“Why, Miss Moreland and that young scamp of a Trafford.”
“Poor cuss!” repeated the ranger, slowly. “He is crazy, mold me into buckshot ef he ain’t.”
“I tell you I am not,” cried the villain, with an oath.
“Look hyur, kumrid,” argued Nick Robbins, “the man ye speak of are dead, and thar’s his grave, right behind ye. Kidd, thar, wur the coon as hung him, an’ ’most ev’rybody at the fort wur out hyur when the buryin’ tuck place.”
“I know all that, and yet I have not taken leave of my senses. If I did not see the real Russell Trafford, I saw his ghost, although I was never thought to believe in such things. He was standing yonder by the grave, and he was joined there by a female, whom I at once recognized as the daughter of Mr. Moreland.”
“I reckon ’twur a couple o’ spooks,” said Kidd, solemnly. “Whar wur ye goin’ when we saw fit to detain yer?”
“I was approaching the ‘spooks,’ as you call them.”
“Approachin’ ’em? Yas, I guess ye wur, but ye may mold me into buckshot ef I don’t think ye’re a sleep-walker. Ye started off as if yer futur’ redemption depended upon yer speed, an’ I must say ’ut ye seemed jest the least little bit angry, or frightened, or excited, or sunkthin’ else, ’cause why? yer face was redder’n I ever see’d it, an’ ye cussed like a trooper, an’ yer eyes shined like hot fat. What ye got that pistol in yer hand fur?”
The ranger looked straight in the eye of McCabe as he made this last inquiry. McCabe started nervously, and quickly thrust the pistol into his pocket.