The moans died away
into choking sobs, and Bonner's ears could hear nothing else. A sudden
thought striking him, he rolled out of his bed and made his way to Bud's
pile of blankets. But the solution was not there. The lad was sound
asleep and no sound issued from his lips. The moans came from another
source, human or otherwise, out there in the crinkling night.
Carefully making his way from the tent, his courage once more restored
but his flesh still quivering, Bonner looked intently for manifestations
in the black home of Johanna Rank. He half expected to see a ghostly
light flit past a window. It was intensely dark in the thicket, but the
shadowy marsh beyond silhouetted the house into a black relief. He was
on all fours behind a thick pile of brush, nervously drawing his pipe
from his pocket, conscious that he needed it to steady his nerves, when
a fresh sound, rising above the faint sobs, reached his ears. Then the
low voice of a man came from some place in the darkness, and these words
rang out distinctly:
"Damn you!"
He drew back involuntarily, for the voice seemed to be at his elbow. The
sobs ceased suddenly, as if choked by a mighty hand.
The listener's inclination was to follow the example of Anderson Crow
and run madly off into the night. But beneath this natural panic was the
soul of chivalry. Something told him that a woman out there in the
solitude needed the arms of a man; and his blood began to grow hot
again.
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