there are people that believe in ghosts," he remarked, with a vast and
settled contempt.

Dent gave critical scrutiny to the scratched bar for a moment. "Well,
the Greasers all say there _is_ a ghost in the San Miguel, though I
never saw it. But some of them have seen it, an' no Greasers ride that
trail no more."

"Huh!" snorted Hopalong. "Some Greasers must have filled the Kid up on
ghosts while he was filling hisself up on mescal. Ghosts? R-a-t-s!"

"It shows itself only to Greasers, an' then only on Friday nights,"
explained Dent, thoughtfully. This was Friday night. Others had seen
that ghost, but they were all Mexicans; now that a "white" man of
Johnny's undisputed calibre had been so honored Dent's skepticism
wavered and he had something to think about for days to come. True,
Johnny was not a Greaser; but even ghosts might make mistakes once in a
while.

Hopalong laughed, dismissing the subject from his mind as being beneath
further comment. "Well, we won't argue--I'm too tired. An' I'm sorry you
got that eye, Dent."

"Oh, that's all right," hastily assured the store-keeper, smiling
faintly. "I was just spoiling for a fight, an' now I've had it. Feels
sort of good. Yes, first thing in the morning--breakfast'll be ready
soon as you are. Good-night."

But the proprietor couldn't sleep. Finally he arose and tiptoed into
the room where Johnny lay wrapped in the sleep of the exhausted. After