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 leader, angrily. "Her blood ain't on
my hands."

"It shore is," shouted Wilson, shaking his hand at Anson. "An' you'll
hev to take your medicine. I felt thet comin' all along. An' I feel some
more."

"Aw! She's jest gone to sleep," declared Anson, shaking his long frame
as he rose. "Gimme a light."

"Boss, you're plumb off to go near a dead gurl thet's jest died crazy,"
protested Shady Jones.

"Off! Haw! Haw! Who ain't off in this outfit, I'd like to know?" Anson
possessed himself of a stick blazing at one and, and with this he
stalked off toward the lean-to where the girl was supposed to be dead.
His gaunt figure, lighted by the torch, certainly fitted the weird,
black surroundings. And it was seen that once near the girl's shelter he
proceeded more slowly, until he halted. He bent to peer inside.

"SHE'S GONE!" he yelled, in harsh, shaken accents.

Than the torch burned out, leaving only a red glow. He whirled it about,
but the blaze did not rekindle. His comrades, peering intently, lost
sight of his tall form and the end of the red-ended stick. Darkness like
pitch swallowed him. For a moment no sound intervened. Again the moan of
wind, the strange little mocking hollow roar, dominated the place. Then
there came a rush of something, perhaps of air, like the soft swishing
of spruce branches swinging aside. Dull, thudding footsteps followed it.
Anson came running back to the fire. His aspect was wild, his face pale,
his eyes were fierce and starting from their sockets. He had drawn his
gun.

"Did--ye--see er hear--anythin'?" he panted, peering back, then all
around, and at last at his man.

"No. An' I shore was lookin' an' listenin'," repl