When Aaron Gallup retired to his home at seven o’clock that evening he knew that if Johnny Dice hovered in or near Standing Rock he had heard by now the story of his—Gallup’s—supernatural visitor. Figuratively speaking, Aaron patted himself on the back for having set his trap for the smooth Johnny. The old man’s confidence in his scheme was such that he even whistled snatches of an old tune popular in the days of the Santa Fe Trail.
He finished his supper without lighting a lamp. Having eaten, he climbed the stairs and made ready for the expected visitor. He saw to it that his g*n was in order; he lighted a lamp; he raised the curtains—it was as if he were a stage manager preparing for the evening’s show.
When his old brain refused to suggest any additional bit of stagecraft, Aaron took
