Ghost Canyon

by John Russell Fearn

  As the light faded, Terry stood by the window, checking his gun and the cartridge bandolier about his waist. Beside him, Hilda was doing likewise. She was dressed ready for action in her divided skirt, blouse, and leather mackinaw, the floral kerchief wound about her head.

  “Two against—how many?” she asked, thinking. “Ever stop to consider the odds, Terry?”

  “No; wouldn’t do my nerve any good. All I realise is that when we solve the mystery of the four horsemen and find those stolen cattle, we’ll have the whole business in the bag. I can act then, put the evidence before the authorities, and the necessary arrests can be made.”

  “You’ve got that far then?”

  “Obviously. I have written proof from the dead Al Naycross concerning Swainson; I’ve invoices about the implication of your father and Burridge; I’ve the knife with which an attempt was made to kill you—which can be proved to be Swainson’s property; and I have the gun which killed your father. I think Harrison killed him. In any case, prints can be taken from his exhumed body, and checked with those on the gun.”

  “I never thought you’d gathered so much,” Hilda mused.

  “But the worst has yet to come,” Terry reminded her grimly. “Swainson and Burridge know full well that I’m dangerous, and we can expect just anything from them. Our only hope is to be quicker than they are.”

  He paused and looked out of the window, as with characteristic abruptness the twilight vanished and the night came. He glanced at the girl in the gloom.

  “Ready, Hil?”

  She nodded and moved away. Terry spent a moment making sure the small safe was locked—in which was all the evidence he had gathered so far—then he followed the girl outside to the waiting horses. They left by the rear double-gate and cantered slowly across the starlit pasture land, the night wind blowing in their faces.

  Before long, they had drawn away from the town, and, by a detour, reached the trail which led to the mountain foothills. But they did not stay on it for long. Terry changed direction suddenly, so that they were parallel with the trail but moving through the long grass behind the tall hedge skirting it.

  “Just in case tabs are being kept on our movements—as they probably are,” he explained. “We don’t want to be seen on the actual trail—giving away our possible destination— What’s that?” he broke off, halting abruptly.

  Hilda drew up too, listening to the sound of approaching hoofs.

  “We’re being followed,” she said hoarsely. “That must be it—”

  “Coming the other way,” Terry corrected. “From the mountains, not the town—”

  Then again he stopped speaking. Words had become suddenly useless before the awe-inspiring vision of four phantom horsemen, white as snow, speeding with rhythmic precision down the trail, heading towards the town. They were moving fast, too, two in front and two behind, keeping an exact distance, just as though they were controlled by clockwork.

  “They—they never came this way before!” Hilda gasped, her eyes fixed on them as they passed close to where she and Terry were mounted, watching, but almost concealed by the tall hedge.

  “Apparently they mean business,” Terry snapped. “Heading towards Verdure can mean trouble. Quick, after ’em!”

  He wheeled his horse round and dug in the spurs, sending the animal pelting through the long grass. It kept him on a line with the trail without actually touching it, and thereby becoming visible against its whiteness, but it also meant he was slowed up. The horse could not move as swiftly on grass, rank and tangled, as on baked earth.

  Gradually the speeding phantom horsemen became less distinct as distance increased.

  “Damn!” Terry swore, as Hilda came up beside him. “I’m right out of gun-range. I was going to shoot and chance it, see if it brought one of them down. Anyway, if I can’t hit them, they can’t hit us. Let’s get onto the trail.” He swung his horse’s head and plunged from the top of the bank to the bottom, then he whipped the animal’s withers fiercely and sent him tearing onwards into the starlight, pursuing the now remote four white specks. Hard though he rode, Terry did not catch up, and long before he reached Verdure he had ample evidence of the phantoms’ intentions. One of them seemed abruptly to catch fire when he reached the main street, then it became apparent a moment later that he was whirling a lighted torch. It sailed through the air and landed on top of one of the dwellings. Another followed it from one of the other horsemen: after that the thing was done.

  The horsemen sped onwards, never pausing a moment, but they had left behind them a rapidly growing conflagration which, in a tinder-dry town, could not help but reduce it to ashes in the space of perhaps an hour.

