yin'," 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',"