Eager to join in Pat’s fun, Fred and Dick jumped up and left the shack with him. On the outside lay some tent poles and a strip of white canvas. At Pat’s suggestion, they grabbed up these and a rope, and hurried through the brush for the grave of which Pat had spoken. It was close to the road. The parents of the cowboy that had been buried there had requested that the body be sent home, and the boys in exhuming it had only half refilled the grave. Into this hole Pat stuck the tent pole, making it stand up firmly. The canvas was thrown into the grave loose, and the rope, tied to one corner of the canvas, was threaded through an iron ring at the top of the pole. This done, the boys, holding the rope, hid in the brush a rod or so away from the grave. They had hardly quieted their chuckling before hoof beats were heard and Noisy came galloping up the road. Suddenly a ghost rose out of the grave. Noisy reined his horse so hard that he almost threw him on his haunches, and stared for a second; the ghost slowly sank back as he sat there stupefied with his terror. He put spurs to his horse to dash by, but up came the ghost again. Noisy whirled his pony and sped back to the barn in a panic. “What the devil’s up?” demanded Hanks. “I seen a-a-ghost-out-thar”--Noisy’s voice trembled like the palsy. “Oh, to hell with your ghosts! There ain’t no such thing!” said Jim, roaring with laughter. “Go on with your message,” ordered Hanks. “I’ll be damned if I will,” said Noisy, frightened out of his wits. “What!” said the foreman; “well, you go or you’ll lose your job.” “I wouldn’t go past that grave to-night for forty jobs,” said Noisy, with desperate determination in his shaking voice. “Get off that horse, then, you cowardly son of a shotgun,” said Jim, “and give me the message. I’ll carry it through, ghosts or no ghosts.” The boys who had caused the mischief stopped to listen to all this talk as they were stealing back to the shack, holding their mouths for fear of laughing too loud and giving their fun away. Hearing Jim’s decision to go, they dashed back to the grave again to try it out on him. Hardly were they settled when up Jim came on a swift gallop toward the grave. And up came the ghost as before. Jim checked his horse suddenly and calmly demanded, “Who be ye?” No answer came from the ghost; it simply stood there quietly in the moonlight. The rope had caught in the ring and it could not sink back. “Speak!” ordered Jim, reaching for his revolver. No answer from the ghost. “Ping!” went a shot. A yelling and scrambling through the brush followed. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” cried Dick. “I thought you could speak,” said Jim; “I never seen a ghost that couldn’t.” With that he spurred his pony up to the open grave and emptied his revolver into the canvas. Then he rode on, chuckling to himself. It cost the mischief-makers a dollar apiece to pay for the shot-riddled canvas, but the fun was worth the money.