At last he tore himself away,retraced his steps as cautiously as he had conic,and flung himself upon the pony left waiting at a sheltered nook far from the cove.As he sped over the plains toward the distant herd,it came to him suddenly in a way not before experienced,that it was May,that the air was balmy and fragrant,and that the land,softly lighted in the clear twilight,was singularly beautiful.He seemed breathing the roses back home--which recalled another face,but not for long.The last time he had seen that eastern face,the dew had lain on the early morning roses--how could a face so different make him think of them?But imagination is sometimes a bold robber,and now it did not hesitate to steal those memories of sweet scents to encloud the picture of the mountain-girl.
The G-Bar headquarters was on the western bank of what was then known as Red River,but was really the North Fork of Red River.Old Man Walker,who was scarcely past middle age,had built his corral on the margin of the plain which extended to that point in an unbroken level from a great distance,and which,having reached that point,dropped without warning,a sheer precipice,to an extensive lake.The lake was fed by springs issuing from the bluffs;not far beyond it and not much lower,was the bed of the river,wide,very red and almost dry.Beyond the river rose the bold hills of the Kiowa country,a white line chiseled across the face of each,as if Time had entertained some thought of their destruction,but finding each a huge block of living rock,had passed on to torture and shift and alter the bed of the river.
The young man reached the corral after a ride of twelve or thirteen miles,most of the distance through a country of difficult sand.He galloped up to the rude enclosure,surrounded by a cloud of dust through which his keen gray eyes discovered Mizzoo on the eve of leaving camp.Mizzoo was one of the men whose duty it was to ride the line all night--the line that the young man had guarded all day--to keep Walker's cattle from drifting.
Come on,Mizz,called the young man,as the other swung upon his broncho,I'm going back with you.
The lean,leather-skinned,sandy-mustached cattleman uttered words not meet for print,but expressive of hearty pleasure.Ain't you had enough of it,Bill?he added.I'd think you'd want to lay up for tomorrow's work.
Oh,I ain't sleepy,the young man declared,as they rode away side by side.I couldn't close an eye tonight--and I want to talk.
The cattleman chuckled enjoyingly.It was lonely and monotonous work,riding back and forth through the darkness,keeping a sharp lookout for wolves or Indians,driving straggling cattle back to the herd,in brief,doing the picket duty of the plains.
Mizzoo was so called from his habit of attributing his most emphatic aphorisms to his aunt,Miss Sue of Missouri--a lady held by his companions to be a purely fictitious character,a convenient Mrs.Harristo give weight to sayings worn smooth from centuries of use.
Of all the boys of the ranch,Mizzoo found Wilfred Compton most companionable.When off duty,they were usually to be found near each other,whether awake or asleep;and when Mizzoo,on entering some village at the edge of the desert,sought relaxation from a life of routine by shooting through the windows and spurring his pony into the saloons,it was the young man,commonly known as Bill,who lingered behind to advance money for damages to the windows,or who kept close to the drunken ranger in order to repair the damages Mizzoo had done to his own soul and body.
I'll talk my head off,Mizzoo declared,if that'll keep you on the move with me,for it's one thing meeting a ghost in the desert all alone,and quite another when there's a pair of us.Yes,I know you don't believe nothing I say about that spirit,and I only hope we'll come on it tonight!It ain't been a week since I see something creeping along behind me whilst I was riding the line,a little thing as swift as a jack-rabbit and as sly as a coyote--something with long arms and short legs and the face of an Injun--
Of course it WAS an Indian,returned the young man carelessly.He is hanging about here to steal some of our horses.I don't want you to talk about your ghost,I've heard of him a thousand times.
Bill,the more you talk about a ghost,the more impressive he gets.I tell you that wasn't no live Injun!Didn't I blaze away at him with my six-shooter and empty all my barrels for nothing?No,sir,it's the same spirit that haunts the trail from Vernon,Texas,to Coffeyville.I've shot at that red devil this side of Fort Sill,and at Skeleton Spring,and at Bull Foot Spring,and a mile from Doan's store--always at night,for it never rises except at night,as befits a good ghost.I reckon I'll waste cartridges on that spook as long as I hit the trail,but I don't never expect to draw blood.Others has saw him,too,but me more especial.I reckon I'm the biggest sinner of the G-Bar and has to be plagued most frequent with visitations to make me a better man when I get to be old.
He's a knowing old ghost if he's found you out,Mizzoo,but if you want my company,tonight,you'll drop the Indian.What I want you to talk about is that little girl you met on the trail down in Texas,seven years ago.
Mizzoo burst out in a hearty laugh.I reckon it suits you better to take her as a little kid,he cried,his tall form shaking convulsively.I'll never forget how you looked,Bill,when we tried to run a bluff on her daddy last month!
The other did not answer with a smile.Apparently the reminiscence pleased him less than it did the older man.He spurred his horse impatiently,and it plunged forward through the drifted banks of white sand.
