“Wal, if she's gotta croak it's good she gits it over quick,” replied Anson. “I 'ain't hed sleep fer three nights. ... An' what I need is whisky.”
“Snake, thet's gospel you're spoutin',” remarked Shady Jones, morosely.
The direction of sound in the glen was difficult to be assured of, but any man not stirred to a high pitch of excitement could have told that the difference in volume of this strange wail must have been caused by different distances and positions. Also, when it was loudest, it was most like a whine. But these outlaws heard with their consciences.
At last it ceased abruptly.
Wilson again left the group to be swallowed up by the night. His absence was longer than usual, but he returned hurriedly.
“She's daid!” he exclaimed, solemnly. “Thet innocent kid—who never harmed no one—an' who'd make any man better fer seein' her—she's daid!... Anson, you've shore a heap to answer fer when your time comes.”
“What's eatin' you?” demanded the leader, angrily. “Her blood ain't on my hands.”
“It shore is,” shouted Wilson, shaking his hand at Anson. “An' you'll hev to take your medicine. I felt thet comin' all along. An' I feel some more.”
“Aw! She's jest gone to sleep,” declared Anson, shaking his long frame as he rose. “Gimme a light.”
“Boss, you're plumb off to go near a dead gurl thet's jest died crazy,” protested Shady Jones.