Ghost Canyon

by John Russell Fearn

  Swainson stirred again and sat up. At the same moment as he had expected, the guards swung their attention on him, but in the split second before this happened he had rolled the cartridge some distance away across the floor. He saw it come to rest against a further wall, carried that far by the natural slant of the stone. He breathed in relief as he saw it still glowing. He had had to risk it that the lighted end would survive destruction.

  “No damn chance to rest in this place,” he said bitterly looking at Burridge; then without looking at him directly and covering his mouth with his hand, he added: “Be ready for action when you hear a gunshot. It’s our last throw.”

  “Where from?” Burridge muttered, bewildered.

  “Stop asking stupid questions. Just be on the alert.”

  “Listen, you—” One of the guards came forward. “If you’ve any talking to do, Swainson, do it out loud. Whispering ain’t allowed, see?”

  “No, I don’t see!” Swainson snapped, deliberately drawing attention from everywhere save himself. “You don’t represent the law, and if I want to whisper I’ll go right on doing it!”

  “Yeah? Better watch yuhself, Swainson. It don’t say because the sheriff hasn’t beaten yuh up yet that I shan’t. I’m takin’ no back answers from a cheap crook like you—”

  Abruptly the cartridge by the wall exploded. It had the identical sound of a gunshot. The guards spun round, startled. Swainson leapt up and landed a terrific blow under the jaw of the nearest man; then he snatched his guns. Without taking any pause he fired relentlessly, one gun after the other. Each guard went down, his hardware dropping.

  Then there was a deadly silence. Swainson, breathing hard, looked around him amidst the cordite fumes. Burridge, astounded by the suddenness of everything, was still against the wall, blinking. Terry and Hilda, awakened by the commotion, were looking fixedly at the pointing guns. Around them the men who had gone ‘off duty’ were stirring into wakefulness.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “What happened, boss?” one of Swainson’s gunhawks asked, picking up the guns the dead guards had dropped. “Where’d that gunshot come from?”

  “Never mind. I used my brains—which is more’n any of you jelly-kneed critters ever did.… You, Carlton, get on your feet. And your wife and the rest of the boneheads with you.”

  Terry obeyed and helped Hilda up. At a signal from Swainson, all guns were removed from the group by the wall.

  “Just as well I didn’t talk too much, Carlton,” Swainson said. “I had the idea I might beat you to it. Guess it’s time you and those with you were taught a lesson. I’m carrying out my original plan to ditch the lot of you where nobody can ever trace your remains. Curly—tie ’em up. Separately. I don’t trust ’em in a bunch—an’ make a good job of it.”

  “Sure thing.” Curly moved away and signalled two of the boys to help him. By the time they had finished their activities, Terry, Hilda, and the few men remaining in their party were so tightly trussed they could barely move.

  Swainson looked them over, grinned, then glanced back at the sprawling bodies of the guards he had killed.

  “Guess they got off better than you will,” he said. “You’re going down the mine-shaft. Those of you that survive the drop will be broken up just the same, an’ the ropes’ll make sure you don’t have a chance to get away. Chances are the fall will kill you. I guess it’s a good hundred and fifty feet down. Dry earth at the bottom. No soft mud or water to break your fall. I’ll guarantee it makes the lot of you vanish from the eyes of men for good.…”

  Swainson stopped talking and signalled. His gunhawks came forward and between them hauled up the captives and bore them from the cavern and down a long tunnel leading from it. After perhaps a quarter of a mile’s trip through dimly-lit passages they came to a halt at what was obviously an ancient mine shaft. The remains of a crumbling winch and cage were still there.

  “Before I have you thrown down,” Swainson said, “I’m willing to tell you something you’re itching to know, Carlton—and I’m telling you now ’cos it can’t do you any good. Poetic, huh?”

  “Quite a sense of humour,” Terry agreed coldly.

  “I shot Harrison.” Swainson gave a shrug and grinned. “I’ve got a policy, Carlton: if I don’t trust somebody, or don’t like him, I finish him. I’ve discovered it’s the only way to get results. Like you, Burridge—shootin’ your face off.”

