“Yas, I thort so,” continued the ranger, coolly. “But, never mind; I know who you be, now. Ye’re Jim McCabe, the chap as are known to be the black sheep of the fort, an’ the sneakin’est hang-dog that ever set fire to a shanty! What in all natur’ are ye—an eediot or a sleep-walker? ’cause it’s plain to this coon ’ut ye’re one or t’other. What wur ye caperin’ round hyur fur? Hav yer treed sunkthin’?”
“Can’t you see what it is?” exclaimed McCabe, wildly. “Where are your eyes? Don’t you see Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland standing there, locked in a close embrace?”
“What! When? Where?” ejaculated Kirby Kidd and Nick Robbins, in a breath.
“Why, there!” roared the ruffian, in the wildest excitement, pointing toward the grave as he spoke.
“This coon sees nothin’,” asserted Kidd.
“Neither do this ’un,” echoed Robbins.
Nor did Jim McCabe himself see the apparitions now. During the brief space of time that his eyes were averted from the spot, the two figures had disappeared! Had he, after all, been laboring under a freak of imagination? He stared blankly at the three men, and the three men stared blankly at him.
“Poor cuss!” said the ranger; “he’s gone crazy, to a sartainty.”
“I haven’t—I deny it,” panted the terrified wretch. “By the Great Jehovah, I saw them as plainly as I now see you!”
“Yer see’d who?”