  “What now?” Hilda asked urgently, her eyes on the gathering blaze as they hurtled nearer to it.

  “Ride straight on,” Terry answered. “Shout ‘Fire!’ as we go and leave it to the folks to deal with: we’re going after those horsemen whilst we’re still on their track.”

  Hilda nodded and dug in the spurs, getting a momentary added speed from her mount. Terry kept ahead of her and reached the town’s main street a few moments later. One or two people were already hurrying along the boardwalks looking at the blaze. They swung round to watch Terry as he came galloping past.

  “The four horsemen!” he yelled. “They did this— Put the fire out! I’m following the horsemen…,” and then he was on his way with Hilda coming up at desperate speed behind him.

  By the time he had gained the open trail beyond the town, Hilda had drawn level.

  “This doesn’t make sense to me,” she said quickly, her eyes on the dim specks which denoted the speeding fire-raisers. “If Swainson or Burridge are behind it, why should they burn down their own places? The saloon and the Mayor’s home?”

  “Why not? They can always rebuild, and they will have moved all valuable stuff. Their aim is to get rid of everybody else: they can look after themselves.… It won’t work, though. The alarm’s been raised soon enough for the folk to put the fire out— Hello, they’re turning off,” Terry said abruptly, nodding ahead.

  Starlight and moonrise, and the natural reflection from the sandy waste bordering the rough trail, made it possible to see the distant riders as they turned left, obviously heading back in the direction of the mountain range. Terry also swung left, murmuring in his horse’s ear: “Keep it up, Smoky! Faster, fella! We’ve still a long ride ahead of us!”

  The animal understood, but it could give little more speed. It remained more or less constant, which meant that the four horsemen were kept at their existing distance.

  On and on across the pastureland, over arid stretches, through rocky areas, and so at last to the dim trail which led to Star Canyon. Terry kept on going, glancing once over his shoulder to see Hilda was not so very far behind. As the entrance to Star Canyon was reached, he slackened speed for a moment to give her the chance to draw level.

  “Get your gun out, Hil,” he instructed. “Just anything can happen around here.”

  She nodded in the dim light, her gaze fixed on the remote riders further along the stretch. Then she followed Terry as he went on again.

  To gain the narrow neck of the canyon took perhaps five minutes, the horses’ feet slipping on rubble and loose stones. Once it was reached, Terry looked ahead of him intently, having a full view of the canyon stretched before him. The stars were visible, reaching down at its V-shaped end. But against those stars were no signs of horsemen. Either they had moved at incredible speed to cover the remaining distance, or—

  “Look!” Hilda said abruptly, and drew rein. Terry drew rein to find her pointing to the ground. The white dust carried the ploughed-up prints of a number of horses—which stopped suddenly and left undisturbed dust beyond. Terry stared at the unbelievable, and then above and around him.

  “Same trick again!” he breathed, his voice harsh with exasperation. “There’s got to be some explanation, and I’m going to look for it!”

  He dropped from the saddle and
hurried back on foot down the canyon until he came to the acclivity which led above. He was just upon the point of hurrying up it when a desperate scream from along the canyon halted him. Instantly he swung round, gun ready, and raced back through the dust. The scream was not repeated. He presently found himself back where he had left Hilda, but there was no sign of her. Only her horse, and his own, moving restlessly.

  “Hil!” Terry yelled frantically, his voice echoing back at him. “Hil, where are you?”

  There were no sounds whatever, except the soft moan of the wind at the mountain summits. Baffled, furious, Terry examined the dust. There were no signs of prints from the girl’s high-heeled riding boots. No sign of anything, except two horses who could not speak.

  For a second or two, Terry had a hard struggle not to believe in the supernatural; then he came back again to grim business and returned to the acclivity. Gaining the summit of it after a floundering ascent, he looked about him. Apparently nothing was changed from the daytime view. There were just the rocks, the distant view of the desert and pasture-land, not a thing moving. He shouted again and again until he was hoarse, without avail. Hilda had vanished as completely and enigmatically as the four horsemen themselves.

  “Okay. This does it!” Terry snapped at last to himself. “I can’t play this game with the gloves on any more.”

