nright an' Peets has organised an' gone p'inting out for
the ha'nted Bar-B-8 sign-camp to investigate the spook, Dan can't talk
of nothin' else.

"'Them's mighty dead game gents, Enright an' Doc Peets is!' says Dan.
'I wouldn't go searchin' for no sperits more'n I'd write letters to
rattlesnakes! I draws the line at intimacies with fiends.'

"'But mebby this yere is a angel,' says Faro Nell, from her stool
alongside of Cherokee Hall.

"'Not criticisin' you none, Nell,' says Dan, 'Cherokee himse'f will
tell you sech surmises is reedic'lous. No angel is goin' to visit
Arizona for obvious reasons. An' ag'in, no angel's doo to go
skally-hootin' about after steers an' stampeedin' 'em over brinks.
It's ag'in reason; you bet! That blazin' wraith, that a-way, is a
shore-enough demon! An' as for me, personal, I wouldn't cut his trail
for a bunch of ponies!

"'Be you-all scared of ghosts, Dan?' asks Faro Nell.

"'Be I scared of ghosts?' says Dan. 'Which I wish, I could see a ghost
an' show you! I don't want to brag none, Nellie, but I'll gamble four
for one, an' go as far as you likes, that if you was to up an' show me
a ghost right now, I wouldn't stop runnin' for a month. But what
appals me partic'lar,' goes on Dan, 'about Peets an' Enright, is they
takes their guns. Now a ghost waxes onusual indignant if you takes to
shootin' him up with guns. No, it don't hurt him; but he regyards sech
demonstrations as insults. It's like my old pap says that time about
the Yankees. My old pap is a colonel with Gen'ral Price, an' on this
evenin' is engaged in leadin' one of the most intrepid retreats of the
war. As he's prancin' along at the head of his men where a great
commander belongs, he's shore scandalised by hearin' his r'ar gyard
firin' on the Yanks. So he rides back, my old pap does, an' he says:
"Yere you-all eediots! Whatever do you mean by shootin' at them
Yankees? Don't you know it only makes 'em madder?" An' that,'
concloods Dan, 'is how I feels about spectres. I wouldn't go lammin'
loose at 'em with no guns; it only makes 'em madder.'

"It's the next day, an' Peets an' Enright is organised in the ha'nted
sign-camp of the Bar-B-8. Also, they've been lookin' round. By ridin'
along onder the face of the precipice, they comes, one after t'other,
on what little is left of the dead steers. What strikes 'em as a heap
pecooliar is that thar's no bones or horns. Two or three of the hoofs
is kickin' about, an