But when Carl ceased firing he threw his head backward, looking over his
shoulder again, and from that hideous face without nose or mouth came a
gurgling noise that was like, and yet not like, laughter.
The laughter was worse on Carl's nerves than the silence, and he felt
himself grow sick at heart.
How could he expect to fight or escape from a devil impervious to the
balls from a Colt forty-five?
Then, to Carl's amazement and relief, the black horse sprang forward
over the snow so swiftly that it seemed as if it was flying rather than
running, but this probably was due to the uncertainty and the illusion
of the moonlight, and vanished into thin air, leaving Carl staring
open-mouthed.
It was several minutes before Carl regained his senses and knew that he
was sitting with his revolver in his hand, staring into space and seeing
nothing.
Then he rode slowly forward to the brink of a deep coulee.
Here was where he had last seen the phantom rider, for such Carl had at
last come to regard him.
Looking to the bottom of the coulee, Carl saw nothing but snow, where he
had expected to find a dead horse and rider.
"Ach, vot a country," he wailed. "Vy did I effer come to it? Mutter, I
vish you vas here to hellup your Carlos."
Then he heard a groan close at hand and looked about, expecting to see
the phantom rider by his side.
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