“What if I should see the ghost the guide was talking about?” he mused. “I begin to believe he did see one after the strange things that have happened to-night. That Pedro fellow they say is a brave man, but he’s scared to-night. I wonder if he saw it? I’d hate to have him ride up to me now.”
Once more he looked around on the moonlit silent plain—once more he moved on.
The black horse ceased his browsing as he drew near, and looked at him fixedly; something at that moment occurred to Robidoux.
“Pedro’s horse is in the cave,” he whispered to himself; “and all the others are gone except Dimple. It is strange—whose horse can it be?”
He went on and drew near. The mustang had moved away quite a distance, and stood snorting and tossing her mane; she was evidently affrighted—what was the matter?
She was gazing at something behind him—he turned. As he did so he uttered a sharp cry.
A form was coming toward him from the hillock—a colossal form walking rapidly. A tall hat surmounted his head, and in the band was a waving plume; a serape was over his shoulders, almost concealing his body; he was quite near, being in fact only a rod or so distant.
The Canadian knew it was not Pedro, and no man as enormous was of the party besides him except Cimarron Jack, and he was away. He trembled; could it be the guide’s ghost?
The man was almost upon him, and was advancing rapidly. Seized with sudden terror, nameless but vivid, he clasped his hands and awaited his approach. His old superstitions were fully aroused, and he felt it was a thing to be dreaded.
In five seconds he stood face to face with the whitest, ghastliest face, the blackest, keenest eye, and the most terrifying form he had ever seen. He knew now who it was, from the guide’s description.