THE RAID.
“Ghosties!” gasped Sandy, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
“No wonder we couldn’t place it--but I knew it warn’t no coyote,”
asserted Deadshot.
For several minutes the men gazed at the awesome thing as it flitted
hither and thither.
“By the blood of my mother! But I’m glad the crittur never took it into
its head to visit us on the range,” breathed Pinky.
“Same here,” chorused Sandy and Deadshot.
“It means trouble--you see if it doesn’t,” continued the latter. “The
only other time I ever see anything like it was the night before the
Piutes dashed down on old man Turner’s ranch and killed all but me and
a low-down gambler called Crooked Joe.”
This assertion that the eerie spectre floating before their eyes
was not the first one he had seen instantly claimed the ears of his
companions, though they kept their gaze riveted on the apparition.
“What was _that_ one like?” breathed Pinky.
“It was all lit up, like fire. The Piutes said it was a curse put out
by their Medicine Man.”
“But how’d you manage to get away from the Injuns and escape the
massacre?” inquired Sandy, in whom Deadshot’s tales of his experiences
always aroused suspicion of their truthfulness.
“Me and Crooked Joe sloped as soon as the light in the sky was
discovered. Mark my word, man dear, _every time you sees anything in
the air like ghosties, it means trouble_!”
“Well, you aren’t going to get out of it this time by digging out,”
broke in the ranch owner, who had been listening with increasing alarm
to his cowpuncher’s story, and feared the effect it might have upon
the rest of his men. “I need you all to-morrow to get the bunch to the
loading station. So don’t think you can sneak off.”
“We can’t eh?” demanded Deadshot. “Who’s a going to stop _me_ if I want
to go?”
“I am, with this rifle I’ve got in my hands,” returned the owner of the
ranch, calmly. “I don’t want any trouble. But I won’t stand for any of
this nonsense about spirits, trouble and running away. If any one of
you tries to get a pony from that corral to-night, I’ll put a shell
into him. Just keep that in your heads.”
The unexpected turn of affairs had amazed the other cowboys, and,
forgetting all about the spectre, they watched the ranchman and his
helper.
“You kinder got the drop on me, Sam,” growled the cowpuncher, “so I
’low I’ll do just as you say. Besides, I didn’t mean nothing anyhow.”
“All right, Deadshot. No hard feelings. Let’s go over to the cattle
corral and see what this white thing is.”
“What, go chasing a ghostie?” gasped Sandy, the very thought of any man
daring to investigate an apparition seeming akin to sacrilege to his
superstitious mind.
“Sure. Why not? It won’t eat you.”
“Well, _you_ can go if you like. But I ain’t particular,” returned the
foreman. “That ain’t any part of my job.”
The necessity for any one to go, however, was suddenly obviated.
With an abruptness that was in keeping with its coming, the spectre
vanished.
“Skulls and crossbones! Did you see that? It just floated away and we
looking straight at it!” moaned Sandy.
The uncanniness of the apparition’s disappearance impressed even the
ranch owner, and he was wondering as to the course he should pursue to
reassure his men, when Pinky whispered:
“Let’s go into the house before the blamed thing lights on us here!”
The thought that the mysterious spectre might appear face to face
with them unnerved these men of the plains--men to whom danger in any
tangible form was a delight--and they were on the point of dashing into
their bunkhouse in utter panic when they were recalled to their normal
selves.
Simultaneously with the disappearance of the spectre came a pitching
and swaying among the cattle, followed instantly by terrified bellowing
and the wildest confusion.
“The ghosties cast a spell on the cattle!” whimpered Sandy.
“Didn’t I say it meant trouble?” demanded Deadshot, exulting at the
very evident fulfilment of his prophecy.
“Don’t stand there talking! Get your ponies and come on! We’ve got our
work cut out for us! What it means I don’t know. But I _do_ know, if we
don’t steady those cattle down lively, they’ll stampede--and then we’ll
have a merry time!” declared the ranchman, leading the way to the horse
corral.
A moment, fearing that the animals had, indeed, been cursed, held the
cowpunchers inactive. Then, their lifelong training on the plains
coming to the fore, they followed their employer and were soon racing
to the terror-stricken cattle.
Their fear increasing with every moment, the animals were plunging
and lowing, the crashing of their horns sounding like the barking of
pistols above the dull roar of the pounding of their hoofs.
“There must be wolves in amongst ’em!” yelled Sandy, riding up close to
Bowser. “It’s breaking out all over the corral, not in just one place.”
“Well, whatever it is, we’ve got to quiet the cattle, or I won’t have
one fit to ship away. Get busy, boys!”
But just as the ranchman finished speaking, Pinky let out a yell.
“Look, right in the middle of the corral! The ghostie again!” he cried.
Turning their eyes in the direction indicated, the horsemen beheld the
same white form seemingly floating over the heads of the cattle.
“It must be the Old Nick himself!” moaned Sandy. “There’ll be no
quieting them critturs, Sam, with that thing hovering over them.”
Too well did the ranch owner realize this fact--and he also realized
that unless he did something to remove the suggestion of the
supernatural from the mysterious apparition, he would be unable to
control either men or cattle.
Just what the thing was, he did not know. Yet, being a man of an
unimaginative mind, he decided to find out.
Without saying a word of his intentions to his assistants, the owner of
the Double Cross threw his rifle to his shoulder, took a hurried sight
at the spectral form and pulled the trigger.
As the report rang out, the cowpunchers leaned forward in their
saddles, watching the form intently.
To shoot at a ghost required more courage--in view of the traditions
relating to ill-luck and curses such an act brought down upon the head
of one so rash--than they possessed, and the cowboys fully expected
some dire punishment to be instantly meted out to their boss.
For an intense moment, there was no apparent result from the bullet
sent at the floating form.
Then a mocking laugh rent the air, and the white spectre vanished as
completely as before!
“There’s more human than spook to that voice!” exclaimed Bowser.
“Skulls and crossbones! I have it! It’s a raid!” cried Sandy.