  Burridge gave a quick, frightened glance. It seemed that his tubby little figure quivered.

  “I said I’d settle you,” Swainson added. “I’m doing it—now.”

  He fired ruthlessly—three times. Burridge’s paunchy little body jolted in anguish at each shot; then, unable to save himself, he tottered helplessly over the edge of the mine shaft and vanished. After a momentary interval, there came a faint thud from his body as it struck bottom.

  “You’re getting trigger-happy, Swainson,” Terry told him, his eyes glinting. “That makes about five in a row you’ve wiped out.”

  “Yeah—just as I told you. I obliterate opposition.” It was plain that egotism and blood-lust were inflaming Swainson to the exclusion of all sanity. “Anyway, I was telling you—something you’ve bin wanting to know. I did kill Harrison. I was on my way to see him, and in passing the window I heard him about to say a helluva sight too much; so I plugged him and skipped outa sight. Nobody was near at the time. It was an easy job. Now ain’t it a pity you can’t use that information?”

  “And Marchland?” Terry asked.

  “I had Harrison take care of him. Harrison told me the way you were poking your nose in. I figured Marchland might talk too soon, or something—so I had him rubbed out. Wiping out Harrison afterwards was a good idea. It didn’t only stop his big mouth about the phantom set-up: it stopped him saying that I’d given him orders to kill Marchland.”

  “Pretty wholesale, aren’t you?” Terry snapped. “You also tried to kill my wife—or rather told Al Naycross to do it. Then when he flunked it, you shot him in the belly. I guess you’ve plenty coming to you, Swainson.”

  “Mebbe—but you ain’t in any position to talk about it.”

  “What about that evidence you were going to check up on?” Hilda asked in sudden desperation, trying to gain time. “You said you’d make sure before you finished us, just in case we’d led you astray.”

  Swainson reflected. “Yeah, I did. I guess something might go wrong in that time, though. Now I’ve gotten you all sewn up, I’ll gamble on it that you told me the truth. If you didn’t, I’ll turn Verdure inside out to find out where you hid that information. I don’t see leaving it lyin’ around: too dangerous.”

  He considered once again, then gave a nod to his men. Terry found himself seized. He couldn’t struggle: he was too tightly bound. He was lifted from his feet, carried the short distance to the shaft edge, and then tossed into it.

  “Terry—!” Hilda screamed in horror as he vanished; then she, too, was seized, lifted, and pushed over the shaft edge. She found herself falling headlong through darkness at a dizzying speed. During the fall she had no chance to think coherently: she was frozen with the expectation of death—

  But it did not come. She certainly landed with violent impact; but it was not the bone-breaking force of hard ground. She had struck something yielding, and lay for a moment gasping, trying to collect her scattered wits. Then Terry’s voice came from immediately below her.

  “Fit to move, Hil?”

  “Eh—? Yes, I— You mean I fell on you, Terry?”

  “Right. And I fell on Burridge. Afraid the poor devil’s done for, but he acted as a shock absorber with all that blubber of his. I dropped on top of him and he broke the force. In any case, the drop isn’t anywhere near one hundred and fifty feet. I doubt if it’s even thirty. Wriggle to one side,” Terry broke in urgently. “More coming down. Let Burridge take the impact. I guess he’s dead, anyway, taking the first fall to hard ground.”

  Bruised and aching, Hilda rolled herself to one si
de and heard the sound of Terry doing likewise. Lying on her back, still tightly bound, Hilda could see the dim yellow opening above; then it was blotted out as a bound body came hurtling down—to strike the ‘cushion’ which was the dead mayor.

  In the space of perhaps five minutes everybody had been dealt with. Some five men, besides Terry and Hilda, lay sprawled in the shaft bottom, badly bruised and quivering with the reaction of expecting violent death. Terry began talking, inquiring as to how much damage had been done. Apparently there were dislocated shoulders, a broken arm, and severe shaking—but that seemed to be all.

  “Bad enough; could have been worse,” Terry muttered. “I guess Burridge proved useful in the finish, even if he was dead when it happened.”

