atch
with him, and the place was in deep shade.

He stood up and listened, thought he heard a faint sound farther along,
and ran. There was no use now in going quietly; what counted most was
speed.

Once more he caught sight of the white form fleeing from him like the
very wraith it would have him believe it. Then he lost it again; and
when he reached the spot where it disappeared, he fell headlong, his
feet tangled in some white stuff. He swore audibly, picked himself up,
and held the cloth where the moon shone full upon it. It looked like a
sheet, or something of the sort, and near one edge was a moist patch of
red. He stared at it dismayed, crumpled the cloth into a compact bundle,
tucked it under his arm, and ran on, his ears strained to catch some
sound to guide him.

"Well, anyhow, I didn't kill him," he muttered uneasily as he crawled
through a fence into the orchard. "He's making a pretty swift get-away
for a fellow that's been shot."

In the orchard the patches of moonlight were larger, and across one
of them he glimpsed a dark object, running wearily. Grant repressed an
impulse to shout, and used the breath for an extra burst of speed. The
ghost was making for the fence again, as if it would double upon its
trail and reach some previously chosen refuge. Grant turned and ran also
toward the fence, guessing shrewdly that the fugitive would head for the
place where the wire could be spread about, and a beaten trail led from
there straight out to the road which passed the house. It was the short
cut from the peach orchard; and it occurred to him that this particular
spook seemed perfectly familiar with the byways of the ranch. Near the
fence he made a discovery that startled him a little.

"It's a squaw, by Jove!" he cried when he caught an unmistakable flicker
of skirts; and the next moment he could have laughed aloud if he had not
been winded from the chase. The figure reached the fence before him, and
in the dim light he could see it stoop to pass through. Then it seemed
as if the barbs had caught in its clothing and held it there. It
struggled to free itself; and in the next minute he rushed up and
clutched it fast.

"Why don't you float over the treetops?" he panted ironically.
"Ghosts have no business getting their spirit raiment tangled up in a
barbed-wire fence."

It answered with a little exclamation, with a sob following close upon
it. There was a sound of tearing cloth, and he held his captive