CHAPTER VII.
LAYING THE “GHOST.”
“Waugh!” chattered Nomad. “I been er layin’ hyar in mortil agony fer two long hours, hyerin’ thet sound. Ther Forty Thieves Mine is bad medicine; thar’s been crooked bizness o’ some kind hyar, an’ et’s ha’nted. Let’s skin out, Buffler! Br-r-r, but I got er bad attack o’ ther shakes.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the scout impatiently. “I don’t believe in ghosts. That sound, whatever it is, has a very human note, it seems to me.”
“Human?” whooped Nomad; “human? Et’s a whiskizoo, warnin’ us ter make ourselves plumb absent, er take ther consequences.”
“Listen!” commanded the scout.
The groaning noise was repeated, and there was certainly something unearthly about it, there in that ill-omened place. This time, however, it was followed by a tapping as of one stone against another.
“Ain’t this orful, Buffler?” muttered the old trapper, brushing his sleeve across his dripping forehead. “I don’t reckon we’re ever goin’ ter live ter git out o’ hyar.”
The scout gave no further attention to Nomad, but took the candle down from the wall and started slowly along the level in the direction of the shaft.
“Hello!” he shouted, at the top of his voice.
The voice answered with another groan—less a groan, perhaps, than spoken words, jumbled together by distance and a muffling barrier.