Ted Strong in Montana Part 8

But he could not remember of ever having seen either a rock or a bush in that part of the range.

Then he wondered if he was late at the meeting place, and that the other line rider had got tired of waiting for him, and had ridden forward upon his line to meet him.

This stimulated him to greater speed, and he p.r.i.c.ked up his pony.

But as he got nearer the black blot on the snow there seemed to be something unusual about it, and he unconsciously slowed his animal down to a walk.

At last he got within hailing distance, and saw that it was a man on horseback that he had been approaching.

The man on night duty at the second sign camp was a cow-puncher named Follansbee, a short, reckless, yet amiable fellow, whom Carl knew well.

The rider who was awaiting him was an unusually large man, and bestrode an enormous horse. The two were as if they had been carved from ebony, as they stood silent and absolutely still, outlined sharply against the dazzlingly white background.

Something inside of Carl began to sink as he went on, slower and slower, his hand gripping the reins tightly, and holding back on them.

"Vot it is?" he was saying over and over to himself. "Vot it is? Dot is not Billy Follansbee. Dot man vould make dree times of Follansbee, nit?"

Cold fear was slowly stealing over Carl, and he wanted in his heart to turn and ride the other way.

But something seemed to draw him forward, and, try as he would, he could not bring himself to turn back.

The man on the black horse could not be a member of the Long Tom force, for Carl knew every one of them well, as a fellow will who has camped with them for months on a cattle drive.

Now Carl was near enough to see the man's face, and he peered eagerly forward to get a glimpse of it.

Then his heart sank lower yet, for the man's face was as white as the snow beyond. There were no features; neither nose, nor mouth, nor eyebrows, only a pair of black eyes gleamed out of that dead-white face.

Carl clutched at the horn of his saddle to keep from falling, he was so frightened.

"Vot it is?" he kept repeating to himself.

His pony stopped of its own volition directly in front of this black apparition, and Carl swayed in his saddle and would have fallen out of it had he not clung to it with the unconscious strength of despair.

"Iss dot you, Follansbee?" asked Carl, in a weak, thin voice, well knowing that it was not his line partner, but trying to break the spell of fear that held him.

There was no reply, but the gleaming black eyes never left his own, nor did the figure on the horse move a hair's breadth.

"Vy don't you say someding?" said Carl, his voice sounding like the piping noise of the wind through a keyhole. "Speak someding."

Then it suddenly struck Carl that the man could not speak, because in that white, immovable face there was no mouth to speak with, only those black, blazing eyes.

"If you can't speak, make motionings," said Carl, in an imploring voice.

The sinister figure on the black horse slowly raised his arm, and motioned Carl toward him, at the same time swinging his black horse around and riding toward the mountains.

Chilled to the heart, Carl obeyed the signal, and sent his pony forward.

The man, apparition, demon, or whatever it was, sent his horse into a gallop, and Carl, with no volition on his own part, followed at the same speed.

But with the black and menacing eyes of the man with the dead face away from his own, some small part of courage oozed back into Carl again, and he remembered Ted's injunction to question every stranger met on the range, and if he did not give a satisfactory answer to drive him off.

But Carl had not got over the fright the sight of that face and eyes had thrown him into.

Suddenly his hand came into contact with the handle of his six-shooter, and a thrill of daring ran through him.

He looked ahead at the back of the man riding only a few feet in advance of him.

Should he take the chance? He knew that Ted or Bud or any of the boys would do so. Why not he?

If the man was only human a bullet would soon settle the matter. But if he should be a ghost or an emissary of the devil, as Carl strongly suspected, nothing like a ball from a forty-five would do him harm.

This had the effect of staying his hand, and the revolver stopped halfway out of its holster.

Then Carl thought of the boys, and what they would say if they knew that he had not nerve enough to pot the enemy when he met him.

Carl was not the bravest fellow in the world, and he was intensely superst.i.tious.

Again the thoughts of the taunts of the other boys, should they ever know that he lacked the nerve to take advantage of the moment, came to him, and he gulped something hard that rose in his throat, and drew out his revolver.

At that moment the man in black turned and looked over his shoulder, his dead face gleaming white, out of which shone those terrible black eyes.

The revolver stopped suddenly in its upward course, and Carl's jaw dropped as he stared in abject fear at that white and expressionless face.

Then the man in black turned his horrible face once more to the fore, and rode on.

Something inside of Carl seemed to snap, and a great glow of courage swept over him. He fairly hated the sight of the grim rider in front of him, who was taking him he knew not where, and whom he yet dreaded with all his heart.

Up came the revolver again, and, almost before he realized what he was doing, Carl was firing, straight at the back in front of him.

The target could not be fairer, that black mark against the snow.

The first ball struck, for Carl heard the thud of it, as if it had struck and sunk into something soft.

The report of the weapon crashed through the still night, and was carried far on the frosty air, reverberating and echoing back from the distant mountains.

But the creature in whose body the ball had lodged did not seem to know it. The head was not turned, the body did not lurch or sway.

Carl, now blind to everything but the terror that had taken possession of him, fired again and again until every chamber in his revolver was empty, pausing after every shot to note the effect.

That every shot was fair he was sure, for he could hear the sound of the impact of the bullet.

The recipient of the bullets seemed not to know that they had been fired, for he did not hasten or r.e.t.a.r.d the progress of the horse, nor did he take any personal notice that they gave him any discomfort.

But when Carl ceased firing he threw his head backward, looking over his shoulder again, and from that hideous face without nose or mouth came a gurgling noise that was like, and yet not like, laughter.

The laughter was worse on Carl's nerves than the silence, and he felt himself grow sick at heart.

How could he expect to fight or escape from a devil impervious to the b.a.l.l.s from a Colt forty-five?