“I tell you, it was the squeaking of the mules. I know the sound well enough.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong,” protested Perry.
“And I’m sure you are. If it was the cry of some one being killed, wouldn’t there be a rush of the Indians, to see what was the matter?”
“If they heard it.”
“And they would. Trust them for that. The mules are excited and calling to one another. I believe they are being loaded.”
“Oh, how can you take it all so coolly?” groaned Perry. “My heart beats as if it would break, and I feel a curious choking sensation at the throat, and all the time you take it as if there was nothing the matter.”
“Do I? You don’t know,” said Cyril. “I believe I’m worse than you are; but never mind, try to laugh.”
“Laugh,” said Perry piteously. “I feel as if I could sit down and cry.”
“Leave that to the girls, lad. We’ve got something else to do. Don’t stop. We must keep on, so as to keep the Indians from thinking there’s anything wrong. There, cheer up. Can you sing any thing?”
“Sing!” cried Perry, in a voice full of reproach.