“Was,” whispered Sally.  She quivered with excitement.  Miss Sampson bent eyes upon me that would have stirred a stone man.

“Yes, he was once,” I replied ambiguously, but mayhap my grimness betrayed the truth.  “Don’t hurry me, Sally.  I guarantee you’ll be sick enough presently.

“Well, I kept my eyes shifty.  And I reckon I’ll never forget that room.  Likely I saw what wasn’t really there.  In the excitement, the suspense, I must have made shadows into real substance.  Anyway, there was the half-circle of bearded, swarthy men around Blome’s table.  There were the four rustlers—­Blome brooding, perhaps vaguely, spiritually, listening to a knock; there was Bo Snecker, reckless youth, fondling a flower he had, putting the stem in his glass, then to his lips, and lastly into the buttonhole of Blome’s vest; there was Hilliard, big, gloomy, maybe with his cavernous eyes seeing the hell where I expected he’d soon be; and last, the little dusty, scaly Pickens, who looked about to leap and sting some one.

“In the lull of the general conversation I heard Pickens say:  ’Jack, drink up an’ come out of it.  Every man has an off day.  You’ve gambled long enough to know every feller gits called.  An’ as Steele has cashed, what the hell do you care?

“Hilliard nodded his ghoul’s head and blinked his dead eyes.  Bo Snecker laughed.  It wasn’t any different laugh from any other boy’s.  I remembered then that he killed Hoden.  I began to sweat fire.  Would Steele ever come?

“‘Jim, the ole man hed cold feet an’ he’s give ’em to Jack,’ said Bo.  ‘It ain’t nothin’ to lose your nerve once.  Didn’t I run like a scared jack-rabbit from Steele?  Watch me if he comes to life, as the ole man hinted!’

“’About mebbe Steele wasn’t in the ’dobe at all.  Aw, thet’s a joke!  I seen him in bed.  I seen his shadder.  I heard his shots comin’ from the room.  Jack, you seen an’ heerd same as me.’

“‘Sure.  I know the Ranger’s cashed,’ replied Blome.  ’It’s not that.  I’m sore, boys.’

“’Deader ‘n a door-nail in hell!’ replied Pickens, louder, as he lifted his glass.  ‘Here’s to Lone Star Steele’s ghost!  An’ if I seen it this minnit I’d ask it to waltz with me!’

“The back door swung violently, and Steele, huge as a giant, plunged through and leaped square in front of that table.

“Some one of them let out a strange, harsh cry.  It wasn’t Blome or Snecker—­probably Pickens.  He dropped the glass he had lifted.  The cry had stilled the room, so the breaking of the glass was plainly heard.  For a space that must have been short, yet seemed long, everybody stood tight.  Steele with both hands out and down, leaned a little, in a way I had never seen him do.  It was the position of a greyhound, but that was merely the body of him.  Steele’s nerve, his spirit, his meaning was there, like lightning about to strike.  Blome maintained a ghastly, stricken silence.

“Then the instant was plain when he realized this was no ghost of Steele, but the Ranger in the flesh.  Blome’s whole frame rippled as thought jerked him out of his trance.  His comrades sat stone-still.  Then Hilliard and Pickens dived without rising from the table.  Their haste broke the spell.