“What is it?” I said to Morgan. “An Indian cry?”
“No,” he replied. “Hark! There it is again.”
Yes; there it was again, but appeared to be from a fresh direction.
“Is it something down amongst the bushes—a frog or a young ’gator?”
“No; I don’t think it can be that, sir. I’ve heard nearly every sound they make, and it isn’t anything like that.”
All was still again, and we moved on slowly farther into the forest, going cautiously in and out among the trees, our weapons ready, and a strict look-out kept for the enemy. For it seemed to me that the main body could not be far off, our encounter having been with a skirmishing party.
“There again,” I whispered. “What is it, Hannibal?”
He was kneeling down now listening; and as he looked up at me, I could see that he was puzzled, for he shook his head.
“Han done know,” he said.
Again the sound came—a hoarse, gurgling, faint noise, as from a great distance, but somehow we were as far off from understanding what it meant as ever.