“'An' she wasn't heah when you went huntin' fer her?”
“Correct.”
“Wal, if thet's so, what do you want to blab about cougars for?”
Wilson's argument seemed incontestable. Shady and Moze nodded gloomily and shifted restlessly from foot to foot. Anson dropped his head.
“No matter—if we only don't hear—” he began, suddenly to grow mute.
Right upon them, from some place, just out the circle of light, rose a scream, by reason of its proximity the most piercing and agonizing yet heard, simply petrifying the group until the peal passed. Anson's huge horse reared, and with a snort of terror lunged in tremendous leap, straight out. He struck Anson with thudding impact, knocking him over the rocks into the depression back of the camp-fire, and plunging after him. Wilson had made a flying leap just in time to avoid being struck, and he turned to see Anson go down. There came a crash, a groan, and then the strike and pound of hoofs as the horse struggled up. Apparently he had rolled over his master.
“Help, fellars!” yelled Wilson, quick to leap down over the little bank, and in the dim light to grasp the halter. The three men dragged the horse out and securely tied him close to a tree. That done, they peered down into the depression. Anson's form could just barely be distinguished in the gloom. He lay stretched out. Another groan escaped him.
“Shore I'm scared he's hurt,” said Wilson.
“Hoss rolled right on top of him. An' thet hoss's heavy,” declared Moze.
They got down and knelt beside their leader. In the darkness his face looked dull gray. His breathing was not right.