"A lookin'-glass," said one.
"Seven years," added another.
No one used the words—bad luck.
No one believed in bad luck in such a connection, but—it was evident that they were nervous.
Just then McShay entered and with him through the open door a bat flew in. There are people queer enough or scientific enough to like bats, but it is one of those things that most of us can learn to do without, and the eccentric aviation of a frightened bat in the same room cannot be recommended as a sedative for nervous people. Again there are some who tell others that such an incident is an ill omen.
When McShay re-entered the room his eyes were snapping, and if any one had noticed, which no one did, so absorbed were they with the gyrations of the uncanny little beast, they would have seen that something had occurred to encourage or amuse the big boss.
"Hello, Dick," he said as he caught sight of Roach in a corner. "What's the matter with you? Seen a ghost?"
"That's what I have."
"Say," said Humpy with a cheerless laugh; "Dick's got 'em. Thinks he's seen the feller as thought he owned the Red Butte Ranch. Ha, ha."
"Well," said McShay, "the longer I live the less I'm sayin' things ain't so. I ain't a-sayin' positive that dead men come back to camp on the trail of them as has wronged 'em, but if they do, it's a safe bet that Dick ain't the only one as 'll be seein' things."