by J. T. Edson
After delivering the challenge and resuming his advance on foot, leading the gelding, Alvin glanced at the Very pistol. Finding it bounced uncomfortably while he was riding, he had hung it on the saddlehorn and forgot it when leaving his hiding place. For a moment, he thought of returning it to his shoulders, but concluded this might be inadvisable. Although he had seen nothing, his instincts suggested he was being watched. So he considered that if—as was likely—the observer was using an aid to vision, the donning of the signaling device might prevent the ghost from being displayed. It could also lead to the unseen watcher shooting instead of merely trying to frighten him away.
Despite the poor light and the sheer walls being in heavy shadow, the small Texan could see along the bottom of the canyon until it curved beyond the stream. Not that there was anything to attract his attention as he walked into the entrance. Then, floating a few feet from the ground and to the accompaniment of an eerie wailing, something white, flapping and suffused by a pale glow came into view around the bend. Seeming to be moving of its own volition, it drew nearer until hovering above the widest part of the water without making so much as a ripple on the surface.
Despite all he had been told about the way in which the ghost behaved, Alvin had to admit he was unable to detect the means by which it moved. Not that he devoted much thought to the subject. Even as he was starting to draw the automatic from his waistband, the erstwhile obedient gelding halted and, letting out a snort of alarm, tossed back its head. The reaction was only brief, but—although it did not attempt to bolt—it showed such a reluctance to follow him that he decided against trying to impose his will. Instead, he released the split-ended reins. Like most range horses, the bay had been trained to stand still when they were dangling loose from its bit.
Pausing only long enough to make sure the gelding was responding to its training, Alvin resumed his interrupted advance. It was his intention to try to capture the ghost and produce it as evidence which would allow him, in his capacity of the long lost cousin’s agent, to have the area searched in the daylight by the Texas Rangers who would arrive at Grouperville, ostensibly merely in passing, the following morning.
‘Hell!’ the small Texan breathed, looking at the shape as it remained fluttering and wailing over the center of the stream and remembered the identification document concealed in his right boot. ‘I hope those trick heels are waterproof—!’
The sentiment came to an end abruptly as thoughts, of such alarming context that they transcended considerations of the possible damage to his property, began to race through his head.
As was only to be expected, knowing his life might depend upon it, Alvin had learned all he could about the effects produced by the ghost’s appearance. He had been fortunate in having had an opportunity to acquire a good amount of useful information. Although Tombstone, in the letter which brought about Company “Z”s’ first official/unofficial assignment had not told all he had discovered, as a precaution against his identity being revealed if it should have fallen into the wrong hands, he had employed the training accrued during his years as a peace officer to gather vital details from the men who were involved in the incidents and he had then passed it on in full during the meeting at the post office.
While the possible significance of it had eluded the small Texan as he was listening to the retired peace officer, one point had emerged. On every occasion the ghost had showed itself, it invariably approached the person, or persons, concerned from the other side of the stream and halted over the center at the widest point where it could only have been reached by wading. Furthermore, in each instance Tombstone had heard it described, the men affected, or their animals, had been knocked from their feet by some unseen force.
Remembering those facts, in conjunction with his words, Alvin’s thoughts triggered off another memory.
Only one victim who had been involved with the ghost had suffered anything worse than being felled by the mysterious power. Yet, despite having discussed that aspect at length with Tombstone, the potential implications had not struck Alvin until his present train of thought was set into motion by considering the possible results should his boots be immersed in the water.
However, once it came, the realization aroused speculations of an alarming nature!
The cowhand who had been killed, in a manner which could not have occurred as the sheriff claimed at the inquest, had on galoshes instead of the more conventional footwear of the previous participants. Although it was overlooked by most people, the rubber from which such boots were manufactured gave them another quality in addition to being waterproof.
There was a distinct probability, the small Texan became aware, that the previously unconsidered quality had indirectly caused the death of Ewen Silvers.
A sudden blaze of rage burst through Alvin as the possible explanation occurred to him. Apart from the few brief moments when dealing unexpectedly with the fleeing members of the Machine Gun Gang, this was his first contact with murderers. Nor did the information he had received about the victim lessen the flood of his revulsion. According to Mrs. Berkley and Tombstone, the cowhand had been the sole support of a widowed mother, honest, hardworking, loyal to the ranch upon which he was employed and good natured in all his dealings with others.
That such a person should have had his young life snuffed out to preserve the secret of Brixton’s ghost, which was being employed as a shield for some form of illicit activity, filled the small Texan with the sense of outrage every good peace officer experienced when faced with the ultimate crime of premeditated homicide. It produced a response which, in other circumstances, he would never have contemplated much less carried out.
‘Goddamn you!’ Alvin shouted furiously, looking upwards, but still retaining sufficient control over his emotions to swerve towards the darkness at the foot of the right side wall instead of continuing into the water. ‘This’s one time your electric shock won’t work!’
