Ghost Canyon

by John Russell Fearn

  So he went on doggedly, helping Hilda beside him, the men coming up in the rear. With no horses, and rough ground, it was a tough trip; and presently, evidently when Swainson his boys had reached the town, there came the sound of gunfire. Not long after it were flames, leaping from the town at the northernmost point.

  “Looks like he’s doing it properly,” one of the men beside Terry said, striding on. “Last time he helped to quell fire, this time he helps to start it. Shows he knows how he rates with the folks in Verdure, anyway.”

  Terry nodded but did not speak. He was trying to think out some kind of strategy for when he reached the town; and by the time the trip was over, he’d more or less figured it out.

  “Feel up to fighting a bit longer?” he demanded, looking at the weary faces in the reflected glare from the burning town.

  “Sure thing,” one of the men said, and the others, Hilda included, nodded stubbornly.

  “Going to be tough without guns, though,” one of them commented, and watched the confusion amidst the smoke of the High Street, where apparently a crossfire of revolver shots was taking place.

  “No reason why we should be without guns for long,” Terry replied. “We’ve each got the lariats we were bound with. We can use them as strangle-nooses to drag down the horsemen that we know are the enemy. Altogether, we reckoned about a dozen or more men, including Swainson. What we want to do is capture the lot of them, if we can, and get them in a bunch—trussed and helpless. Once that’s done, the battle’s over. Only way to do that is to take advantage of the confusion and drag each man down where we can. We’ll make the Black Coyote the dumping ground for them, and that’s where we’ll meet when we’ve finished, granting it isn’t burned down by then. You’d better stick beside me, Hil; I guess roping gunmen isn’t your job.”

  “I’m going to do my bit just the same,” she said decisively, uncoiling the rope from about her waist. “Let’s go before the job gets too difficult.”

  Terry nodded, motioned to his men, and with nooses in their hands they scattered, entering the smoke-filled main street and using the billowing black clouds as cover.

  It became obvious to Terry and the girl as they neared the main centre of swirling horsemen that the fire was not so serious as they had imagined. As yet, only a couple of disused buildings on the edge of the town were alight—perhaps intended as a warning of worse to come if the people of Verdure did not give in—or get out. From the look of things, though, they had no intention of moving. They were sniping viciously from the windows of their homes, or round the doors of the general stores, the livery stable, and the stage halt. They were in every conceivable place which afforded shelter, spitting their lead into Swainson and his men as, using the smoke for cover, they fired relentlessly from the main street.

  Dodging along the boardwalk at the point furthest from the fire, Terry glided along until he reached a position where a broad upright pillar afforded him good concealment. He held his rope already noosed, watching the swirling activity in front of him. How the rest of his men were going on he had no idea; up to now, there did not seem to be any diminution in the numbers in Swainson’s gang.

  Then one horseman came close by the boardwalk, intently aiming his gun at a lower window on the opposite side of the street. Terry’s noose whirled out, settled dead over the man’s head, and tightened around his neck. With a gasping cry, he was jerked out of his saddle as his horse shied, and came crashing into the dust. Instantly, Terry vaulted over the boardwalk rail, whipped up the man’s fallen gun, then kicked the other one out of his left hand.

  “Get up,” Terry ordered, a gun in each of his hands. “Get on the boardwalk.” The man gave a start as in the flickering glare he recognised Terry, but he had sense enough not to shout out his discovery to his comrades. Tugging the strangling noose from throat, he went up to the boardwalk, then came to a halt at Terry’s command.

  “Tie his hands behind him, Hil,” he ordered, and she wasted no time obeying, using her own cord to do it.

  Satisfied, Terry returned to the street, picked up the discarded rope the puncher had dropped, and re-noosed it. He waited, darting a glance now and again to the boardwalk to be sure the man he’d captured wasn’t up to any funny business. Apparently he was not. He stood by the boardwalk rail, Hilda beside him.

