But in the few brief minutes his nature had reverted another and
further step toward the primitive.
When he had gone a half mile in his noiseless flight he stopped, and,
listening intently, heard the faint echo of a long-drawn, whining cry.
After that came silence, heavy and ominous. But Henry only laughed in
noiseless mirth. All this he had expected. He knew that the larger party
to which the two warriors belonged would find the bodies, with hasty
pursuit to follow after the single cry. That was why he lingered. He
wanted them to pursue, to hang upon his trail in the vain hope that they
could catch him; he would play with them, he would enjoy the game
leading them on until they were exhausted, and then, laughing, he would
go on to the south at his utmost speed.
A new impulse drove him to another step in the daring play, and, raising
his head, he uttered his own war cry, a long piercing shout that died in
distant echoes; it was at once a defiance, and an intimation to them
where they might find him, and then, mirth in his eyes, he resumed his
flight, although, for the present, he chose to keep an unchanging
distance between his pursuers and himself.
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