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.