‘He’s guessed!’ bellowed a voice from the top of the sheer face which the small Texan was approaching. ‘Get him!’
Fortunately, the words slammed a realization into Alvin of how he had acted. Jerked back to normality, he flung himself onwards in a rolling dive which was not commenced an instant too soon. There was the brief red glow of a weapon’s muzzle flash and the bark of a rifle from a point close to where the command had been uttered. As he reached the welcome and protective blackness, he heard the eerie whap! of lead passing close above him. Next came the rapid clatter of a lever action being operated and another bullet flew down to kick up a spray of rock splinters not far away.
‘Did you get him?’ the speaker demanded.
‘Damned if I know!’ a second and equally harsh voice replied. ‘He was moving fast when I pulled off at him.’
‘See he can’t get away if you missed!’ the first speaker ordered. ‘I’ll go down and have some of the boys make sure he’s finished.’
Coming to his feet at the end of the rolling plunge, Alvin flattened himself against the wall and gazed upwards without discovering any sign of either man’s exact location. For all that, while convinced he was shielded from the rifle, what he had heard indicated his position was anything but a sinecure. He did not know what was meant by go down, but the rest of the sentence warned that the pair above him had companions close by.
Prudence demanded an immediate retreat from the canyon!
Although Alvin was still holding his automatic, there was nothing at which to aim and, anyway, to have started shooting would have betrayed his position. Not that he had intended to open fire. Instead, he started to walk as quietly as he could manage back through the darkness in the direction from which he had come. Before he had taken his fourth step, the rifle above him spat again. This time, he was not the desired target.
Giving a scream as the bullet drove into it, Tombstone’s bay gelding went down kicking and rolling in agony for a couple of seconds before becoming motionless.
A bitter curse broke barely audi
bly from Alvin as he watched the horse go down. All too well he appreciated the implications of the sight. An inborn knowledge of tactics such as had enabled his paternal grandfather to win promotion to captain in the field before reaching eighteen years of age, [72] backed by the training he had received, gave him a clear understanding of the situation.
Possessed of undoubted courage, but neither impetuous nor reckless, the small Texan conceded that to remain in the canyon was too dangerous to be contemplated. While the sheer wall of the canyon offered a measure of protection, in that it would allow him to see the rifleman silhouetted against the sky should an attempt be made to locate and shoot at him from the top, he could not remain in the darkness. However, the loss of the gelding had rendered flight extremely hazardous. Even after he had sent up the signal to call the other members of Company “Z”, there was sufficient open country beyond the canyon which would have to be traversed on foot to make his chances of surviving until help arrived far from hopeful.
All too conscious of his predicament, Alvin accepted there was only one way in which he could respond. Even if he was inclined to try, he knew surrender would avail him nothing. His only hope was to reach the sprawled out carcass of the gelding, retrieve and fire the Very Pistol. With that accomplished, depending upon the circumstances, he could either stay and make a fight from the protection offered by the body, or try to escape by beating a retreat covered by gun fire.
Coming level with the carcass, Alvin silently thanked providence for having had the foresight to bring both automatics and four fully charged spare magazines. No matter which course he selected, all would be potent factors in the result. However, as he halted to survey the situation once more, he had no intention of opening fire immediately. He had carried the pistol from his waistband concealed behind his right thigh as he was approaching the stream, so there was a chance that the men who had watched him might not know he was armed. Not only was he disinclined to let them find out prematurely, he was unable to locate either man and had nothing at which to aim.
Drawing in a deep breath, the small Texan darted forward as swiftly as his legs would carry him. Hearing a startled oath from above, he deduced that the speaker had failed to anticipate how he would behave and may have assumed he meant to retire through the blackness until clear of the canyon. Whatever the reason, there was a delay before a shot came and the bullet whined away in a ricochet from behind him. Two more rounds were expended before he plunged over and dropped to the ground behind the body, but with no greater success although each had been progressively nearer to him.
Lying concealed from the rifleman, the small Texan placed his weapon on the ground. When life had departed, the gelding was on its left side and he could not see the Very pistol. Raising his right hand cautiously, he found that the holster’s carrying strap was still around the saddlehorn. With a chilling sensation, he realized that the pistol was beneath the body. Nor was his state of mind improved when the tug he gave at the strap failed to liberate it.
Despite realizing he might be deprived of the means by which to summon aid, Alvin Fog did not panic. Instead, he tried to obtain sufficient leverage to allow him to drag the pistol from under the mass of flesh, bone and sinew which was pinning it to the ground. Before he could achieve anything, a rumbling sound and spreading glow of light from beyond the stream attracted his attention. Barely noticing that the ghost had now disappeared, he watched as an irregular oblong section of the right side wall began to pivot outwards.
‘He’s hid behind the hoss!’ yelled the rifleman. ‘I don’t know if he’s toting a gun, but I’m covering him!’
