THE PASSING OF THE GHOST
The night following the capture of Daego’s pit-pans, Johnny’s ghost
behaved very strangely. On this night, as on many other nights, Pant
crossed the river to discover, if possible, some further details
regarding Daego’s plans and to ascertain more accurately the strength of
his forces. Their quota of logs would soon be filled. They must then make
up their raft within the boom. This must be towed down the river. Would
Daego, with his depleted forces, dare attempt to take over the camp
before that time came? Once the logs were afloat, would he manage in some
way to break the boom? These were vital questions.
On this particular night Pant did not join Daego’s men. Instead, he hid
in a low clump of palms; close enough to catch the conversation of one
small group.
“Reckon ole ghost walks agin to-night?” said one.
“Yea, bo! He’ll walk.”
“’Tain’t’ no harm come to us, not yet.”
“You all hain’t sayin’ ’t’ain’t goin’ t’ happen?”
“Hain’t sayin’ nothin’.”
“Oh, look ayonder. There it are.”
Sure enough, there was the ghost. With his waving gown all gleaming
yellow with light, his shining red eyes, his dark face and his lugubrious
rattle accompanied now and then by a piercing wail, Johnny’s ghost seemed
more fearsome than before.
The chicleros grew suddenly silent. Even the sighing palms ceased to sigh
and the last scream of a parrot died a sudden death.
It was an awesome moment. In that moment a strange thing happened.
Instead of hovering there above the palms, the ghost began to rise. As he
rose the dull rattle, as of bones in a coffin, increased in volume, and
the wail, high-pitched and terrifying, rose to a piercing scream.
Then, more terrible than all, as he rose higher and higher, his red eyes
grew dimmer, his glowing robes melted into the floating clouds, his
scream sounded fainter and fainter.
“Oh, my Massa!” groaned the black man who but a moment before had
professed little fear of the ghost. “Oh, my Massa!” he wailed, rolling on
the ground in his agony of fear. “Oh, my Massa, he’s gone! It’s his last
warnin’. He’s gone up. Now death and disaster sure do come!”
As if in proof of this, there came from far in the distance the dull roll
of thunder.
As for Pant, he hastened to his dugout and paddled rapidly across the
river. His mind was in a whirl. What had happened? He wanted to know,
needed to know, badly indeed. Not so badly, however, but that he had time
to pause and listen as the dip-dip of paddles sounded over the hushed
waters of Rio Hondo. As he waited and watched black streaks passed down
the river.
“Three of them,” he exulted. “That last trick was best of all. Three boat
loads. Must have carried ten men each.”
As he came near the cabin that had been Johnny’s office, and in which so
many strange doings had come off of late, he spied a dim light there.
On looking in he saw a single candle burning on a work bench. Slumped
down in a rude chair made of packing boxes, was old Hardgrave.
At first the boy thought him asleep, but upon hearing footsteps the old
man stirred, then looked up.
“It’s you, Pant,” he said slowly. “So it’s only you.”
Then of a sudden, sitting straight up, as if recalling bad news, he
groaned:
“Pant, he’s gone!”
“Who’s gone?”
“The ghost—Johnny’s ghost is gone. Left us tonight. Left us cold.”
Pant stared at the old man for a moment. “Can it be,” he thought to
himself, “that the mere mechanical creation can seem to its creator to
take on real life and a personality?”
To Hardgrave he said quietly: “I saw him go. It was weird, I can tell
you. And I shouldn’t take his going too much to heart. Fully thirty of
Daego’s men went down the river just now. This last was too much for
their superstitious minds.”
“Thirty! Did you say thirty?”
“Fully that many.”
“Then, Pant,” the old man sprang to his feet. “We’ll beat ’em yet, Pant.
We’ll fight! We’ll fight!”
“Of course we will,” said Pant.