"Gee, but I wish I'd not wasted so much time," muttered the rider
uneasily. "This here canyon-cougar combination is the worst _I_ ever
butted up against. I'll never be late again, not never; not for all the
girls in the world. Easy, bronc," he cautioned, as he felt the animal
slip and quiver. "Won't this trail ever start going up again?" he
growled petulantly, taking his eyes off the black back trail, where no
amount of scrutiny showed him anything, and turned in the saddle to peer
ahead--and a yell of surprise and fear burst from him, while chills ran
up and down his spine. An unearthly, piercing shriek suddenly rang out
and filled the canyon with ear-splitting uproar and a glowing, sheeted
half-figure of a man floated and danced twenty feet from him and over
the chasm. He jerked his gun and fired, but only once, for his mount had
its own ideas about some things and this particular one easily headed
the list. The startled rider grabbed reins and pommel, his blood
congealed with fear of the precipice less than a foot from his side, and
he gave all his attention to the horse. But scared as he was he heard,
or thought that he heard, a peculiar sound when he fired, and he would
have sworn that he hit the mark--the striking of the bullet was not
drowned in the uproar and he would never forget the sound of that
impact. He rounded Big Bend as if he were coming up to the judge's
stand, and when he struck the upslant of the emerging trail he had made
a record. Cold sweat beaded his forehead and he was trembling from head
to foot when he again rode into the moonlight on the level plain, where
he tried to break another record.



CHAPTER IV