"A dirty, miserable, low-down trick," he muttered. "Poor old devil! Yet I've got to do it, for the little girl."
He stumbled back through the darkness, his hat filled with water, and dashed it into Murphy's face. "Come on, Murphy! There's one good thing 'bout spooks; they don't hang 'round fer long at a time. Likely es not this 'un is gone by now. Brace up, man, for you an' I have got ter get out o' here afore mornin'."
Then Murphy grasped his arm, and drew himself slowly to his feet.
"Don't see nuthin' now, do ye?"
"No. Where's my—horse?"
The other silently reached him the loose rein, marking as he did so the quick, nervous peering this way and that, the starting at the slightest sound.
"Did ye say, Murphy, as how it wasn't Nolan after all who plugged the Major?"
"I 'm damned—if I did. Who—else was it?"
"Why, I dunno. Sorter blamed odd though, thet ghost should be a-hauntin' ye. Darn if it ain't creepy 'nough ter make a feller believe most anythin'."
Murphy drew himself up heavily into his saddle. Then all at once he shoved the muzzle of a "45" into the other's face. "Ye say nuther word—'bout thet, an' I 'll make—a ghost outer ye—blame lively. Now, ye shet up—if ye ride with me."