The Man of the Forest, Zane Grey [manga ebook reader txt] 📗
- Author: Zane Grey
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After a while not one of the outlaws spoke or stirred. Not one smoked. Their gloomy eyes were fixed on the fire. Each one was concerned with his own thoughts, his own lonely soul unconsciously full of a doubt of the future. That brooding hour severed him from comrade.
At night nothing seemed the same as it was by day. With success and plenty, with full-blooded action past and more in store, these outlaws were as different from their present state as this black night was different from the bright day they waited for. Wilson, though he played a deep game of deceit for the sake of the helpless girl—and thus did not have haunting and superstitious fears on her account—was probably more conscious of impending catastrophe than any of them.
The evil they had done spoke in the voice of nature, out of the darkness, and was interpreted by each according to his hopes and fears. Fear was their predominating sense. For years they had lived with some species of fear—of honest men or vengeance, of pursuit, of starvation, of lack of drink or gold, of blood and death, of stronger men, of luck, of chance, of fate, of mysterious nameless force. Wilson was the type of fearless spirit, but he endured the most gnawing and implacable fear of all—that of himself—that he must inevitably fall to deeds beneath his manhood.
So they hunched around the camp-fire, brooding because hope was at lowest ebb; listening because the weird, black silence, with its moan of wind and hollow laugh of brook, compelled them to hear; waiting for sleep, for the hours to pass, for whatever was to come.
And it was Anson who caught the first intimation of an impending doom.
CHAPTER XXIII “Listen!”
Anson whispered tensely. His poise was motionless, his eyes roved everywhere. He held up a shaking, bludgy finger, to command silence.
A third and stranger sound accompanied the low, weird moan of the wind, and the hollow mockery of the brook—and it seemed a barely perceptible, exquisitely delicate wail or whine. It filled in the lulls between the other sounds.
“If thet's some varmint he's close,” whispered Anson.
“But shore, it's far off,” said Wilson.
Shady Jones and Moze divided their opinions in the same way.
All breathed freer when the wail ceased, relaxing to their former lounging positions around the fire. An impenetrable wall of blackness circled the pale space lighted by the camp-fire; and this circle contained the dark, somber group of men in the center, the dying camp-fire, and a few spectral trunks of pines and the tethered horses on the outer edge. The horses scarcely moved from their tracks, and their erect, alert heads attested to their sensitiveness to the peculiarities of the night.
Then, at an unusually quiet lull the strange sound gradually arose to a wailing whine.
“It's thet crazy wench cryin',” declared the outlaw leader.
Apparently his allies accepted that statement with as much relief as they had expressed for the termination of the sound.
“Shore, thet must be it,” agreed Jim Wilson, gravely.
“We'll git a lot of sleep with thet gurl whinin' all night,” growled Shady Jones.
“She gives me the creeps,” said Moze.
Wilson got up to resume his pondering walk, head bent, hands behind his back, a grim, realistic figure of perturbation.
“Jim—set down. You make me nervous,” said Anson, irritably.
Wilson actually laughed, but low, as if to keep his strange mirth well confined.
“Snake, I'll bet you my hoss an' my gun ag'in' a biscuit thet in aboot six seconds more or less I'll be stampedin like them hosses.”
Anson's lean jaw dropped. The other two outlaws stared with round eyes. Wilson was not drunk, they evidently knew; but what he really was appeared a mystery.
“Jim Wilson, are you showin' yellow?” queried Anson, hoarsely.
“Mebbe. The Lord only knows. But listen heah.... Snake, you've seen an' heard people croak?”
“You mean cash in—die?”
“Shore.”
“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.”
“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
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