  In a towering rage, he returned to Smoky, mounted and trailed the girl’s horse behind him. He reached Verdure again to find most of the townsfolk in the main street, the fires extinguished through the use of a human chain from the only water supply—a well-spring on the edge of the town.

  Terry took a look over the assembly, then he stood in his stirrups and shouted.

  “Hey, you folks! Listen to me!”

  Immediately there was a stirring in the moonlight. Men and women, some of them in night clothes, came towards him. “My wife—formerly Miss Marchland—has been kidnapped,” he said fiercely. “The four horsemen are responsible, just as they’re responsible for trying to set fire to Verdure! The time’s come to find ’em even if we have to tear down every rock in yonder mountains! None of you can doubt any more but what they’re human, otherwise they couldn’t fling lighted torches around.”

  “Nobody says they did,” remarked Mayor Burridge, standing in his shirt-sleeves to the front of the crowd. “I guess phantoms have their own way of starting fires, Carlton.”

  Terry glared at him. “I saw ’em swing torches onto these roofs,” he retorted. “You may be deceiving the populace, Mayor, by working amongst ’em here to quell the flames, but you’re not deceiving me! I’ll gamble Swainson’s here, too, somewheres—”

  “Sure thing,” Swainson agreed, coming forward, his face blackened with smoke. “This fire had to be put down!”

  “Why? You wanted the whole durned town burned out, didn’t you? So as to get rid of the folks around here?”

  “You think I’d be loco enough to have my own property burned out?” Swainson snapped.

  “Yeah—for the bigger gain of emptying this whole territory! Stop playing games, Swainson! I’m not pulling my punches any longer! You and Burridge are behind this phantom business an’ it’s time the people knew it.”

  There was murmuring amongst the people. Swainson came nearer to Terry, wiping his face on his shirt-sleeve. Then with a lightning action he drew his gun. It was so rapid Terry had no time to counter it.

  “Shoot your face off any more around here, Carlton, and I’ll drill you,” he said very quietly and deliberately, standing so near that the people around could not see his gun or hear his words. “Y’say you’re not pulling your punches anymore? Okay, that suits me fine. I’ll come into the open, too. Get off that horse and go into the Coyote there: I’ve got something to say.” Terry hesitated, wondering if it was worth making a grab at his gun. Then he decided otherwise: Swainson would hardly be an amateur with his hardware.

  “Okay—into the saloon,” Swainson murmured, as Terry dropped to the dust. “Make it quick! And don’t raise your hands and give it away that I’m covering you.”

  Terry moved, and found the gun of Burridge added to Swainson’s. To the people Swainson called briefly:

  “Hang around, folks. The Sheriff, the Mayor, and me have things to discuss. I guess we’ve some sort of a plan to hammer out after this attack tonight. Don’t worry about what the Sheriff said. Maybe we’re all a bit excited tonight.” He laughed.

  Terry walked into the still oil-lighted saloon, through it—under Swainson’s directions—and into the private office at the rear. Swainson closed the door sharply after Burridge had entered, and Terry obeyed the order to turn around.

  “Now,” Swainson said, his face taut. “The time’s come to put things on a proper footing, Carlton—and there ain’t much beefin’ you can do either if you want your wife back. I guess you made one mighty big mistake when you married Hilda Marchland: it makes her especially valuable to you.”

  “Cut out the preliminaries and start talking,” Terry snapped. “What the hell do you want of me?”

  “Stated simply, Carlton, you’re going to get out—and stop out! And you’re going to say as much to those people outside.… You became Sheriff because, to satisfy them, there was no other way out of it. But ever since you got into this territory you’ve been crampin’ my style and that of Mayor Burridge. You know too damned much!”

  “I’ve made it my business to find out all I can,” Terry retorted. “You know as well as I do that you and Burridge are playing a crooked game—just as Marchland and Harrison were until they got rubbed out.”

  Swainson laughed unpleasantly. “Never mind what sort of game we’re playing, Carlton. We got here first. We’ve tolerated you long enough, and since every other trick we’ve pulled has failed to drive you out, we’re trying something new.… You won’t ever see your wife again unless you leave town and go right back to where you came from. I don’t just know where that was but, for the sake of convenience, we’ll say Denver, huh? Far enough away.”

