"That damned whistling again."
Every face changed. At a rustling in a near-by willow, Terry Jordan
started and then cursed softly to himself. That broke the spell.
"It's the whisperin' of the willows," said Purvis.
"You lie," said Silent hoarsely. "I hear the sound growing closer."
"Barry is dead," said Haines.
Silent whipped out his revolver--and then shoved it back into the
holster.
"Stand by me, boys," he pleaded. "It's his ghost come to haunt me! You
can't hear it, because he ain't come for you."
They stared at him with a fascinated horror.
"How do you know it's him?" asked Shorty Rhinehart.
"There ain't no sound in the whole world like it. It's a sort of cross
between the singing of a bird an' the wailin' of the wind. It's the
ghost of Whistlin' Dan."
The tall roan raised his head and whinnied softly. It was an unearthly
effect--as if the animal heard the sound which was inaudible to all
but his master. It changed big Jim Silent into a quavering coward.
Here were five practised fighters who feared nothing between heaven
and hell, but what could they avail him against a bodiless spirit? The
whistling stopped. He breathed again, but only for a moment.
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