“The ghosties cast a spell on the cattle!” whimpered Sandy.
“Didn’t I say it meant trouble?” demanded Deadshot, exulting at the very evident fulfilment of his prophecy.
“Don’t stand there talking! Get your ponies and come on! We’ve got our work cut out for us! What it means I don’t know. But I do know, if we don’t steady those cattle down lively, they’ll stampede—and then we’ll have a merry time!” declared the ranchman, leading the way to the horse corral.
A moment, fearing that the animals had, indeed, been cursed, held the cowpunchers inactive. Then, their lifelong training on the plains coming to the fore, they followed their employer and were soon racing to the terror-stricken cattle.
Their fear increasing with every moment, the animals were plunging and lowing, the crashing of their horns sounding like the barking of pistols above the dull roar of the pounding of their hoofs.
“There must be wolves in amongst ’em!” yelled Sandy, riding up close to Bowser. “It’s breaking out all over the corral, not in just one place.”
“Well, whatever it is, we’ve got to quiet the cattle, or I won’t have one fit to ship away. Get busy, boys!”
But just as the ranchman finished speaking, Pinky let out a yell.
“Look, right in the middle of the corral! The ghostie again!” he cried.
Turning their eyes in the direction indicated, the horsemen beheld the same white form seemingly floating over the heads of the cattle.