Ted Strong in Montana | Page 8

was grazing quietly, for the cattle were very hungry, and as they were safe for the time being, he rolled himself in his blankets and was soon sleeping soundly.
He awoke on hearing a fumbling at the door, and sat up.
It was pitch dark, and he had slept nearly all day.
Unlimbering his six-shooter, he called, "Who's thar?"
"Ach, Pud, it's me alretty," came the muffled reply.
"So it's you, Carl. Why don't you come in?"
"Der door open, Pud, please. I my arrums full mit dings have."
Bud sprang from his blankets and threw the door open, admitting a cold blast and a flurry of snow.
"Ugh!" he ejaculated, with a shudder. "Come in, yer fat wad o' Dutch. What yer waitin' fer?"
"Someding has my hat stolen off mit my head." Carl's voice expressed both perplexity and awe.
Evidently something unusual had happened, and Bud put on his hat and stepped outside.
He had no sooner passed through the doorway than his own hat was snatched from his head.
He drew his revolver, leaped into the open, and looked about him.
There was no one in sight except Carl, who was standing near him with his arms full of blankets and bundles.
Carl could not have played the trick on him, and there was not wind enough to have blown the hat away. Anyhow, it had been snatched from his head by a hand and not by the wind.
There was something uncanny about this.
It was still light enough to see out in the open, and the snow-covered ground reflected light enough to have discovered an intruder had one been there.
Bud ran around the house, but could find no person, and there were no tracks of a man's foot in the snow.
"Jumpin' sand hills, but that's queer," said Bud, coming back to where Carl was still standing in the snow before the door, staring about in a bewildered way. "Gosh ding yer, Carl, I believe yer swiped my hat, an' if yer don't give it up I'll plant my toe whar it'll be felt onpleasantly."
"Honest, Pud, I ain't your hat taking," said Carl distressfully. "Vhy, I my hat losing too, yet."
"That's so, an' yer loaded down with truck. Throw them things inter ther house an' help me hunt ther thief. Don' be standin' thar like a sausage."
"Don'd you calling me a sissage," said Carl wrathfully. "I ain't feeling mooch as having fun mit you now. I bring all dese dings mit der saddle on, und I lose two or three every dime der pony makes his jumpings, und get down kvick to pick dem up maype as fifty dimes."
"Oh, all right. Quit yer bellyachin', an' come an' help. We can't get along without hats. That's a cinch."
Carl retired into the house with his bundles.
"Wow! Stop it, cuss ye," yelled Bud, as Carl came out of the cabin.
"I ain't didding noding," said Carl, backing away as Bud rushed upon him.
"Yer did, yer fat galoot. Yer pulled my hair 'most out by ther roots."
"I ain't pulling no hairs," Carl persisted.
"Then who done it? Yer ther only person what I can see. It's a cinch some one pulled my hair."
"Say, Pud."
"What?"
"Let us camp outside."
"What, an' freeze ter death before mornin'? Nixy. Not fer me."
"Ain't you heard about der shack?"
"No, I ain't, an' I don't want ter. What I'm after now is ther galoot what got our hats an' pulled my hair."
"Ain't you heard about der ghost?"
"Ghost!"
Bud was staring at Carl with his jaw dropped.
"Yah. Dis is a ghost haus, filled mit ghostesses."
"Don't you go making any monkey talks at me. There ain't no sich things as ghosts. That'll do fer ter frighten kids with, but not fer me."
"Den who tooken our hats, und who your golden locks pulled?"
"That's so. Who took them? Tell me, who put all thet dope about this bein' a haunted house in ther shell what yer calls yer head?"
"Bill Simms, der cow-puncher vot we picked up on der drive, informationed me about it. He says a man was kilt in dis shack, und dot he valks aroundt mit it ven der night cooms."
"That Bill Simms is ther worst liar in forty States. He tried ter fill me with wild dreams about a feller what rides ther line on this yere ranch what can stand havin' ther contents o' a six-shooter pumped inter him, an' it don't feaze him none."
"Yah. Dot's der ghostes vot runs dis shack. I don'd vant ter stay here, Pud. Please let us camp out in der snow."
"Why, yer doodle, can't ther ghost come out yere jest ez easy ez he kin' go inter ther house--that is, if he's a sure-enough ghost?"
"Yah, I guess he can. Vat vill ve didding?"
"I don't care what you do, but I'm goin' inter ther shack ter start up ther fire an' get warm. I don't care what you do, but I'm 'most