It was a sober party that rode slowly away, and for a long time nothing was said.
"It's so quiet to-night it makes me think of spooks," remarked Jerry, finally breaking the silence.
"Something makes me feel queer too," said Fred.
Just then a shrill, weird inhuman shriek came from somewhere in the direction of the mountains: "Kreee-kreee-ee," almost blood-curdling in its penetrating sharpness, cutting through the air like a keen knife blade, and sending unpleasant shivers down the backs of all who heard.
Again and again it came, threatening, foreboding, like some evil spirit about to swoop upon its prey.
They listened, spellbound, thrilled in every nerve. It was not fear that seemed to clutch at their hearts and make them pound, or that struck them silent, it was an awing sense of something supernatural, something not quite real. It was as though they had suddenly caught a glimpse of a demon of the underworld.
The dread cry continued for some minutes, then gradually grew fainter, until it seemed smothered by the intervening hills.
Before any of the party gathered courage to speak, a tall figure, like a fleeting shadow, glided across the path in front of them, and rapidly disappeared into the darkness. He seemed bent on an errand and was going toward the northeast mountain ranges.
"It's the Indian," whispered Carl, as the form hurried into the darkness.
"What do you suppose that noise was?" queried Jerry in a low tone.