Few sounds stirred in the strange silence. Now and then the horses heaved heavily, but stood still; a dismal, dreary note of the wind in the pines vied with a hollow laugh of the brook. And these low sounds only fastened attention upon the quality of the silence. A breathing, lonely spirit of solitude permeated the black dell. Like a pit of unplumbed depths the dark night yawned. An evil conscience, listening there, could have heard the most peaceful, beautiful, and mournful sounds of nature only as strains of a calling hell.
Suddenly the silent, oppressive, surcharged air split to a short, piercing scream.
Anson's big horse stood up straight, pawing the air, and came down with a crash. The other horses shook with terror.
“Wasn't—thet—a cougar?” whispered Anson, thickly.
“Thet was a woman's scream,” replied Wilson, and he appeared to be shaking like a leaf in the wind.
“Then—I figgered right—the kid's alive—wonderin' around—an' she let out thet orful scream,” said Anson.
“Wonderin' 'round, yes—but she's daid!”
“My Gawd! it ain't possible!”
“Wal, if she ain't wonderin' round daid she's almost daid,” replied Wilson. And he began to whisper to himself.
“If I'd only knowed what thet deal meant I'd hev plugged Beasley instead of listenin'.... An' I ought to hev knocked thet kid on the head an' made sartin she'd croaked. If she goes screamin' 'round thet way—”