It would be hard to describe the effect which this bit of by-play had on those in the room. As a matter of fact, the effect of it on each one was different. All were surprised, and more or less puzzled, but each, according to his nature, gave the event a different construction.
Nomad, superstitious and imaginative, read in the sighing voice an instrumentality that was not human. It was a warning from a class of spirits to whom the old trapper referred as the “whiskizoos.”
Dell was astounded and apprehensive, Wild Bill frankly puzzled, Gentleman Jim grimly incredulous, and the scout began looking about him in a matter-of-fact way to locate the place from which the voice emanated.
“Waugh!” growled Nomad; “me no like um. All same whiskizoo. Better think et over, Buffler. Et won’t do ter go agin’ a warnin’ from ther spirit-land.”
“Where did it come from?” murmured Dell. “What was it?”
“There was flesh and blood back of it,” averred the scout. “Spirits have never mixed up in my affairs, and they’re not going to begin it now.”
He strode to a door in one corner of the room, and threw it open. The door led into a closet, but the closet was empty.
“I wouldn’t put it past Lawless any to set some one on to do a thing like that,” remarked Wild Bill, with a low laugh. “He’s trying your nerve, Cody.”
“What’s under the floor, Gentleman Jim?” inquired the scout, striking the floor with his heel.
“A basement,” answered the gambler, “where the proprietor of the Alcazar stores his ‘wet’ goods.”