But Bill Coombs was a
very different proposition. He was of the hard-headed kind, not to be
easily alarmed by visionary terrors, and yet he was manifestly afraid
to sleep in the house. I was sufficiently acquainted with his type to
comprehend there must be some real cause driving him to retreat to the
negro cabins for rest. He was a rough of the Southwest, illiterate of
course, but a practical fellow, and, without doubt, a gun-fighter. He
had been employed because of these very characteristics, and it would
require surely a very real ghost to drive him away.
I sat there for some time smoking, endeavoring to think it all over
coolly, and listening intently. At first I could distinguish the
rattle of dishes downstairs, as Sallie cleared the table, and, a little
later, heard Mrs. Bernard moving about uneasily in her room across the
hall. But at last these sounds ceased, and the house became still. I
removed a portion of my clothing and lay down on the bed, a certain
uneasiness preventing me from undressing entirely. I was tired, but
with little inclination for sleep. The room was large, the furniture
of old style and well worn, the light of the small hand lamp leaving
much of the spacious apartment in shadow. It was not only imagination
which kept me wakeful, but the dim suspicion engendered in my mind by
what Mrs.
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