  Terry remained silent and Swainson’s grin broadened. “Harrison didn’t like you from the first moment he met you—and said as much to me. He got the idea from the way you were talking that you might be dangerous later on—and he sure wasn’t kidding. You’ve been long enough in Verdure, Carlton—and the longer you stick, the tougher it gets for us to work out our own plans. So yore going—and before you do, you’ll give us a good chance to get the people back on our side. Just like they usta be—scared outa their darned wits.”

  “Meaning?” Terry asked grimly,

  “Meaning you’re going to tell ’em that you think you’ve been wrong—that you believe it was phantoms who set fire to this town tonight. That being so, you’ve decided to quit the territory as yuh haven’t the nerve to fight ghosts.… That’ll make most of the population quit anyways. If you’re leery, the rest of ’em sure will be. Then you’ll get on your way to Denver and your wife will follow.”

  “You admit, then, that you are responsible for her disappearing tonight?” Terry demanded.

  “Sure thing. You don’t think I swallowed that line I got from you this morning about calling the whole thing off until you’d worked out a plan, do you? I didn’t anyway. I had tabs kept on you, and, just as I thought, you and your wife sneaked off on your own for a look-see. After that you just naturally followed the horsemen—and lost your wife. I never thought such a nice chance would have come, like you wandering off on your own and leaving her.”

  “I don’t see what you know about that,” Terry said, puzzled. “After she’d disappeared, I rode straight in here to get help.”

  “No you didn’t, fella. You looked around plenty. In that time I got the information of what had happened.” Swainson relaxed and gave his hard smile. “Okay, so the phantoms are phoney,” he said, shrugging. “But yore bangin’ your head on a brick wall trying to prove it, Carlton. You never will prove it. It’s the best gag that’s ever been pulled in this territory—or any other. It’ll clear
every darned man and woman outa here finally and leave the pasture land free.”

  “For stolen cattle!”

  “Could be.… Your wife guarantees you won’t open your mouth too wide.”

  “Not altogether. If you send her to Denver after me, there’s nothing to stop me informing Denver headquarter concerning all I’ve discovered.”

  “’Cept one thing. You’ll need proof. Authorities are keen on that. Can’t act without it.”

  “I’ve all the proof I need.”

  “Yeah?” Swainson shook his head. “Not all, fella. You may have some invoices you stole from Burridge’s home—a knife meant for your wife’s back—the gun which killed Marchland—but you can’t prove any stolen cattle, and you can’t prove the four horsemen aren’t ghosts, ’cos you don’t know how they do their stuff. An’ something else. Whatever proof you have up to now ain’t goin’ to help you any. You’re gettin’ out with exactly what you came in with—nothing.”

  Terry set his mouth. Swainson went on talking.

  “Things like a knife and a gun are too big to carry about you, I guess, but you’ll be searched before you leave anyway, and so will your horse’s saddle-bag. Then you’ll escorted right outa town. What proof you have will be at your home, I guess—the Marchland place. I daresay, bein’ the honest, open guy you are, you’ve told your wife everythin’ you’ve discovered. She’ll tell us—so we can destroy it.”

  “If you touch her—” Terry clenched his fists.

  “No ‘if’ about it, fella. We’ve our own necks to look after. All evidence must be destroyed. Try without evidence to convince the law officers in Denver, or anyplace else, and see what you’ll get! Or mebbe you’re not that crazy?”

  “What guarantee have I that my wife will ever be released?” Terry snapped.

  “None—but she will be, if she talks sense when we ask her questions. Y’see, fella,” Swainson continued, “I’m working two sides at once. Gettin’ rid of you and your wife, and at the same time using you both to convince the people around here that flight is the only safe course. You’ll tell ’em so before you go; and your wife will tell the same story before she goes. That way the populace will be convinced. To shoot the pair of you will be easier, sure, but the people like you both, and it might be awkward answering questions—so this is the better way. Now how’s about it? Ready to talk to ’em outside?”