“Don’t ye hear it, cap’n?”
“Hear what?”
“The music.”
“If you call the hooting of that horrid owl—”
I stopped at a gesture from my guide. In the obscurity I could see his hand uplifted, his finger pointing upwards.
“Don’t ye hear somethin’ up that way?” he continued, “Thar’s the twang o’ a guitar, or one o’ them thar Mexikin bandoleens—as they call ’em. Hear that? Somebody laughin’! Hear that, too? If my ears haven’t lost thar hearin’, that ere’s the voice o’ a sheemale!”
The last remark secured my attention. I listened—as if expecting to hear a summons of life or death!
There was the twang of a stringed instrument—harp or guitar, bandolon or jarana. There was a voice—a man’s voice—and the instant after a series soft tones, with that metallic ring that can only proceed from the feminine throat.
“Yes,” I assented, mechanically, “there’s music there!”
“Moren’ that, cap’n! Thar’s dancin’.”