“Yes, I hev hearn Carrick tell it a many a time. He used ter herd with Josh Nixon in life.” Ben Doaks paused a moment. “I seen the Herder wunst myse’f, though I never felt right sure about it till ter-night. I ’lowed I mought jes’ hev fancied it.” “What made ye sure ’bout it ter-night?” demanded Bylor, starting up from the bench. “’Count o’ what the ’torney-gineral said ’bout _hell_ucination. I know now ez ’twar a vision sent from hell, an’ I reckon that air one reason I hev fund it air so hard ter git religion. My mind hev got too much in league with Satan.” “Waal, Carrick ’lowed ez Josh Nixon kem back from hell ter herd on Thunderhead ’kase all his bones warn’t buried tergether,” said the foreman. “Law, Ben,” broke out the owner of cattle, “I wonder ef them beef bones we seen on the top o’ Piomingo Bald warn’t the bones o’ that thar leetle black heifer o’ mine ez couldn’t be fund, an’ ye ’lowed mus’ hev been eat by a wolf.” “I knocked off the vally o’ that thar heifer in our settlin’ up, an’ I hed hoped ter hear no mo’ o’ her in this mortal life!” cried Ben Doaks, lifting his voice from the bated undertone in which he had discussed the spectral phenomena to an indignant worldly resonance. “I didn’t know ez ye branded yer beastis on her bones,” sarcastically; “the las’ time I seen her she war too fat ter show ’em. I never looked fur yer mark on them bones on the bald.” “Waal,” said a slow, measured voice, with that unnatural tone one has in speaking to one’s self, “Tad hev got no call ter kem back.” “Who air ye a-talkin’ ter?” cried Bylor, starting up, his nerves quivering at the slightest provocation. “Somebody told me just then ’twar Tad’s harnt,” said Price, rousing himself with an effort. “They never!” cried Bylor. “Old man Beames hain’t got done moanin’ ’bout his cattle, like they war the ornymints o’ the nation. Nobody never opened thar mouths ter ye. Ye jes’ answered ter nuthin’.” “Harshaw never b’lieved Lethe Sayles seen no harnt,” declared one. “He _hed_ ter say that,” observed the foreman, evidently of spectral tendencies, “no matter what he believed. The ’torney-gin’al war powerful sure she seen a harnt.” “He ’lowed it war a _hell_ucination,” protested Bylor, being extremely averse to any theory involving supernatural presence. “Waal,” argued the logical Price, “he ’lowed ez a _hell_ucination war suthin’ ez looks like a person, but ’tain’t him. Now ain’t that a harnt? Ain’t Tad’s harnt suthin’ that looks like Tad, an’ ain’t Tad?” “Oh,” cried Bylor, springing from the bench, “I feel obligated ter git away from sech talk! I jes’ look ter see Peter Rood a-stalkin’ round hyar direc’ly, with that awful stare he hed in his eyes when he war stone dead fur ever so long, with his face so close ter mine. I can’t abide it no longer! Let’s toss up. Heads, acquit! Tails, convict!” He produced a coin from his pocket.