"Vot it is?" he was saying over and over to himself. "Vot it is? Dot is
not Billy Follansbee. Dot man vould make dree times of Follansbee, nit?"
Cold fear was slowly stealing over Carl, and he wanted in his heart to
turn and ride the other way.
But something seemed to draw him forward, and, try as he would, he could
not bring himself to turn back.
The man on the black horse could not be a member of the Long Tom force,
for Carl knew every one of them well, as a fellow will who has camped
with them for months on a cattle drive.
Now Carl was near enough to see the man's face, and he peered eagerly
forward to get a glimpse of it.
Then his heart sank lower yet, for the man's face was as white as the
snow beyond. There were no features; neither nose, nor mouth, nor
eyebrows, only a pair of black eyes gleamed out of that dead-white face.
Carl clutched at the horn of his saddle to keep from falling, he was so
frightened.
"Vot it is?" he kept repeating to himself.
His pony stopped of its own volition directly in front of this black
apparition, and Carl swayed in his saddle and would have fallen out of
it had he not clung to it with the unconscious strength of despair.
"Iss dot you, Follansbee?" asked Carl, in a weak, thin voice, well
knowing that it was not his line partner, but trying to break the spell
of fear that held him.
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