THE MYSTERIOUS RIDER. By E. K. NOSTWELL.

My shanty was situated in the Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming. With the exception of two companions and some friendly trappers, who lived about five miles distant, I had not seen a white man for nearly a year.

One day I was out hunting with Anderson Picket. We had just sighted an antelope, and were occupied in stalking the animal, when we suddenly heard the neighing of a horse near us. Surprised at such an unusual sound in a neighborhood where very few human beings were to be encountered, we looked up and saw, hardly three hundred paces from us, a rider whose head was uncovered and his long hair floating in the wind that blew across the hills. He was a white-faced, haggard man, mounted on a thin horse.

For a few seconds he remained motionless, and then disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

“A highwayman,” whispered Picket.

“What should a marauder be doing here?” I replied doubtfully, “for a distance of three or four hundred miles no one, with the exception of you, myself, and the trappers upon the creek, can be found. Not a single soul to hold up. Let us see who the fellow is.”

Quickly mounting our horses and dropping our game for the time being, we galloped up the hill, following the stranger, who was slowly riding toward the north.

“That animal hasn’t had much fodder or rest lately,” laughed my companion. “I’ll wager he hasn’t ten pounds of flesh on his bones.”

“I’d like to know who the man is, and what he is doing alone in these solitary hills,” said I inquisitively. “Come, get a gait on the horse; let’s get our game, and follow the fellow.”

After acting upon the suggestion, we returned to our pursuit, and were hardly a hundred paces behind, when I shouted:

“Hello, my man! Where are you bound for?”

The horse turned its head toward us, but the rider did not move, and immediately started off at a breakneck gallop.

Although we were well mounted, and endeavored to follow him, he soon disappeared in a path thickly overgrown with brushwood. We consequently lost scent of the fugitive, and my companion very sensibly observed that we had better not follow him, as he might easily blow out our brains, under shelter of the rocks or hidden behind the brushwood, before we were aware of his presence.

We therefore retraced our steps toward our cabin, which we reached an hour later.

My second companion, who, in consequence of a slight wound, had remained at home, came toward us in great excitement.

“I’m glad you’re back, boys!” he cried.

“Heavens, man! what has happened?” I asked anxiously.

He was as white as a corpse, and sighed as if relieved when we reached him.

“It was awful, I tell you, awful. In all my life I shall never forget what has happened to me.”

“Come along; stop your quaking, and tell us what’s wrong. Seen any suckers or a ghost?” said I smilingly, while Anderson asked impatiently:

“You’ve had a visit, haven’t you? A highwayman on an old gray nag——”

“How do you know that?” stammered Jim, quickly interrupting him. “Some one was here, but it wasn’t a road man, it was a ghost.”

While he said this, he shivered from head to foot, and looked around anxiously on all sides.

“Don’t be a fool,” I laughed. “Tell us a straight story. What has happened to you?”

“Meanwhile we had reached the cabin, and, as I sprang from the saddle, Jim pointed, with trembling hand, to the ground.”

“Here, look at this; you can see the prints of the ghostly horse’s hoofs,” said he, in a voice full of excitement. “I was cleaning up things in the cabin, when I suddenly heard a noise outside. I thought you fellows had returned, and went out-o’-doors to meet you. Horrified, I sprang back; before me, on a horse, nothing but skin and bones, was a man without a hat, with long black hair. He sat bolt upright in the saddle; he had a thick black beard; his face was ashen gray, and two eyes, wide open, stared at me in a ghastly way as only a specter’s can. I wanted to cry out, but my tongue seemed glued to my mouth—I felt my hair standing on end. Then the ghost turned his horse—started off at a gallop—I could plainly hear the rattling of the rider’s and the horse’s bones.”

Jim shuddered again at the remembrance of the horrifying spectacle.

“That was the same fellow that we followed,” cried Anderson; and I could only agree with him.

We then told Jim of our adventure, and quieted him by reasoning that it could not have been a ghost, but simply a human being, possibly some lunatic.

It was my custom before going to bed, to look after the horses. I left the hut that evening as usual, but hardly had I taken a few steps when suddenly I stopped as though my feet were rooted to the ground.

Directly in front of me, in the bright moonlight, stood the same ghastly rider. His long black hair hung loosely round a ghastly face. The eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. The mouth was wide open, and the glimmer of the white teeth could be seen behind the black beard; in his left hand he held the reins, while the right hung limply by his side. He sat in the saddle as though hewn out of stone, without the slightest motion.

I had the same feeling as Jim. I wanted to cry out, but could not; only a hoarse whisper came from my throat, but instinctively my hand sought the revolver at my side. I slowly raised my six-shooter, and covered the frightful apparition. Then I found my voice.

“Who are you? Answer, or I’ll shoot!” I said.

At the sound of my voice, the horse, which consisted of nothing but skin and bones, jumped to one side, and both horse and rider went off at a breakneck gallop, the bullets which I sent after them taking no effect. I distinctly heard the peculiar rattle of which Jim had spoken, and which gradually grew dimmer and dimmer, until nothing could be distinguished but the far-off clatter of horse’s hoofs on the rocky ground.

My heart was beating violently as I reëntered the hut.

