n their jarred nerves the great volume of sound, crashing nearer
and nearer, beat like a gathering flood.

Turning out the lamp and half-smothering the fire, Jim Towers stole
noiselessly to the back door and opened it to a narrow slit. He thrust
forth his head and drew it back again as precipitately as though it had
been struck by a fist.

"What did ye see?" came the whispered interrogation from stiff lips,
and the man hoarsely gasped out his response.

"Thar was--a black ghost standin' thar--black as sin from head ter
foot. He held a torch, an' each side of him stood another one jest like
him--Good God! I reckon hit's jedgment day an' nothin' less!"

The woman had slipped out of sight, but now she came lurching back in
wild terror.

"I peeked outen a winder," she whimpered. "Thar's score on' score of
men--or sperrits out thar--all black as midnight. They've got torches
flamin'--but they hain't got no faces--jest black skulls! Oh--Lord,
fergive my sins!"

Then upon front and back doors simultaneously came a loud rapping, and
the men inside fell into a rude circle, as quail hover at night with
eyes out-turned against danger.

"I'm Bear Cat Stacy," came a voice of stentorian command. "Open the
doors--and drop yore guns. We don't seek ter harm no women ner
children."

Still there was dead silence inside, as eye turned to eye for counsel.
Then against the panels they heard the solid blow of heavy timbers.

CHAPTER XXIV

When the door fell in, Bear Cat Stacy stepped across the splintered
woodwork, unarmed save for the holstered pistol in his belt. He made a
clear target for at his back was the red and yellow glare of blazing
flambeaux. Yet no finger pressed its trigger because the mad
uselessness of resistance proclaimed itself. Like flood-water running
through a broken dyke, a black and steady stream flowed around him into
the house, lining the walls with a mourning border of unidentified
human figures.

Their funereal like had never before been seen in the hills, and they
seemed to come endlessly with an uncanny silence and precision.

They were not ghosts but men; men draped in rubber ponchos or slickers
that fell, glinting with the sheen of melted snow, to their knees.
Their black felt hats were pointed into cones and under the brims their
eyes looked out through masks of black cloth that betrayed no feature.
Except for Bear Cat Stacy himself and George Kelly, who were both
unmasked, no man was re