"My God! was thet you? I thought it was him a-reachin' fer me. Here,
let me take yer hand. Oh, Lord! An' can't ye see? It's just there
beyond them horses--all green, crawlin', devilish--but it's him."
"Who?"
"Brant! Brant--fifteen year!"
"Brant? Fifteen years? Do you mean Major Brant, the one Nolan killed
over at Bethune?"
"He--he didn't--"
The old man heaved forward, his head rocking from side to side; then
suddenly he toppled over on his face, gasping for breath. His
companion caught him, and ripped open the heavy flannel shirt. Then he
strode savagely across in front of his shrinking horse, tore down the
flaring picture, and hastily thrust it into his pocket, the light of
the phosphorus with which it had been drawn being reflected for a
moment on his features.
"A dirty, miserable, low-down trick," he muttered. "Poor old devil!
Yet I've got to do it, for the little girl."
He stumbled back through the darkness, his hat filled with water, and
dashed it into Murphy's face. "Come on, Murphy! There's one good
thing 'bout spooks; they don't hang 'round fer long at a time. Likely
es not this 'un is gone by now.
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