“‘Nothin’,’ says Dan, with tones of soopreme vanity, at the same time dustin’ the dirt off Nell’s chicken, ’nothing except I’d hung crape on half the dobies in Chihuahua.’

“About two hours after, when things ag’in simmers to the usual, an’ Nell is makin’ her chicken a coop out to the r’ar of the Red Light, Enright gives a half laugh.

“‘Dan,’ says Enright, ’when I reflects on the hole we drug you out of, an’ the way you-all gets in, you reminds me of that Thomas Benton dog I owns when I’m a yoothful child on the Cumberland.  Which Thomas Benton that a-way is a mighty industrious dog an’ would turn over a quarter-section of land any afternoon diggin’ out a ground-hawg.  But thar’s this drawback to Thomas Benton which impairs his market valyoo.  Some folks used to regyard it as a foible; but it’s worse, it’s a deefect.  As I remarks, this Thomas Benton dog would throw his whole soul into the work, an’ dig for a groundhawg like he ain’t got another dollar.  But thar’s this pecooliarity:  After that Thomas Benton dog has done dug out the ground-hawg for a couple of hours, you-all is forced to get a spade an’ dig out that Thomas Benton dog.  He’s dead now these yere forty years, but if he’s livin’ I’d shore change his name an’ rebrand him “Dan’l Boggs."’”

CHAPTER X.

The Ghost of the Bar-B-8.

“Spectres?  Never!  I refooses ’em my beliefs utter”; and with these emphatic words the Old Cattleman tasted his liquor thoughtfully on his tongue.  The experiment was not satisfactory; and he despatched his dark retainer Tom for lemons and sugar.  “An’ you-all might better tote along some hot water, too;” he commanded.  “This nosepaint feels raw an’ over-fervid; a leetle dilootion won’t injure it none.”

“But about ghosts?” I persisted.

“Ghosts?” he retorted.  “I never does hear of but one; that’s a apparition which enlists the attentions of Peets and Old Man Enright a lot.  It’s a spectre that takes to ha’ntin’ about one of Enright’s Bar-B-8 sign-camps, an’ scarin’ up the cattle an’ drivin’ ’em over a precipice, an’ all to Enright’s disaster an’ loss.  Nacherally, Enright don’t like this spectral play; an’ him an’ Peets lays for the wraith with rifles, busts its knee some, an’ Peets ampytates its laig.  Then they throws it loose; allowin’ that now it’s only got one lai’g, the visitations will mighty likely cease.  Moreover Enright regyards ampytation that a-way, as punishment enough.  Which I should shore allow the same myse’f!

“It ain’t much of a tale.  It turns out like all sperit stories; when you approaches plumb close an’ jumps sideways at ’em an’ seizes ’em by the antlers, the soopernacheral elements sort o’ bogs down.

“It’s over mebby fifty miles to the southeast of Wolfville, some’ers in the fringes of the Tres Hermanas that thar’s a sign-camp of Enright’s brand.  Thar’s a couple of Enright’s riders holdin’ down this corner of the Bar-B-8 game, an’ one evenin’ both of ’em comes squanderin’ in,—­ponies a-foam an’ faces pale as milk,—­an’ puts it up they don’t return to that camp no more.