He swerved toward the place, saw a white form rise suddenly from
the very ground, as it seemed, and lift an arm with a slow,
beckoning gesture. Without taking aim, he raised his gun and
fired a shot at it. The arm dropped rather suddenly, and the
white form vanished. He hurried up to where it had stood, knelt,
and felt of the soft earth. Without a doubt there were
footprints there--he could feel them. But he hadn't a match 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.
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