“What is it now?” he asked, gruffly.  “Hev’ ye got ’em agin?”

The dazed old scout stared, pointing directly across the other’s shoulder, his arm shaking desperately.

“It’s thar!—­an’ it’s his face!  Oh, God!—­I know it—­fifteen year.”

The man glanced backward into the pitch darkness, but without moving his body.

“There ‘s nuthin’ out there, ’less it’s a firefly,” he insisted, in a tone of contempt.  “You’re plum crazy, Murphy; the night’s got on yer nerves.  What is it ye think ye see?”

“His face, I tell ye!  Don’t I know?  It’s all green and ghastly, with snaky flames playin’ about it!  But I know; fifteen years, an’ I ain’t fergot.”

He sank down feebly—­sank until he was on his knees, his head craned forward.  The man watching touched the miserable, hunched-up figure compassionately, and it shook beneath his hand, endeavoring to shrink away.

“My God! was thet you?  I thought it was him a-reachin’ fer me.  Here, let me take yer hand.  Oh, Lord!  An’ can’t ye see?  It’s just there beyond them horses—­all green, crawlin’, devilish—­but it’s him.”

“Who?”

“Brant!  Brant—­fifteen year!”

“Brant?  Fifteen years?  Do you mean Major Brant, the one Nolan killed over at Bethune?”

“He—­he didn’t—­”

The old man heaved forward, his head rocking from side to side; then suddenly he toppled over on his face, gasping for breath.  His companion caught him, and ripped open the heavy flannel shirt.  Then he strode savagely across in front of his shrinking horse, tore down the flaring picture, and hastily thrust it into his pocket, the light of the phosphorus with which it had been drawn being reflected for a moment on his features.

“A dirty, miserable, low-down trick,” he muttered.  “Poor old devil!  Yet I’ve got to do it, for the little girl.”

He stumbled back through the darkness, his hat filled with water, and dashed it into Murphy’s face.  “Come on, Murphy!  There’s one good thing ’bout spooks; they don’t hang ’round fer long at a time.  Likely es not this ‘un is gone by now.  Brace up, man, for you an’ I have got ter get out o’ here afore mornin’.”

Then Murphy grasped his arm, and drew himself slowly to his feet.

“Don’t see nuthin’ now, do ye?”

“No.  Where’s my—­horse?”

The other silently reached him the loose rein, marking as he did so the quick, nervous peering this way and that, the starting at the slightest sound.

“Did ye say, Murphy, as how it wasn’t Nolan after all who plugged the Major?”

“I ’m damned—­if I did.  Who—­else was it?”

“Why, I dunno.  Sorter blamed odd though, thet ghost should be a-hauntin’ ye.  Darn if it ain’t creepy ’nough ter make a feller believe most anythin’.”

Murphy drew himself up heavily into his saddle.  Then all at once he shoved the muzzle of a “45” into the other’s face.  “Ye say nuther word—­’bout thet, an’ I ’ll make—­a ghost outer ye—­blame lively.  Now, ye shet up—­if ye ride with me.”