The nature of the cook's report was that, as he went out to the wood-rick for kindling to build the fires—at about three-thirty o'clock in the morning—he noticed a horseman, a solitary horseman, riding back and forth along the ridge over by Cut Number Two.
It was still very dark; yet he could distinctly see him, so he claimed. The man was an Indian. He was gaudily attired in beads and blanket, paint and war bonnet. He was a tall, large Indian. He sat very straight and dignified upon his horse, like—well, something like a chief. He carried bow and arrows, and a war axe. He wasn't doing anything, though, in particular—just riding back and forth among the graves, as if he were on an inspection tour.
As for the horse—the cook was most positive about the horse; it was a milkwhite horse, with a silver mane and tail. He even saw the dew glistening on its silver mane and tail, saw it throw up its head and whinny once, as if it were lost and looking for its mates. They weren't doing any damage, though—not making a sound of any sort—just moving back and forth like shadows, there in the dark, among the graves. They seemed to have risen up suddenly outof Cut Number Two, he said; and they later rode back into Cut Number Two, and so disappeared. When he looked up again they were gone.
"I thought I ought to come and tell you, sir," he said. "They weren't very plain, of coure, not much plainer than shadows. And yet. . ."
He continued to hang on his heel, there at my doorway, obsessed with a surfeit of words, as if he wished to remain forever talking.
"I thought I ought to come and tell you, sir," he repeated.
"Go on and get about your breakfast," I ordered him, roughly; "this is a railroad construction camp, not a kindergarten; the thing we need here is food!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
WE HAD a yet more definite experience than this, however, with the chimerical white horse and its silver mane and tail.
This time it was the night-watchman himself. We three—Weatherford, Courtney and I— were sitting in the little office, discussing the next day's work. It was late at night—eleven-thirty, at least.
Suddenly we heard a fusillade of rifle shots, over by Cut Number Two. We sprang up and rushed pell mell through the doorway, into the night, and across the interval in the direction of the sounds.
We found the watchman leaning weakly against a drive-wheel of the donkey engine fumbling with his rifle in an effort to reload it.
"What went with them?" he gasped, hysterically, as we came up and, dropping his gun, he caught Weatherford by the sleeve.
"What went with what?" asked Weatherford, thrusting him loose.
"They rose up out of Cut Number Two," he said, his teeth chattering, "and started across the old burying ground, straight toward me. I called out to them to halt. But they didn't do it. Then I opened fire on them—began to shoot, as fast as I could. But somehow I couldn't hit them, at all. So they came straight on, slow and dignified as fate, not making a sound—straight at me, till I could see the whites of their eyes, and hear them breathing. God! I simply couldn't miss, at thirty yards!
"Yet, I did miss!" he gasped, in a shivering whisper, "I emptied my repeater straight into them, at thirty yards, and never turned a hair! And then I ran—as fast as I could: I came here! Where are they, now?"
"What are you talking about?" demanded Weatherford, shaking him savagely.
"An Indian!" he whispered. "An Indian chief, all in war paint and blankets; riding a milk-white horse, with a silver mane and tail! Where did they go?" The man trembled all over as he talked; his face was a white as death.
"They didn't go anywhere!" said Weatherford, angrily. "Because they weren't here. You go to the camp doctor and have him give you a good stiff drink of brandy."
"Hell!" swore Courtney, twisting his hands together. "Of course, they weren't here. Of course, there wasn't any—"
There came a sudden whistling in our ears; an object flashed hot and hissing past our heads, and stuck quivering in the framework of the donkey. I reached a trembling hand and pulled it out. It was an Indian arrow, crowned with a head of flint.
Weatherford turned toward Courtney with a gesture of precision: "You'd better 'phone Fort Hardie, tomorrow morning," he announced, "and tell them to send over the cavalry, and clean these Indians out. We've just got to finish this railroad," he added, parenthetically. "And as for the rest"—he turned to me abruptly—"You go out, tomorrow morning, and look over their herd—and see if there's a milk-white horse there, with a silver mane and tail."
I went, as ordered; but I found no milk-white horse with a silver mane and tail.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WE SAW them again the next night, just after the sun had dropped below the western horizon, leaving the valley in shadows.
We had gone into a conference, Weatherford, Courtney and myself, over the question of veering the survey up beyond Camloops Creek, in an effort to reduce the grade. We three simply came together beside the lumber heap in front of the company office, and began to talk. Eaglefeather was coming out of the bunk-house at the time. Since the question in a measure involved his part of the work, Weatherford invited him to join us.
I gave the Indian a second, keener, look as he came walking silently, tall and dignified into our midst. And I saw at once that he had changed for the worse. His usually smooth hair was disheveled. His face was pinched and set. There was a drawn look about the corners of his tightly-closed mouth, and a wild, though wholly inscrutable, expression in his eyes. With all the force at his command he appeared to be struggling against some tense emotion which seemed continually on the verge of overcoming him. His attitude reflected tragedy.
It was but natural that we soon switched from the subject of grades and crossings, to that other subject which lay furtively in the back of each of our minds; because by now the situation had passed far beyond the scope of trivialities. It had become a real problem.
"There are only a dozen of them Indians, at the most," said Weatherford, reassuringly. "They'll not make us any real bother.
"Real bother!" snorted Courtney. "I sure hope it don't get any worse than it is already. What do you make of that white horse incident last night?"
"Oh, they've got a white horse hid around, somewhere," said Weatherford, expansively. "That night watchman was just excited; that's how he came to miss them. And it's a good thing that he did."
"The bunch of grave diggers was back again last night," said Courtney, ominously, "heaping up little piles of stones, as before. The cook saw them."
"Well, it's too darned bad," commented Weatherford. "What made those fool surveyors run the line where they did, anyhow? Any idiot should have
