This gave it an old look, and the horse certainly would not be known by the man who had owned him.
Just at midnight a low moaning was heard. As the wind had come up, and was whistling about the old hacienda, it made the moaning seem more dismal than ever. Then deep groans were heard.
A few scouts moved uneasily at this, but no one rose, no one spoke.
The weeping of a woman followed, without causing any disturbance among the sleepers, if any one was really asleep. Next was heard the plaintive wailing of a child.
Still no one stirred. A few minutes after there was a perfect chorus of these melancholy sounds, and still the scouts lay quiet.
Suddenly, without warning, the same unearthly, terrible shriek which had before brought all the scouts to their feet echoed through the old hacienda.
To say that some of the scouts started would be but the truth. But all had their orders from Buffalo Bill, and not a man moved. The shriek had caused hardly any more disturbance than had the moans, weeping, and wailing.
But, as though angry at having remained unnoticed, the shrieker sent forth peal after peal, until Buffalo Bill called out:
“Oh, quit that racket, ghost, and go back to your grave; for we can’t help you.”
The scouts laughed, and in a moment the sounds ceased altogether.