back to life, and then if it burns
me--if it burns us both--the fire itself cannot be more torture than to
live on like this!"

"Hush, lass!" murmured her father. "Listen to what's coming!"

It was a moan, very low pitched, and then rising slowly, and gaining in
volume, rising up the scale with a dizzy speed, till it burst and rang
through the house--the long-drawn wail of a wolf when it hunts on a
fresh trail.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE MESSAGE

Buck Daniels opened his eyes and sat bolt-upright in bed. He had dreamed
the dream again, and this time, as always, he awakened before the end.
He needed no rubbing of eyes to rouse his senses. If a shower of cold
water had been dashed upon him he could not have rallied from sound
slumber so suddenly. His first movement was to snatch his gun from under
his mattress, not that he dreamed of needing it, but for some reason the
pressure of the butt against his palm was reassuring. It was better than
the grip of his friend--a strong man.

It was the first grey of dawn, a light so feeble that it served merely
to illuminate the darkness, so to speak. It fell with any power upon one
thing alone, the bit of an old, dusty bridle that hung against the wall,
and it made the steel glitter like a watchful eye. There was a great
dryness in the throat of Buck Daniels; and his whole big body shook with
the pounding of his heart.

He was not the only thing that was awake in the grey hour. For now he
caught a faint and regular creaking of the stairs. Someone was mounting
with an excessively cautious and patient step, for usually the crazy
stairs that led up to this garret room of the Rafferty house creaked and
groaned a protest at every footfall. Now the footfall paused at the head
of the stairs, as when one stops to listen.

Buck Daniels raised his revolver and levelled it on the door; but his
hand was shaking so terribly that he could not keep his aim--the muzzle
kept veering back and forth across the door. He seized his right hand
with his left, and crushed it with a desperate pressure. Then it was
better. The quivering of the two hands counteracted each other and he
managed to keep some sort of a bead.

Now the step continued again, down the short hall. A hand fell on the
knob of the door and pressed it slowly open. Against the deeper
blackness of the hall beyond, Buck saw a tall figure, hatless. His
finger curved about the trigger, and still he did not fire. Even to his
hysteric