Not one of us closed an eye that night. I tossed to and fro, in vain speculating what was to be done if the uncanny thing reappeared. When at last morning dawned, I resolved to ride over to the trappers at the creek and get their advice.

Soon after sunrise I started, and, after two hours’ ride, saw the shanty of my friends some little distance off. They came to meet me with their guns in their hands, ready to shoot.

“Lucky for you that our eyes are accustomed to long range, and that the air is clear to-day, else either you or your horse would have a bullet between his bones now,” said the elder of the two trappers, as I reached them, holding out his hand in friendly greeting.

“That’s so,” acquiesced the other, also shaking hands, but with a very solemn air. “Charlie is right. We were ready to shoot, but luckily saw our mistake in time.”

“Since yesterday we have been on the watch. We’ve been fooled long enough, and mean to make an end to this infernal nonsense,” said the first trapper.

“Has a singular-looking rider also paid you a visit?” I cried eagerly.

The friends looked at each other in astonishment.

“Do you know the beggar?” asked Jack quickly.

“I don’t know him, but it is on his account that I’m here.”

And I related our adventure, to which both listened attentively.

“No doubt it’s the same fellow who got the best of us,” said Charlie; shaking his head. “Day before yesterday we saw him for the first time. He took no notice of us, and seemed to be deaf to our shots. About noon he and his miserable old horse stood there, just opposite our shanty. ‘Hello, what do you want?’ I called out. No answer. A minute afterward he was gone. In the evening he drew rein up there on the hill again. As he wouldn’t answer me, I lost patience, and got out my shooter, but before I could raise it, the fellow again disappeared. But I’m not going to be fooled to-day. I’ll send a bullet through him, or his horse.”

I willingly accepted the trappers’ invitation to stay with them during the day. Our conversation turned almost exclusively on the mysterious stranger. In the afternoon I accompanied them to their traps, and while they were setting them I walked up and down with my gun in my hand. We had resolved as soon as the rider should reappear, to shoot his horse, and in that way get this singular creature into our hands.

The day was drawing to a close, and the peaks of the mountains were dyed in the sunlight.

“The fellow has a notion we’re going for him,” said Jack. “I shouldn’t be sorry if he slipped by us now, for I’m anxious to see what sort of——”

He stopped suddenly, and the words seemed as if frozen to his lips as he stood staring at the rocks opposite the hut. There, on the top of the hills, clearly outlined against the red sky, was the ghostly rider. I also stood staring, spellbound, at the apparition. Then a shot rang out, and the horse fell forward.

“Come on, and don’t let the fellow crawl from under and get out,” cried Charlie, the smoking gun still in his hand, and pulling the revolvers from our belts we all scurried over the frozen creek that ran in front of the shanty, and up the declivity.

Jack was the first to reach the top. With one bound he stood next to the rider, who lay motionless on the quivering horse, of which he was still astride.

“Hold him!” yelled Charlie, with whom I was close on Jack’s heels.

“It’s not necessary,” said Jack, bewildered, “for you’ve shot the beggar dead.”

“Nonsense,” said Charlie angrily. “I know exactly where my bullet hit. I aimed at the horse’s left eye,” he added. “There it is.”

Meanwhile Jack was examining the rider closely.

“What is this?” he cried, astonished. “The fellow is bound fast to the horse—look here—even with a chain.” Horrified, he sprang back. “Look, the man has a mark around his neck. Great Heaven, he’s been hanging—he’s been lashed to the horse, and the poor beast has been carrying around a lifeless burden.”

Filled with astonishment and horror, we saw that Jack’s suspicions admitted of no doubt. The rope had sunk deep into the man’s muscular throat, and the knot was still attached to it.

Charlie then raised the dead man’s head.

“Why, it’s Black Sam!” he exclaimed. “He was a wild fellow, but he got his deserts. His gun was always ready, and he has sent many a good fellow to pass in his checks. Who knows how long it is that he has been astride this horse? Corpses do not decompose up here in the mountains, but dry up; I’ve often noticed that in dead animals.”

Shuddering, he turned away. The dead man, with his withered face and staring eyes, had a truly horrifying appearance.

“What’ll we do with him?” asked Jack, after a short pause.

Charlie considered a moment, then answered, while he unfastened the bands which tied the dead man to the dead horse:

“Lend a hand here, boys! It’s our duty to give him a Christian burial. Let’s push him in the gully.”

In a few moments the dead man was released; Charlie took him by the shoulders, Jack and I by the legs, and so we carried him to the place indicated, and, by our united efforts, soon had a grave dug, in which he was laid. After this had been filled in, we rolled stones and small rocks over it to prevent the wolves from disturbing the dead.

It was night before we had finished our work. A solemn stillness reigned over all; no sound was to be heard, and, with uncovered heads, we uttered a short prayer.

“God be merciful to this poor sinner,” added Charlie.

Then we silently returned to the hut.

We retired that night earlier than usual, and even in my dreams the ghostly rider appeared to me. I awoke several times bathed in perspiration, disturbed by the loud howls piercing the stillness of the night. Wolves were eagerly fighting over the bones of the dead horse.

Next day I returned home, and related to my astonished friends the end of the mysterious rider.