  Terry grinned as he saw two more horsemen suddenly jerked from their saddles by his comrades; then his grin vanished as, unexpectedly, Swainson himself came riding through the smoke. He had split seconds to get over his surprise at seeing Terry painted in the flames of the nearby building, then his gun jerked up to fire. Terry had the noose in one hand, and a gun in the other. He fired at random because there wasn’t time to aim. The shot missed Swainson entirely and instead struck his horse. The animal reared in pain, sending Swainson’s shot wide of the mark.

  Before he could recover position, Terry’s noose flashed through the air and landed neatly over Swainson’s gun-wrist. A violent tug pitched him from the saddle of his already collapsing horse. He came down in the dirt and struggled up again, to find Terry standing over him, both his hands full.

  “Call off this gun-fight, Swainson,” Terry ordered. “If you don’t, I’ll kill you right now where you are. I’m not pulling my punches any longer.”

  “How in hell did you—” Swainson started to say blankly, then he jumped as a bullet spat dirt at his feet.

  “Call it off!” Terry repeated fiercely, and he took the scowling Swainson’s guns away from him.

  Furious, and obviously baffled, Swainson got on his feet. He looked at the surging mob of men, then back to Terry.

  “Fire in the air three times,” he said sullenly. “That’s the prearranged ‘Cease Fire’ signal.”

  Terry obliged, choosing a spell when the racket of crossfire had silenced for a moment. The effect was immediate. The gunmen in the street swung round, saw Swainson amidst the smoke, and did not immediately grasp the significance of the situation at seeing Terry beside him. They did when they found Terry’s guns pointing at them. Nor was he alone. His own men, most of them armed by now, came following behind, ready for action.

  In all, there were perhaps a dozen horsemen. Terry eyed them narrowly in the slowly dying glare of the nearby fire. “Set-up’s the same as before,” he said curtly. “One wrong move out of any of you guys, and Swainson gets it with both barrels. Boys, take their guns, then tell the rest of the folks to come out into the open and kill that fire for good before it spreads.”

  It took perhaps five minutes to follow out both orders. Swainson still remained standing, hands slightly raised, one wrist with the cord still dangling from it. Upon the boardwalk Hilda remained beside the man she had bound. The men on horseback, their guns gone, were pulled presently from their saddles by the people who came surging out from the boardwalks. There were men and women in all types of attire, most of them armed with guns or rifles, some even with knives.

  “Looks like we’ve had a successful night in the finish, folks,” Terry said, glancing about him. “Swainson figgered he’d got rid of me and my wife and the boys here, but he figgered wrong. And I’m naming him as a killer, fire-raiser, and cattle-thief. I’ve all the evidence I need and all the witnesses.”

  “String the guy up!” a woman yelled furiously. “He aimed ter set fire to Verdure t’night an’ kill them as didn’t leave.”

  “No stringing up,” Terry answered quietly. “Not whilst I’m the sheriff. He and his boys are going to the nearest authorities for them to deal with him. I couldn’t put him on trial here—none of you would be impartial as a jury—so it’s up to outsiders, with all evidence laid before them. I’ve got that, and these boys of mine are witnesses to certain statements Swainson made earlier on.”

  There was a dissenting murmur, but nothing more. Terry, as the sheriff, had absolute authority in the matter of law.

  “Tie this bunch up,” he ordered, “and then cart them to the Black Coyote. We can stand guard over them there till we get s
ome men over from Tucson to deal with ’em.”

  The people began stirring and moving, on their way to find rope with which to get the job done. Terry still remained where he was, his men beside him, pinpointing Swainson and his cohorts. Then, at a sudden cry of pain from Hilda, Terry could not help but glance in her direction. He saw her turning a somersault over the boardwalk rail, apparently from a smashing blow in the face. She crashed into the dust and remained still. At the same instant, the man she had been guarding was running for it down the boardwalk, his hands free.

  Terry swung his gun round to fire, only to find himself knocked off his feet by the crashing fist of Swainson. For a second or two there was wild confusion, an exchange of shots, and then Terry found himself being helped up by one of his men.

  “What the devil—?” Terry shook his head dazedly and fingered his gun.

  “Okay, they didn’t get away with it,” the man beside him murmured. “Things just went haywire for a minnit—but the guy who slammed your wife around got clear, I guess. Not that one matters.”