  “Maybe death would have been better,” Hilda said. “Trussed up like this, we can’t do anything but rot, can we?”

  “Anything but it, Hil. We have the advantage of being bound up separately. You and I are going to sit back to back, Hil, and try and untie each other’s’ ropes. Come on—no time to lose.”

  They began wriggling towards each other, making as little noise as possible in case it should travel to the top of the shaft. The men who had been injured stifled their groans as much as possible and just waited; meantime Terry and Hilda settled themselves firmly with their backs to each other, their finger nails digging into the tight knots, pulling—tugging—straining.

  It was a long and difficult task with so little freedom of movement, but at length Hilda gave a murmur of delight as she felt her wrists fall apart under Terry’s ministrations. She tugged sharply and her hands came free. After that it was only a matter of perhaps ten minutes to release every man.

  “You guys who are damaged will have to put up with it for the moment,” Terry whispered. “Sorry, but we can’t patch you up in the dark. And tie these ropes round your waists: they may be useful later, knotted into one length. Right now our task is to get out of here.”

  “Back inter the cavern?” one of the men growled. “I reckon that won’t do us any good, Sheriff.”

  “Not back there,” Terry told him. “There must be some other way out. There’s a draught down here which shows there is an opening somewhere around. If this is a true mine shaft, there ought to be a honeycomb of tunnels from the days when mining went on. I’ll take a look.”

  He began to feel his way carefully about him, pausing when his outstretched hand came into contact with the rough wall. For a time he investigated it by touch, moving onwards in what he realised was a wide circle— Then, suddenly, emptiness. And a strong draught.

  He began searching more thoroughly, still with his fingers. Though his lucifers had not been taken from him, he did not dare strike one in case somebody near the shaft top should see it. By touch alone, however, he was able to determine that the draught was blowing through a moderately wide tunnel opening. He returned immediately to where he could very faintly see the group standing.

  “An opening,” he murmured. “Don’t know where it leads to, but we’ll risk it. I’ve got a fair supply of lucifers: how about any of you boys?”

  Apparently three of them were well supplied. “Good enough,” Terry whispered. “Let’s go—” Then he paused as one of the men objected.

  “Look, Sheriff, d’you think that’s such a good idea? We may only wander deeper inter the mine an’ never find our way out again. How’s about making an attempt to climb this shaft back into the cavern? Those guys above think they finished us: we’d have the advantage of surprise.”

  “Which, without guns, wouldn’t do us much good,” Terry said grimly. “I’m sure this is the better way. Wait a moment,” he murmured tensely. “I hear Swainson talking up above.”

  They all became silent, as carried by the natural acoustics of the cavern the hard tones of the saloon owner came drifting down in snatches, apparently as he addressed his followers.

  “…not worth trying simple methods any longer. With the…removed, probably dead, in the shaft…to clear out the rest of ’em from Verdure. They know…enemy. So we act…an’ blast ’em out. Then…the cattle.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Hilda whispered, straining. Terry did not reply immediately. He waited for the voice above to continue, but apparently Swainson had said all he intended. Instead there were sounds of movement.

  “Near as I can gather,” Terry responded, answering Hilda’s question, “he thinks we’re dead, or otherwise out of action, and is planning a full-blown attack on Verdure, the folks there knowing by now that he is an enemy. If he can clear them out, he’ll then release the cattle to the pastures, following out his original plan.”

  “Which means that if we wait here long enough that cavern will soon be empty above, and we can climb up and get out,” Hilda said.

  Terry thought for a moment, then he said: “I can’t see a guy like Swainson leaving no man on guard—just in case. Besides, if we wait that long, he’ll be on his way by then. Our job is to try and get to Verdure ahead of him and warn the folks to be on guard. If we could only fix it in time, Swainson and his boys could run straight into an ambush which would finish ’em.”

  “That being so,” one of the men said, “our only gamble is to risk that tunnel and see where it goes. Let’s be movin’.”

