lights of the city come on. When they were all lighted it looked like a
big, illuminated checker board out there on the plain. We'd get up early
in the morning, then, and climb to the Devil's Horn to see the sunrise.
My! but it's a gorgeous sight on a cloudy morning. The last time we were
there we sure did have a mighty queer experience--"

"Come on, fellows, let's travel along, or we'll not get anywhere
to-night. Ham, you can tell us your story while we are walking. We've got
to reach Dad's by four o'clock, or we'll never get to the Park by night,"
said Phil, as he arose and adjusted his blanket roll preparatory to
starting.

"Go on, Ham," urged Fat, who was always ready for a story, especially a
mountain story. "Let's have that tale of yours. I expect we'll need a
little salt with it won't we?"

"There isn't much to it, after all, when you tell it, for it was the
night and the surroundings that made it so impressive. We had just
finished supper and were all sitting up on the big rock looking out
over the lighted city. As we sat there, every now and then we would hear
the strangest sound. It came from the timber away up behind the camp. At
first it sounded like a human voice--a kind of a long, sad sob. The night
was as dark as pitch, and as we sat listening the cold shivers began to
run up and down our backs. Sometimes the sound seemed to be answered from
far out in the dark valley. We speculated a good deal as to what it could
be, for it was such a sad, wailing call. Then suddenly way down the
valley a light appeared, not a large one, just a tiny, flickering,
ever-moving light. It seemed to me to be in the air just over the center
of the canyon, but the rest declared it was on the road below us. Then
the sad call came again and again. It seemed to be nearer this time. Then