riveted on that curtainless window and she uttered a terrifying cry.

Ruggam turned.

Outlined in the window aperture against the low-hung moon _Martin
Wiley, the murdered deputy, was staring into the cabin_!

From the fugitive's throat came a gurgle. Some of the cartridges he
held spilled to the flooring. Above her his figure became rigid.
There was no mistaking the identity of the apparition. They saw the
man's hatless head and some of his neck. They saw his dark pompadour
and the outline of his skull. As that horrible silhouette remained
there, Wiley's pompadour lifted slightly as it had done in life.

The cry in the convict's throat broke forth into words.

"Mart Wiley!" he cried, "Mart Wiley! _Mart--Wiley_!"

Clear, sharp, distinct was the shape of that never-to-be-forgotten
pompadour against the disk of the winter moon. His features could
not be discerned, for the source of light was behind him, but the
silhouette was sufficient. It was Martin Wiley; he was alive. His
head and his wirelike hair were moving--rising, falling.

Ruggam, his eyes riveted upon the phantom, recoiled mechanically to
the western wall. He finished loading the revolver by the sense of
touch. Then:

Spurt after spurt of fire lanced the darkness, directed at the Thing
in the window. While the air of the hut reeked with the acrid smoke,
the echo of the volley sounded through the silent forest-world miles
away.

But the silhouette in the window remained.

Once or twice it moved slightly as though in surprise; that was all.
The pompadour rose in bellicose retaliation--the gesture that had
always ensued when Wiley was angered or excited. But to bullets
fired from an earthly gun the silhouette of the murdered deputy's
ghost, arisen in these winter woods to prevent another slaughter,
was impervious.

Ruggam saw; he shrieked. He broke the gun and spilled out the empty
shells. He fumbled in more cartridges, locked the barrel and fired
again and again, until once more it was empty.

Still the apparition remained.

The man in his dementia hurled the weapon; it struck the sash and
caromed off, hitting the stove. Then Hap Ruggam collapsed upon the
floor.

The woman sprang up. She found the rope thongs which had bound her
pack to her shoulders. With steel-taut nerves, she rolled the
insensible Ruggam over.

She tied his hands; she tied his ankles. With her last bit of rope
she connected the two bindings tightly behind him so that if h