  His confusion vanishing, Terry hurried over to where Hilda was lying. He raised her head and shoulders gently, then put his kerchief to the blood trickling from her split lower lip. She stirred in his grasp and opened her eyes.

  “Bad, kid?” Terry murmured gently.

  “If it is, it serves me right,” she answered, struggling to an upright position. “Teach me to tie better knots next time. I evidently didn’t tie up that gunman tightly enough. Suddenly I realised his hands were free, and he landed me a haymaker, and that was that.”

  Terry helped her on to her feet. “I’ll be all right,” said, holding a handkerchief to her mouth. “What else happened? Did the diversion give Swainson a chance?”

  “Fortunately, no—thanks to the boys on our side. As to that mug who got away, he can be found later. An odd man doesn’t make much difference, except that I owe him something!” Terry’s eyes glittered dangerously.

  Still with his arm about Hilda’s shoulders, Terry returned to his waiting, watchful men, and the gathered Verdure citizens.

  “Got ’em tied up yet?” he asked.

  “Sure thing. Sheriff—all ’cept Swainson here. Didn’t know if you wanted him hogtied or not.”

  “Just his hands. I don’t trust ’em loose.”

  So Swainson found his wrists secured behind him. He stood smiling bitterly, until Terry swung him round abruptly and pointed to the dark bulk of the Black Coyote in the approaching dawn.

  “Get walking, Swainson, to your own joint. And the rest of you follow him. In line!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  By the time Swainson, his men, Terry, Hilda, and the rest of the men and women had piled into the oil-lighted main bar-room of the Black Coyote, there was little room for movement—so much so that Terry looked about him in exasperation.

  “What’s the matter, folks?” he demanded. “Can’t you trust me and my boys to look after these critters until we get the law officers to ’em?”

  “Sure thing,” a man said from the midst of the assembly, “but I still say we’ve more to do with it than any law officer. What in heck do they know about it in Tucson? Just because that’s the nearest fair-sized place operatin’ law and order, it don’t say they should steal our prize.”

  “What prize?” Terry looked mystified.

  “Swainson and these dirty owl-hooters who work with him. I say that the only fair trial there can be is by them who’s been attacked—and that’s us. In this room! An’ everybody with me, I reckon.”

  “Sure thing!”

  “You sed it, fella!”

  And those who did not agree in actual words began nodding their heads vehemently. Terry looked about him with a grim face.

  “Look, folks, get this straight,” he said deliberately. “You elected me as sheriff to administer the law properly, and that what’s got to be done. All you want for Swainson and his boys is a necktie party, but I’m not permitting it. The crimes Swainson has committed—particularly in the case of cattle stealing—don’t belong entirely to this territory; they cover the whole of Arizona and beyond it, so the next authority to deal with it is Tucson. I’m going to hand them the evidence I’ve got, and they can take it from there on. Now I want a volunteer to ride to Tucson and give ’em the facts.”

  There was silence for a moment, somehow menacing, then the man who had stayed at Terry’s side most of the time gave a brisk nod.

  “I’ll do it, Sheriff. I guess I’m your unofficial deputy, so I can go to it—providin’ I don’t fall asleep on the way.”

  “Go at sun-up,” Terry said. “That’s in about another hour. Get some sleep until then, then be off. Meantime, I’ll stay here with the rest of the folks and keep guard.”

  The man nodded and made to move through the assembly, but his way was barred. He tried once or twice and then gave it up, casting a grim look at Terry. He looked the people over steadily.

  “Not giving me much help, are you?” he asked quietly.

  “Ain’t that, Sheriff. We appreciate what yuh’ve done, but we don’t figger Swainson and his dirty rabble should go free. An’ that’s what they will do if the authorities get ’em. It only needs a shyster lawyer to fix things so’s Swainson can walk out innocent. We know what he’s done, the terror he’s caused, the fires he’s tried to start, the people he’s killed. We’re going to take him out to yonder sycamore at the end of the main street and hang him, same as they did afore all this bunk about justice took the sense outa livin’.”

