It was fearful to drive ahead through that gale, which sent the icy particles of snow against us like tiny knives, and to know that outside and above, the night was silent and windless. Indeed, there was never any rest within the Ghost Hills, and I could well realize why the Indians dreaded and avoided them.
By now I was more than ever sure that we were not only on the wrong track, but that this Mighty One was sent by the foul fiend to lead us astray and into danger of the worst. The passage of those hills was terrible to the body and to the soul. As we drew deeper into the darkness, weird echoes were set flying by our shoes and the wind and the voices of us. These were not borne past, but seemed to eddy up overhead, as though some flux of the wind caught and whirled them back toward us.