Glancing upwards, Alvin discovered that the speaker was now standing exposed against the lesser darkness of the sky. Scooping the Colt from the ground with both hands, he wriggled around until he could hold it supported by his forearms on the seat of the saddle. Already men were peering warily from the opening and, as he did not doubt they were armed, he knew there was no time to devote to the careful aim which was required to ensure a hit at such a range. So, making the best alignment possible under the prevailing conditions, he opened fire. Four times in rapid succession he squeezed the trigger and, controlling the recoil with the assistance of the double-handed grip, turned the barrel slightly as each bullet left the muzzle. Twice he heard the lead strike the side of the wall. Then the third shot ricocheted from the top. A yell of alarm followed the fourth detonation. Tilting upwards as its user jumped backwards hurriedly, the rifle discharged harmlessly into the air.
Without waiting to discover whether he had made a lucky hit, or merely given his would-be attacker a surprise via a close miss, Alvin rolled until he lay on his stomach at the gelding’s rump. Still using both hands, he emptied the Colt’s magazine just as swiftly in the direction of the illuminated hole. Although once more the need for haste had precluded any chance of the accuracy of which he was capable in less demanding circumstances, the bullets flew sufficiently near to cause a hurried retreat by the emerging figures.
‘Goddamn it, Eddie!’ a furious voice bellowed from ground level, as the small Texan retired to the concealment of the carcass. ‘What the hell’re you doing up there?’
‘The bastard’s got a gun!’ the rifleman bawled back, keeping clear of the sky line, his tone implying that he considered their intended victim being armed both unsporting and reprehensible.
‘We know he has, you stupid son-of-a-bitch!’ the speaker at the bottom of the wall almost howled, being the man who had aroused Alvin’s curiosity when saying he would go down and obtain assistance. ‘So kill the bastard, or stop him using it so’s we can.’
Listening to the conversation Alvin took advantage of the respite he was being granted by removing the empty magazine and replaced it with one of his reserve. For all his success so far, he knew he was still in a very precarious position. If the men made a concerted effort, and those in whatever lay beyond the opening emerged while their companion provided covering fire with the rifle, he would be hard pressed to deal with the attack.
Wondering how soon something would happen, the small Texan left the second Colt in its shoulder holster. Any shooting he had to do would at first be over a distance at which he could attain the best results by aiming and firing double handed. Knowing the danger which existed in that direction would be less easy to detect than at ground level, he gave most of his attention to the top of the canyon. It was obvious that the man up there had learned his lesson. Certainly he was no longer allowing himself to be silhouetted against the sky.
‘Zip!’ Eddie yelled, after about half a minute of inactivity, his voice registering alarm. ‘There’s somebody coming!’
‘It’ll be our trucks!’ the spokesman at ground level replied. ‘Like hell it is!’ Eddie contradicted. ‘They’re coming from the wrong direction! ‘
‘Hell, Zip, it must be the Bomber Boys!’ another voice suggested and, despite having spoken more quietly than the man he was addressing, some acoustic quality of his surroundings allowed Alvin to hear what he was saying. ‘Close that goddamned door!’
‘That won’t be any use!’ Zip pointed out, no more loudly, but just as audibly as far as the small Texan was concerned. ‘That son-of-a-bitch out there knows it’s here and we’d be caught inside.’
‘Then we’ll have to take it on the lam!’ the new speaker stated and several other voices rumbled concurrence.
‘We can’t until that bastard out there’s been took care of!’ Zip replied, then raised his voice. ‘Fix his wagon good, Eddie!’
‘He’s hid behind the hoss I shot,’ the rifleman answered.
‘Send up Old Man Thompson to lend me a hand.’
On hearing the warning, Alvin had concluded that his companions had been close enough to have heard the shooting and were coming to his rescue. As the conversation went on, however, he realized they must still be some considerable distance away. It was unlikely Eddie would be willing to remain on top of the wall with no other means of escape than his feet, there bein
g nowhere a vehicle—or even a horse—could be hidden in his immediate vicinity, if there was danger close at hand. So he must be convinced there was ample time for him to do as Zip demanded and still make good his departure before the peace officers arrived at the canyon.
Unless the small Texan was mistaken, he considered there was something even more serious behind the latest development. He believed Eddie was intending to employ something more effective than human aid to remove the threat he was posing. The request for Old Man Thompson to be sent up did not refer to one of his associates, but to a weapon possessing very deadly qualities.
Already a number of the special type of gun produced by the Colt’s Patent Fire Arms Mfg. Co. for the Auto-Ordnance Corporation of New York had found their way into the hands of criminals. Alvin had a suspicion that he might soon be in contention against one of them. Furthermore, he concluded that the installation behind the opening in the canyon’s wall must be of considerable value for a still comparatively rare and expensive Thompson submachine gun to have been provided as part of its defenses. Which explained why Softly and the men who were present did not hesitate to take extreme measures to protect the secret of its existence.