They made rare play with the food while the afterglow slowly faded and a star or two peeped out. Ghost Mountain lapsed to grey with a long scarf of mauve mist trailing among the pinnacles. Back of the peak the sky was translucent olive-green. Trout were splashing in the lake.
"Why Ghost Mountain?" demanded Jackson, suddenly. "Indian stuff? Lovesick maiden dives over cliff so she won't have to marry the bow-legged brave the old chief has sold her to for seven-spavined ponies an' a slab of chewin'?"
"I don't know, Red. Some old legend like that, I suppose. I'm only a tenderfoot myself."
"Shucks. Why you...."
Suddenly Jackson clutched Sheridan's forearm in a grip that made the latter wince with the quick pain.
"My Gawd!" he said, pointing upwards. "There's the Ghost."
Against the olive sky the gray turrets stood out sharply, the mauve scarf of mist twining in wreaths about them, puffed out by gusts of air, trailing away in smoky frazzles. For a moment Sheridan fancied he saw the figure of a horse and rider silhouetted against the sky between two fantastic juts of rock. Then the mist curled up into the notch and it was gone.
"Did you see it?" demanded Jackson, in an awed voice. "A gel, on a hawse! Up there. How in time did she make it, if it was a human?"
"I don't believe it was. You see, the gap is clear now. I imagine it was just the mist and the shadows
