“She is asleep—I can hear her breathe. It is strange, very strange, that she did not see it. It was no mistake of mine, that I know. What, then, was it? The Trailer’s ghost.
“Pshaw! I killed him a year ago, and saw him fall dead with my own eyes. It can not—it can not be.
“But I saw him. Ah, that is only too certain. Sitting on his old black horse, under that waving black plume, and in the same old dress. I saw him—I know I saw him. Pedro Felipe, there is no fighting away the fact—you are haunted.”
He shuddered, strong man as he was, and going to the entrance, looked out. Still the hot breeze came from the south, still the hot sun stared down upon the yellow plain, still all was quiet. Only the mustang was in sight, browsing at a little distance, with his head turned toward the east.
“I must lariat that mustang,” said Pedro. “There are too many Indians about for him to show our retreat. Yes, I will lariat him.”
Perhaps one motive for doing so was, that going out he might peer over the hill. He dreaded a second appearance of the apparition, and though he would not acknowledge it to himself, cordially feared it. It was not to his discredit, however.
He took his lariat, or lasso, from his saddle, which lay on the floor, the horse lying near. Then he stepped out, still keeping one corner of his eye toward the summit of the hill.
Suddenly he stopped.
“What if she should awake and discover my treasure!” he thought, trembling for its safety, though he knew she was perfectly to be trusted.
It was lying in a corner still, in the bag. He threw the water-bucket, a blanket and his saddle over it.