“Yes,” said Bear-Killer, “it was the Spirit Warrior—the spirit of the outcast chief, Meno. When will Meno’s vengeance be complete?“
“When Ku-nan-gu-no-nah and all his braves are no more! When the sons of the red-men who tortured their own chief to death are all numbered with the dead! Then, and not before, will the vengeance of the outcast and murdered sachem, Meno, be complete. Every day brings it nearer the end!”
The two Indians started as though a keen-edged knife had pierced their vitals. Then they stood transfixed with fear, staring into each other’s eyes as if to inquire the source of the answer that had come to Bear-Killer’s question almost before it had left his lips.
The tones of the voice that had spoken the words were hollow, and the weird and terrible menace seemed to be borne to them on the winds from afar off, in a wild, ghastly chant that thrilled every fiber of their superstitious beings with a vague horror that they could not shake off.
The dismal wailing of the wind through the forest trees, the sullen roar of the storm which had set in a little while before, and the monotonous dashing of the cataract below, all combined to inspire them with a sort of awed dread, that the spirit voice, crying out to them above the crash of the wind and storm, augmented into a wild, ungovernable fear.
For several moments, the two Indians stood silent and motionless, neither daring to speak or stir.
For a few seconds the wind was hushed and the dashing storm seemed to have spent its fury.
Then in an instant it seemed as if the storm demon had sent forth all his forces of wind and sleet. Trees were blown over, limbs were flying hither and thither, and the wind increased to a perfect tornado, wailing and shrieking like a regiment of fiends. The Indians saw that the white man was swinging to and fro at a fearful rate. It seemed as though the lasso must break at every oscillation. He vibrated backward through a space of fully twenty feet. They could not keep their footing, and were obliged to throw themselves prostrate on the ground.
High above the fearful roar, and crashing of uprooted trees and fallen limbs, loud and clear above the shrieking of the wind, was borne to them again the voice of Meno, the Spirit Warrior:
“Let Ku-nan-gu-no-nah beware! Meno’s vengeance will overtake him. He will die a more horrible death than even his devilish mind can comprehend! Let him beware!”