“What was that one like?” breathed Pinky.
“It was all lit up, like fire. The Piutes said it was a curse put out by their Medicine Man.”
“But how’d you manage to get away from the Injuns and escape the massacre?” inquired Sandy, in whom Deadshot’s tales of his experiences always aroused suspicion of their truthfulness.
“Me and Crooked Joe sloped as soon as the light in the sky was discovered. Mark my word, man dear, every time you sees anything in the air like ghosties, it means trouble!”
“Well, you aren’t going to get out of it this time by digging out,” broke in the ranch owner, who had been listening with increasing alarm to his cowpuncher’s story, and feared the effect it might have upon the rest of his men. “I need you all to-morrow to get the bunch to the loading station. So don’t think you can sneak off.”
“We can’t eh?” demanded Deadshot. “Who’s a going to stop me if I want to go?”
“I am, with this rifle I’ve got in my hands,” returned the owner of the ranch, calmly. “I don’t want any trouble. But I won’t stand for any of this nonsense about spirits, trouble and running away. If any one of you tries to get a pony from that corral to-night, I’ll put a shell into him. Just keep that in your heads.”
The unexpected turn of affairs had amazed the other cowboys, and, forgetting all about the spectre, they watched the ranchman and his helper.
“You kinder got the drop on me, Sam,” growled the cowpuncher, “so I ’low I’ll do just as you say. Besides, I didn’t mean nothing anyhow.”
“All right, Deadshot. No hard feelings. Let’s go over to the cattle corral and see what this white thing is.”