“Jim, if she's dead—an' gone—what 'n hell's come off?” huskily asked Anson. “It, only seems thet way. We're all worked up.... Let's talk sense.”
“Anson, shore there's a heap you an' me don't know,” replied Wilson. “The world come to an end once. Wal, it can come to another end.... I tell you I ain't surprised—”
“THAR!” cried Anson, whirling, with his gun leaping out.
Something huge, shadowy, gray against the black rushed behind the men and trees; and following it came a perceptible acceleration of the air.
“Shore, Snake, there wasn't nothin',” said Wilson, “presently.”
“I heerd,” whispered Shady Jones.
“It was only a breeze blowin' thet smoke,” rejoined Moze.
“I'd bet my soul somethin' went back of me,” declared Anson, glaring into the void.
“Listen an' let's make shore,” suggested Wilson.
The guilty, agitated faces of the outlaws showed plain enough in the flickering light for each to see a convicting dread in his fellow. Like statues they stood, watching and listening.