His groping brain grasped at the idea, and it gave him strength—better the "snakes" than that! But he must do something, the man was coming toward him—only hip-deep now—
"Go 'way! Go 'way!" he shrieked in a sudden frenzy of action. "Damn you! Y're dead! D'ye hear me! Go 'way from here!"
Suddenly his weakening knees stiffened under him, and he reached swiftly for the rifle on the ground at his feet.
Slowly and deliberately he raised it, cocked it, rested it across a log, and took deliberate aim at the center of the man's face—twenty paces away.
"Bang!" The crack of the rifle sounded loud and sharp in the tense stillness.
The apparition, at the water's edge, raised its hand slowly to its lips, and from between its teeth took a small object which it tossed toward the other. The object struck lightly against Creed's breast and dropped to the ground.
He looked, downward—it was a 30-40 bullet—his own! He stared dumbly at the thing on the ground. Then, automatically, he fired again, taking careful aim.
Again the ghost's hand moved slowly toward its mouth, and again the light tap upon his chest—and two bullets lay upon the ground at his feet.
His head felt strange and large, and inside his skull things were moving—long, gray maggots that twisted, and writhed, and squirmed, like fishing worms in a can.
He laughed flatly, a senile, cackling laugh. He did not want to laugh, but laughed again and, stooping, reached for the bullets. He stared at his fingers, bewildered; they groped helplessly at a spot a foot from the place where lay the two bullets with their shining steel jackets.