Perhaps I was a morbid child, for it was on wild storm-ridden nights, when the rain splashed in sheets against the windows and the raving wind screamed dismally about the eaves of the big house, that I would climb upon his knee and beg for “The Thunder Stories,” as I had come to call them.
Full well I knew that I would later creep up the dark stairs with quaking knees, and with my heart pounding against my ribs—knew too, that I would lie awake, with the blankets drawn tightly over my head, and listen, yet dread to hear—the Thunder Voice!
The Indians had so named it—for that is what their word “Namshka” meant—but grandpa himself had heard The Thunder Voice, when he was no older than I, and he assured me that it was little akin to thunder in its tone, although it came to be known in the valley by the name the Indians had given it.
It was on the night Jeanne Delloux lay dead in the pine-wood coffin in the best room of Bartien Delloux’s cabin that The Thunder Voice was first heard in the valley.
It was a custom, when one died, that neighbors would sit all night with the bereaved, to lessen somewhat the poignancy of the first smarting blows of grief. Bartien’s cabin could scarce hold them all that night, for he was popular with the valley folk; and Jeanne, his wife, had been loved by young and old alike.
“Boom! Boom! A-i-e-h—”
Its first notes were deep and strong, but trailed off into a shrieking scream—first loud, then dying out in a wailing whine.
The men held their breath, their questioning eyes fixed upon each other. The women screamed, and Millie Barton fainted.
Again and again it sounded, coming, it seemed, from somewhere down the valley road. At length the men found voice:
“It’s a panther,” suggested John Carroll. “I’ve heard many a one before.”