“What you do?” inquired Jerry.
“We will see what they are doing and send them about their business,” said Cameron shortly.
“No,” said Jerry firmly. “S'pose Indian mak beeg medicine—bes' leave him go till morning.”
“Well, Jerry, we will take a look at them at any rate,” said Cameron. “But if they are fooling around with any rebellion nonsense I am going to step in and stop it.”
“No,” said Jerry again very gravely. “Beeg medicine mak' Indian man crazy—fool—dance—sing—mak' brave—then keel—queeck!”
“Come along, then, Jerry,” said Cameron impatiently. And on they went. The throb of the drum grew clearer until it seemed that the next turn in the trail should reveal the camp, while with the drum throb they began to catch, at first faintly and then more clearly, the monotonous chant “Hai-yai-kai-yai, Hai-yai-kai-yai,” that ever accompanies the Indian dance. Suddenly the drums ceased altogether and with it the chanting, and then there arose upon the night silence a low moaning cry that gradually rose into a long-drawn penetrating wail, almost a scream, made by a single voice.
Jerry's hand caught Cameron's arm with a convulsive grip.
“What the deuce is that?” asked Cameron.
“Sioux Indian—he mak' dat when he go keel.”
Once more the long weird wailing scream pierced the night and, echoing down the canyon, was repeated a hundred times by the black rocky sides. Cameron could feel Jerry's hand still quivering on his arm.