A third and stranger sound accompanied the low, weird moan of the wind, and the hollow mockery of the brook—and it seemed a barely perceptible, exquisitely delicate wail or whine. It filled in the lulls between the other sounds.
“If thet's some varmint he's close,” whispered Anson.
“But shore, it's far off,” said Wilson.
Shady Jones and Moze divided their opinions in the same way.
All breathed freer when the wail ceased, relaxing to their former lounging positions around the fire. An impenetrable wall of blackness circled the pale space lighted by the camp-fire; and this circle contained the dark, somber group of men in the center, the dying camp-fire, and a few spectral trunks of pines and the tethered horses on the outer edge. The horses scarcely moved from their tracks, and their erect, alert heads attested to their sensitiveness to the peculiarities of the night.
Then, at an unusually quiet lull the strange sound gradually arose to a wailing whine.
“It's thet crazy wench cryin',” declared the outlaw leader.
Apparently his allies accepted that statement with as much relief as they had expressed for the termination of the sound.
“Shore, thet must be it,” agreed Jim Wilson, gravely.
“We'll git a lot of sleep with thet gurl whinin' all night,” growled Shady Jones.