“Yes; I believe it was Dungarvon—Duval Dungarvon.”
“God have mercy!” exclaimed the woman, frantically. “Duval Dungarvon! Duval Dungarvon! Oh, dear girl, better take your own life than fall into the hands of that man. He is a fiend, a devil! It is not your beauty, nor his love for you that makes him desirous of possessing you, but it is to torture you, and grind, grind your father’s heart out for revenge—bitter, bitter, BITTER revenge!” and the beautiful woman fairly raved in her excitement.
Silvia was completely mystified by her strange words—her wild emotion.
“I do not understand you, Silver Voice,” she said.
Before the Indian woman could reply, a wild commotion among the savages outside arrested her attention. She turned and went out, and Silvia involuntarily arose and followed her.
The women were greatly surprised to see the savages, their faces convulsed with horror—their eyes lifted upward with a terrified stare, speechless and motionless. Following the direction indicated by their startled gaze, the women became equally as terrified.
And why?
Down the valley from the north floated in the air high above the tree-tops—far above the reach and power of man, an awful figure—the figure of a human skeleton, its ghastly proportions revealed by the flame and smoke emitted from the great sunken eyes, the distended nostrils and wide, grinning mouth. Great white arms beat and buffeted the air like the wings of a struggling vampire, while scream after scream rent the air.
It was the Aerial Demon of the Mountain, the scourge of the Black Hills—the terror of the Indian.
Silvia’s face became white with terror, and she was compelled to cling to Silver Voice for support.