The laughter was worse on Carl's nerves than the silence, and he felt himself grow sick at heart.
How could he expect to fight or escape from a devil impervious to the balls from a Colt forty-five?
Then, to Carl's amazement and relief, the black horse sprang forward over the snow so swiftly that it seemed as if it was flying rather than running, but this probably was due to the uncertainty and the illusion of the moonlight, and vanished into thin air, leaving Carl staring open-mouthed.
It was several minutes before Carl regained his senses and knew that he was sitting with his revolver in his hand, staring into space and seeing nothing.
Then he rode slowly forward to the brink of a deep coulee.
Here was where he had last seen the phantom rider, for such Carl had at last come to regard him.
Looking to the bottom of the coulee, Carl saw nothing but snow, where he had expected to find a dead horse and rider.
"Ach, vot a country," he wailed. "Vy did I effer come to it? Mutter, I vish you vas here to hellup your Carlos."
Then he heard a groan close at hand and looked about, expecting to see the phantom rider by his side.
A short distance off lay a black splotch on the snow.