You!” she pointed her finger at the outlaw leader. “You brute to women! You ran off from your wife!”
Anson turned plum-color and then slowly white. The girl must have sent a random shot home.
“And now the devil's turned you into a snake. A long, scaly snake with green eyes! Uugh! You'll crawl on your belly soon—when my cowboy finds you. And he'll tramp you in the dust.”
She floated away from them and began to whirl gracefully, arms spread and hair flying; and then, apparently oblivious of the staring men, she broke into a low, sweet song. Next she danced around a pine, then danced into her little green inclosure. From which presently she sent out the most doleful moans.
“Aww! What a shame!” burst out Anson. “Thet fine, healthy, nervy kid! Clean gone! Daffy! Crazy 'n a bedbug!”
“Shore it's a shame,” protested Wilson. “But it's wuss for us. Lord! if we was hoodooed before, what will we be now? Didn't I tell you, Snake Anson? You was warned. Ask Shady an' Moze—they see what's up.”