  Terry led the way in the dense gloom to the spot where the tunnel opening lay. He stepped into the gap first, helped Hilda through and then the men for whom injury made movement difficult. Protected now by the surrounding walls and roof, Terry struck one of his precious lucifers. The draught made the dim flame dance, but he saw enough to realise that quite an extensive tunnel lay ahead, apparently with breaks in the floor which might precipitate them into further depths.

  So, hanging on to each other, they began advancing—and it seemed to be an almost interminable journey. The tunnel turned corners, went up inclines, down slopes, and then straight for long periods, until it seemed it was never going to end. The only guarantee that it would lay in the draught constantly blowing along it from some point on the exterior.

  “D’you suppose we’re goin’ round in circles?” one of the men questioned after a while. “Frum what I know of these kinda passages they just network in an’ out uv the mountains and finish up where they started. Belonged once to the minin’ galleries, I guess.”

  “We’re not going in circles,” Terry assured him. “All this time I get the impression we’re not going into the mountains but away from them. And I don’t think this is one of the mine galleries either.” He paused, struck a lucifer and examined the narrow imprisoning walls.

  “No,” he repeated, when the flame died out. “Men never made this shaft: it’s a natural blow-hole from some long-gone volcanic activity. As such it acts as a ventilator to the mine. What we are doing is following a natural air-shaft which might come up just anywhere.”

  It did, nearly an hour later, so Terry judged. The draught suddenly became much fresher, and ahead of them, at the top of a long enclosed incline, they could see a rough circle of stars. It gave all of them new hope and set them hurrying forward. In a matter of moments they had emerged into the fresh night wind amidst a tangle of weeds and a carpet of sleeping primrose.

  “Some kind of gully,” Hilda said, looking about her. “At any rate we’re below the normal land level.”

  Terry nodded and hurried forward up the nearest grass bank. At the top of it he stood gazing about him. Perhaps two miles away reared the mountain range. The tunnel had evidently snaked that far from it. In the opposite direction, beyond an expanse of moonlit pasturelands, was the dim, hardly discernible huddle of buildings which denoted Verdure.

  “Looks like we’re two miles on our way to Verdure,” Terry said finally, and in obvious delight. “This blow-hole through which we’ve come is only one of dozens scattered about this rough country. Best thing we can do is strike out for Verdure and see if we can get there ahead of Swainson and his boys—’less they’ve gone already.”

  “From the peace hanging over Verdu
re it doesn’t look like it,” Hilda remarked.

  “That looks like the trail to Verdure, ’bout quarter of a mile distant,” one of the men said, holding his injured shoulder tightly. “Swainson and his boys will come along it, I guess. How’s about giving ’em something to delay ’em? A rope across the trail, f’r instance?”

  “The idea’s good but impractical,” Terry responded. “We don’t want to give him any clues as to what is coming. If he got tripped up, he’d guess we might be back of it and all surprise would be gone.”

  “Don’t see why,” the puncher argued. “It might be the folks of Verdure who fixed the rope. I guess Swainson’s sold on the notion that we’re out cold for keeps.”

  “We’re not risking it,” Terry decided flatly. “It would delay us too, an’ we can’t afford it. Let’s be on our way.”

  Since he was in charge of the proceedings, nobody argued any further and the journey under the stars began. It was hard-going, exhausted as they all were, weary from lack of sleep, bruised and battered from their fall in the shaft; but they were motivated by the one thought that here was a chance to perhaps beat Swainson at his own game—to make him eat lead when he least expected it.

  Apparently, though, the plan was not going to be so easy as that, for when the journey to Verdure had been half-completed, there came the sound of hoofbeats on the night air. The party stopped its advance and watched the trail. They said nothing and thought plenty at the sight of a fair-sized group of horsemen speeding along in the moonlight.

  “Swainson and his merry men,” Terry muttered. “No phantom stuff this time, either. Just a straight shootin’ party, I guess. Too bad; I figgered we might beat them to it.”

  “What happens now, then?” Hilda asked, as the horsemen began to slowly disappear in the direction of Verdure. “Any use going on, or might we do more by returning to the canyon cavern?”

  “We’re going straight on to Verdure,” Terry decided. “We still have the advantage of not being expected. We might be able to gum the works up for Swainson somehow.”