At midnight I was startled by the sound of horses' hoofs and the
jingling of spurs below. A conversation between my host and some
mysterious personage in the darkness was carried on in such a low
tone that I could not learn its import. As the cavalcade rode away
I raised the window.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," said Sylvester, coolly, "only another one of those
playful homicidal freaks peculiar to the country. A man was shot
by Cherokee Jack over at Lagrange this morning, and that was the
sheriff of Calaveras and his posse hunting him. I told him I'd
seen nobody but you and your friend. By the way, I hope the cursed
noise hasn't disturbed him. The poor fellow looked as if he wanted
rest."
I thought so, too. Nevertheless, I went softly to his room. It
was empty. My impression was that he had distanced the sheriff of
Calaveras about two hours.
A GHOST OF THE SIERRAS
It was a vast silence of pines, redolent with balsamic breath, and
muffled with the dry dust of dead bark and matted mosses. Lying on
our backs, we looked upward through a hundred feet of clear,
unbroken interval to the first lateral branches that formed the
flat canopy above us.
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