A flock of buzzards, seemingly scared by his shadow, have suddenly flapped up from among the sage-plants, and are now soaring around, close to the spikes of the palmilla.

They have evidently been down _upon the earth_.

And what have they been doing there?
It is this question, mentally put by Walt Wilder, that has caused the quick change in his countenance--the result of a painful conjecture.
"Marciful heavens!" he exclaims, suddenly making halt, the gun almost dropping from his grasp.

"Kin it be possyble?
Frank Hamersley gone under! Them buzzards! They've been upon the groun' to a sartinty.
Darnashin! what ked they a been doin' down thar?
Right by the bunch o' palmetto, jest whar I left him.

An' no sign o' himself to be seen?
Marciful heavens! kin it be possyble they've been-- ?" Interrupting himself, he remains motionless, apparently paralysed by apprehension, mechanically scanning the palmilla, as though from it he expected an answer to his interrogatory.
"It air possyble," he continues after a time, "too possyble--too likesome.