Explore "In the Camp of the Black Rider" by Capwell Wyckoff on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was with a sinking heart and a quick flash of chilling fear that Buck felt himself in the grasp of the unknown man back of the cemetery monument. The attack had come so quickly that, added to the mystery and uncanniness of the place and hour, his mind whirled for the moment. The hand over his mouth was rough and horny, calloused apparently by hard labor, and the arm which encircled his body and pinned his own arms to his sides was a strong and sinewy one, the thin but whip-like cords of which he could feel even through his clothing.
His fingers still rested on the button of his flashlight and the thought occurred to him to light it. But as though reading his thought the strange individual swung down a long, lean hand and swept it from his grasp. Buck might have used his light for a weapon had he thought about it, but just now his thoughts and impressions were too confused to allow for anything constructive.