Page:The Cross Pull.pdf/150

 game trail. Flash suddenly pricked up his ears and attempted to squeeze past. Moran pushed him back as a low wail issued from the timber.

“Flash knew there was a tragedy going on out there. Guess what made that sound,” he urged.

“A wildcat,” she guessed.

“A rabbit,” said Moran. “That was his dying scream of fear. Few know that a rabbit makes a sound. Most men would have guessed as you did. That cottontail was probably struck by a weasel or an owl.”

A weird, unearthly squall floated down from the bald ridge that topped one wall of the canyon.

“There!” said Moran. “Try again.”

“A lynx,” she said.

“A fox,” he corrected. “Long ago some curbestone naturalist who owned a poodle dog announced to the world that the fox note was a yap. They’ve been yapping ever since. That long-drawn, maniac squall is their real note—call it a yap if you like. I rather thought we’d hear a fox and that it would prove to be the sound that had worried you. That wasn’t it?”

The girl shook her head.

“Not in the least like that,” she said.

“I can’t imagine what else it could be.” Moran