"'Ghostes'!" chuckled Holbrook. "Ghosts, you means! Th' same as 'posts!' Th' 'es' is silent, like in 'cows.' I never believed in 'em; but I shore don't claim to know it all. There's plenty of things _I_ don't understand--an' this is shore one of 'em. My hair's gettin' stiff!" "Yo're a couple of old wimmin!" snorted Bob. "There's only one kind of a ghost that'll slow me up--that's th' kind that packs hardware. Seein' as they ain't supposed to tote guns, I'm goin' for that coyote west of here. He don't swap ends so fast. Mebby I can turn him into a _real_ ghost. Look out where you shoot. So-long!" "We'll assay his jumpin' friend," called Charley. Again the flashes showed, one to the south, the other to the north, and while the punchers marveled, the third appeared in the southwest. "One apiece!" shouted Holbrook. "I'll take th' last. Go to 'em!" and drumming hoofbeats rolled into silence in three directions. Soon spitting flashes in the north were answered in kind, the reports announcing six-guns in action; in the west a thinner tongue of flame and a different kind of report was answered by rapid bursts of fire and the jarring crashes of a Colt. Far to the south three stabbing flashes went upward, Walt's signal that he was coming. From beyond the U-Bend, far to the east, the triple signal came twice, flat and low. Beyond them a yellow glow sprang from the black void and marked the ranchhouse, where six sleeping men piled from their bunks and, finishing their dressing as they ran, chased the cursing trail-boss to the saddled, waiting horses, their tingling blood in an instant sweeping the cobwebs of sleep from their conjecturing brains. There was a creaking of leather, a soft, musical jingling of metal and a sudden thunderous rolling of hoofbeats as seven bunched horses leaped at breakneck speed into the darkness, the tight-lipped riders eager, grim, and tense.