“Wal, yes—a couple or so,” replied Anson, grimly.
“But you never seen no one die of shock—of an orful scare?”
“No, I reckon I never did.”
“I have. An' thet's what's ailin' Jim Wilson,” and he resumed his dogged steps.
Anson and his two comrades exchanged bewildered glances with one another.
“A-huh! Say, what's thet got to do with us hyar? asked Anson, presently.
“Thet gurl is dyin'!” retorted Wilson, in a voice cracking like a whip.
The three outlaws stiffened in their seats, incredulous, yet irresistibly swayed by emotions that stirred to this dark, lonely, ill-omened hour.
Wilson trudged to the edge of the lighted circle, muttering to himself, and came back again; then he trudged farther, this time almost out of sight, but only to return; the third time he vanished in the impenetrable wall of light. The three men scarcely moved a muscle as they watched the place where he had disappeared. In a few moments he came stumbling back.
“Shore she's almost gone,” he said, dismally. “It took my nerve, but I felt of her face.... Thet orful wail is her breath chokin' in her throat.... Like a death-rattle, only long instead of short.”