Murphy
stood swearing disjointedly, wiping the blood from a wound in his
forehead where the jagged edge of a rock had broken the skin, but
suddenly stopped with a quick intake of breath that left him panting.
The other man crept toward him, leading his horse.
"What is it now?" he asked, gruffly. "Hev' ye got 'em agin?"
The dazed old scout stared, pointing directly across the other's
shoulder, his arm shaking desperately.
"It's thar!--an' it's his face! Oh, God!--I know it--fifteen year."
The man glanced backward into the pitch darkness, but without moving
his body.
"There 's nuthin' out there, 'less it's a firefly," he insisted, in a
tone of contempt. "You're plum crazy, Murphy; the night's got on yer
nerves. What is it ye think ye see?"
"His face, I tell ye! Don't I know? It's all green and ghastly, with
snaky flames playin' about it! But I know; fifteen years, an' I ain't
fergot."
He sank down feebly--sank until he was on his knees, his head craned
forward. The man watching touched the miserable, hunched-up figure
compassionately, and it shook beneath his hand, endeavoring to shrink
away.
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