"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.