I paced off ten paces in a south-east direction, and the last step brought me exactly in the midst of the bones and ashes of the bushrangers.

I seized a spade and struck it into the ground, and was about to call my companions’ attention to the spot, when a sharp report was heard near at hand, in the bushes, and a musket ball whizzed within two inches of my head.

We were all too much accustomed to life in the bush to remain in open ground when an unseen enemy was disposed to exercise his skill on one of us, so that in less than half a second’s time we were under cover, and watching with tolerably sharp eyes for the first movement of the man who had attempted to riddle my carcass with his confounded bullet.

For half an hour we waited, and not a leaf stirred.  The dog had ranged through the forest, and once, by his peculiar howl, we thought some mishap had befallen him, but beyond a few spots of blood on his nose, he appeared to be quite unharmed, and seemed anxious to again go in search of our enemy.

Fearful that his life would be endangered, I kept him near me, and for another half hour we waited, motionless, in anticipation of an attack, yet none came.

Presently I heard a slight noise behind me, and turning suddenly, with my rifle presented, I found that the muzzle was lodged against the head of the stockman, who had been reconnoitring in the vicinity, and yet so quietly that I was not aware that he had left the bush under which he sought shelter.

“I have examined the bushes carefully, and no signs of a bushranger are to be seen,” the old man said, laying the long gun which he was accustomed to use by his side, and brushing off a few specks of dust which had collected on the barrel.

“It is a mystery to me how he disappeared so soon after discharging his gun,” I said.

The old man shook his head, and, laying one finger on my arm, whispered,—­“Do you believe in spirits?”

“Do you mean this kind?” I asked, drawing a flask of excellent whiskey from my pocket and offering him a drink.

“No, I didn’t mean this kind,” the stockman said, slowly raising it to his mouth, and I could hear the liquor coursing down his throat in a stream.

“No,” he repeated, removing the bottle from his mouth, and drawing a long breath, “I didn’t mean these kinds of spirits, because there’s no harm in them, and the more a man gets the better he is off.  I meant the kind of spirits which wander about the earth, and play tricks upon living men.”

“Ah, a sort of ghost, I suppose you mean,” I answered.

“Precisely,” replied the stockman, mechanically taking the bottle from my hand and again applying it to his lips; “ghosts are the fellows—­they do every thing without being seen; and why should not the spirit of Gulpin hover around this spot, and repel all attempts to get at his money?”

“I know of but two reasons,” I replied, gently taking the bottle from my friend’s hands, for fear that my share of its contents would be very meagre; “in the first place, ghosts usually don’t care about money, as they have no use for it in the country in which they spend a large portion of their time.”