long, smoldering clouds spread in the western sky, and to the east silver mists lay on the purple gloom of the wilderness.
finally, when the great moon climbed the heavens and cast its ghastly radiance upon the bushes, it made a new and more brilliant crimson of the campfire, where the flames capered merrily through its mesquit branches, filling the silence with the fire chorus, an ancient melody which surely bears a message of the inconsequence of individual tragedy—a message that is in the boom of the sea, the sliver of the wind through the grass-blades, the silken clash of hemlock boughs.
no figures moved in the rosy space of the camp, and the search of the moonbeams failed to disclose a living thing in the bushes. there was no owl-faced clock to chant the weariness of the long silence that brooded upon the plain.
the dew gave the darkness under the mesquit a velvet quality that made air seem nearer to water, and no eye could have seen through it the black things that moved like monster lizards toward the camp. the branches, the leaves, that are fain to cry out when death approaches in the wilds, were frustrated by these uncanny bodies gliding with the finesse of the escaping serpent. they crept forward to the last point where assuredly no frantic attempt of the fire could discover them, and there they paused to locate the prey. a romance relates the tale of the black cell hidden deep in the earth, where, upon entering, one sees only the little eyes of snakes fixing him in menaces. if a man could have approached a certain spot in the bushes, he would not have found it romantically necessary to have his hair rise. there would have been a sufficient expression of horror in the feeling of the death-hand at the nape of his neck and in his rubber knee-joints.
two of these bodies finally moved toward each other until for each there grew out of the darkness a face placidly smiling with tender dreams of assassination. "the fool is asleep by the fire, god be praised!" the lips of the other widened in a grin of affectionate appreciation of the fool and his plight. there was some signaling in the gloom, and then began a series of subtle rustlings, interjected often with pauses, during which no sound arose but the sound of faint breathing.
a bush stood like a rock in the stream of firelight, sending its long shadow backward. with painful caution the little company travelled along this shadow, and finally arrived at the rear of the bush. through its branches they surveyed for a moment of comfortable satisfaction a form in a grey blanket extended on the ground near the fire. the smile of joyful anticipation fled quickly, to give place to a quiet air of business. two men lifted shot-guns with much of the barrels gone, and sighting these weapons through the branches, pulled trigger together.
the noise of the explosions roared over the lonely mesquit as if these guns wished to inform the entire world; and as the grey smoke fled, the dodging company back of the bush saw the blanketed form twitching; whereupon they burst out in chorus in a laugh, and arose as merry as a lot of banqueters. they gleefully gestured congratulations, and strode bravely into the light of the fire.
then suddenly a new laugh rang from some unknown spot in the darkness. it was a fearsome laugh of ridicule, hatred, ferocity. it might have been demoniac. it smote them motionless in their gleeful prowl, as the stern voice from the sky smites the legendary malefactor. they might have been a weird group in wax, the light of the dying fire on their yellow faces, and shining athwart their eyes turned toward the darkness whence might come the unknown and the terrible.
the thing in the grey blanket no longer twitched; but if the knives in their hands had been thrust toward it, each knife was now drawn back, and its owner's elbow was thrown upward, as if he expected death from the clouds.
this laugh had so chained their reason that for a moment they had no wit to flee. they were prisoners to their terror. then suddenly the belated decision arrived, and with bubbling cries they turned to run; but at that instant there was a long flash of red in the darkness, and with the report one of the men shouted a bitter shout, spun once, and tumbled headlong. the thick bushes failed to impede the route of the others.
the silence returned to the wilderness. the tired flames faintly illumined the blanketed thing and the flung corpse of the marauder, and sang the fire chorus, the ancient melody which bears the message of the inconsequence of human tragedy.
