Ghost Stories and Mysteries by Ernest Favenc

keeping off the road as much as possible led to my coming in along the cattle track, on the side of the lagoon opposite to the road. I had a short rifle in my pack, the barrel taken off the stock, which was the reason you did not notice it. I tied my horse up some distance off, and went down the dusty cattle track to the water’s edge on foot. There I waited the whole of the morning—how long it seemed! It was about three o’clock when I saw Starr coming. I was about aiming at him, when he pulled up, got off and stooped down to drink. He was right opposite to me, his horse drinking alongside of him, his head down on the surface of the water. I was a dead shot, and struck him right on the top of the head. He scarcely seemed to move; his horse gave a slight start and snort, stretched his neck, and snuffed once or twice at the body of its rider; presently, finding itself free, began feeding, and after a few minutes’ nibbling at the grass, walked towards home.
    “I was in doubt what to do, but determined to follow the horse and obtain the valise. Should the gold not be in it, I would have to return and search the body. During the latter part of my watch, several mobs of cattle had come along the track I was lying on, smelling me when they got close; they had run back again. This gave me the idea of following the track back for a couple of miles, trusting to the cattle to obliterate all marks of my presence. Starr’s horse seemed to be making straight home. I determined to chance finding him somewhere along the road. I followed the track out, took a circle round, and came on to the road just as Starr’s horse and some more he had picked up with came along. He was quiet and easily caught. The gold was in the valise. The presence of the other horses prevented my track being noticed, and by midnight I was back at my camp. At daylight I looked along the road, and saw by the tracks that no one had passed during my absence.
    “I was safe. You know all about the inquest. I am ill of a terrible disease which plagues me with fearful torments. I must die in a day or two, perhaps to-night. Remorse now is useless, but I tell you that I have known little peace since I shot Starr. Leave me now, and don’t attempt to preach to me.”
    Neither of the two friends felt either fitted or able to attempt it, and seeing that their presence there availed nothing, they left. But when they reached the foot of the stairs, Harris called the woman, and, giving her money, told her to call and inform him of the fate of Rawlings.
    She came next morning and told them that he died a few hours after they left, never having spoken again.

THE DEAD HAND
    (1881)
    In the town of Souviers in France there resided an English doctor named Cranstone. Late one night an old woman—a countrywoman of his—came to see him with a short note requesting his immediate attendance.
    “How is Monsieur Varillon?” he asked after glancing at the few words the note consisted of.
    “Dead, “replied the dame; “died this morning.”
    “And Madame?”
    “Miss Lucy is with me, and she wants you to go with her to-night to see her husband.”
    “To see her husband! You say that he is dead?”
    “He’s as bad dead, as he was living; but she’ll tell you all about it.”
    Without more questions the doctor accompanied the old woman; and they presently reached a little cottage, the interior of which presented a strange jumble of French and English furniture.
    Sitting by the fire burning in an open fire-place was a fair-faced girl, unmistakably English, who the doctor addressed as Madame Varillon.
    It was some time before she mooted her real object for sending for him; then she watched his face narrowly with her big hazel eyes, as if dreading ridicule.
    “He made me promise,” she said, speaking of her dead husband, “that for the two nights before he would be buried I should come and pray beside his coffin, and watch there from 2 o’clock until daylight.”
    “What a