Suddenly another sound came down from the lower part of the mountains. It began with a deep, long-drawn, hollow cry, between a howl and a moan, and then broke into a wild, piercing shriek.
The farmer started to his feet, and stood gazing in the direction from which the cry had come.
"It's only a stray dog howling," said Brent.
Reinfelter turned toward his wife, and the moonlight showed that his face was white with terror.
"_De warnoong!_" he said, in a low voice. "_D'r geishter-shray foon de bairga!_"
The woman covered her face with her hands, and began trembling and sobbing. Rena put her arms around her mother's neck and tried to comfort her, as if _she_ had been the mother instead of the child.
The sound broke out again, and this time it was louder and more distinct than before. As the melancholy echoes died away, Rena rose, and, taking her mother's hand in hers, led her toward the house.
When they had gone, Brent said, "What do you think that sound is?"
"It's the warning still," said Reinfelter. "It's the warning of death."
"A ghost. It goes up there in the mount'ins an' calls, an' the one it calls is soon in the graveyard already. It's called the mother, or Rena, or me, this night."
"No; it only calls the Reinfelters still. It's been so ever since the Injun massacree, a long time ago."
"Yes. My great-grandfather an' his oldest son was up in the mount'ins, and his wife was a-comin' back from there by herself once. Just as she got where she could see her little children a-playin' in the yard, three Injuns jumped out o' the woods that was nigh to the house then, an' run into the yard an' killed the children right before her eyes. The men up there heard her scream, an' they run down, an' found her a-layin' there where she fell, an' they thought she was dead already. She come to herself ag'in, but after that she just sort o' pined away, an' in less than two months she died. It's her ghost that goes up there an' calls us still."
"No; I never heard it myself. But the night my little girl died, nine years ago, she rose up in bed once, an' she says, 'Who is that a-cryin' up there in the mount'ins?' We couldn't hear nothin' still, but we knew what _she_ had heard, an' after that we didn't have no more hope."