  Terry looked at the man who had been speaking. He was a burly rancher, middle-aged, one who had obviously fought every inch of the way from babyhood.

  “Can’t allow, it, fella,” Terry said. “I guess you—”

  “Yore gain’ to allow it,” the rancher interrupted, his gun leaping into his hand. “Sorry, Sheriff, we’ve got our own ideas. Drop your guns. Bill, tie him up till we’ve finished with Swainson. An’ get some rope on the girl an’ those other men, too.”

  There was nothing Terry could do. He was forced to drop his hardware to the floor, and he stood passive but furious as ropes were passed about his wrists. In silence, he watched Hilda—her mouth cruelly bruised from the blow she had received—similarly treated. Then came the rest of his men. This done, the big rancher who had given the order gave a nod of satisfaction.

  “No hard feelings, Sheriff,” he said, shrugging. “Mebbe you just don’t know the way we like things around here.”

  “It’ll do you no good,” Terry said bitterly. “If you hang Swainson without a properly constituted trial, you and those who give you help can be accused of murder.”

  The rancher grinned. “Sure, but I reckon you ain’t the kind of guy to try and pin that on us, Sheriff, when we’ve rid the territory of a no-account rat. Okay,” he added, snapping his fingers. “Bring him along and those other critters who’ve been working for him.”

  Swainson’s expression changed. His thin face was sweating; there was plain terror in his dark eyes. He knew full well that at the hands of the vengeful townsfolk he stood no chance. With Terry there had always been the possibility that justice might have given him a loophole.

  “Carlton, there’s got to be some way!” he panted, as he was seized firmly. “I’m entitled to stand on my constitutional rights and—”

  “Only thing you’ll stand on, fella, ’ll be buckboard—till it’s driven from under yuh and there’s a noose round your neck,” the big rancher snapped. “Stop talkin’ so much and get on the move. Go on—git!” and he aimed a savage kick that set Swainson walking forward uncertainly, held on either side by a powerful cowpuncher.

  Standing bound, unable to move hand or foot, there was nothing Terry, Hilda, or the boys could do but watch. Gradually, Swainson and his men were manhandled out of the saloon, their cohorts being shoved along behind them, until at last the big room was empty, the dawn light creeping through the open door,

  Outside in the main street, Swainson was bund
led along unmercifully, shouting protests as he went. The real cowardice of the man was more than apparent now he believed his last moments had come. By the time he had reached the big sycamore tree at the end of the street, he was babbling promises, offering money, willing to sell every possession he had in return for his life.

  “Yore wastin’ your time, Swainson,” the big rancher told him deliberately. “We’ve decided yuh’ll hang, and that’s all there is to it. So will these other guys along with yuh.”

  The gunmen who had stood beside Swainson in all his murderous deals said nothing. When it came to it, they had more rugged courage than the man who had directed them.

  “Get a coupla buckboards from some place,” the big rancher ordered, glancing at the men and women around him. “And some long lengths of rope. Haven’t enough here to hang these critters.”

  Swainson gave up talking. He knew it was no use any more. He stood breathing hard, perspiration glistening on his face in the light of the rising sun. The outraged people of Verdure looked at him without mercy, then gradually first one and then another looked beyond him to the rolling pasturelands that stretched out towards the mountains.

  There were sounds on the clear morning air—rumbling, distant sounds as yet, like an approaching thunderstorm or an avalanche in the mountains. Presently the rancher caught the noise, too, and he frowned as he gazed across the sunlit spaces.

  “What in tarnation is that row?” he demanded. “Sounds like an earthquake someplace—

  A woman cut him short. She was pointing urgently into the distance, the first rays of the sun sweeping across it and dispersing the haze and mist.

  “Cattle!” she gasped. “Hundreds of steers. For land’s sakes, look at ’em! Must be some kind uv a stampede.”

  Swainson turned to look as well. He did not know whether to feel relieved or more frightened than ever. From amidst the huge cloud of dust hovering over the pasturelands steers became plainly visible, travelling rapidly in the direction of Verdure, uncontrolled, in the midst of a mad rampage, enjoying nothing but the freedom of unconfined spaces.