For a space not even Peter could have heard his movement or his breath.
In the ebon darkness he rose to his feet, and the night--lifelessly still for a moment--heard the one choking word that came from his lips.
"Dead!" And there he stood, the heat of his rage changing to an icy chill, his heart dragging within him like a chunk of lead, his breath choking in his throat.

Jed Hawkins was dead! He was growing stiff there in the black trail.

He had ceased to breathe.

He had ceased to be a part of life.

And the wind, rising a little with the coming of storm, seemed to whisper and chortle over the horrible thing, and the lone wolf in Indian Tom's swamp howled weirdly, as if he smelled death.
Jolly Roger McKay's finger-nails dug into the flesh of his palms.