Ghost Canyon

by John Russell Fearn

  “Those the steers you stole, Swainson?” the big rancher demanded.

  “No idea,” Swainson murmured. “Guess they must be; no other cattle around here in such numbers. Yeah, I get it!” he broke off suddenly. “That guy who escaped—the one who hit Mrs. Carlton. He musta done this. What for, I don’t know.”

  “Seems plain enough,” the rancher snapped. “When that guy made his break for liberty you were at the gun-point; he probably figgered that if he stampeded the cattle in this direction, it’d give you a chance to get free and smash down this town as well. It’ll sure smash the town down, but it won’t do you any good.”

  Two buckboards came rumbling up, pulled by willing men instead of horses. The big rancher turned quickly.

  “No time fur a necktie party,” he said briefly. “That stampede is headed this way, and I guess we can’t turn it aside. We’ve got the sheriff, his wife, and those men to release. You boys hop to it and get it done. We’ve gotta move fast.”

  “And what about Swainson?” one of the men snapped. “We ain’t goin’ to let him get away with—”

  “Nope. We won’t hang him. Just tie him an’ his bunch to this sycamore trunk and let the cattle do the rest. I guess it’ll be good enough justice if the cattle he stole kill him off.”

  “You can’t do that!” Swainson yelled as he was seized by savage hands and bundled back against the tree. “You can’t—”

  “Aw, shut up!” one of the men snarled, and delivered a hammer-blow which knocked Swainson against the bole. Then, before he could recover his balance, he found himself fastened securely, his men around him, the ropes being carried round and round, and finally knotted.

  “That’ll fix ’em,” the rancher said, nodding. “Okay, let’s be moving. Get all the horses you can, quickly.”

  Meantime, Terry had been advised of what was coming by the men who had released him, Hilda, and their supporters. The instant he was free Terry hurtled to the door of the saloon and looked out into the main street. The big rancher and his boys were just vaulting on to their horses, and a moment later came speeding down the main street.

  “Ride like hell!” the big rancher shouted, as he came past. “I guess this whole town’ll collapse when that stampede gets here. There’s horses at the back of the livery stable.”

  Then the rancher and his mounted colleagues were on their way. Behind them, without horses, came the men and women of the town, clutching a few of their more treasured possessions, some of them carrying children, all of them moving like leaves before a wind.

  “What do we do, Terry?” Hilda asked urgently, staring at the distant dust-cloud and listening to the thunder of hundreds of hooves. “That rancher was right, you know—a stampede will bring this ramshackle dump down in splinters.”

  “You start running—to the north,” Terry said curtly, and gave a glance at Hilda and the men behind her. “I’m going to cut Swainson and his men free.”

  “Don’t be a durned fool!” one of the men objected. “He’s a low-down killer, an’ so are those with him. They deserve—”

  “I’m a sheriff with a law to fulfil,” Terry retorted. “Letting him die in a stampede, with no chance to defend himself, ain’t legal, or even Christian. Now get going. I’m cutting him loose. I’ll catch up with you later somewhere.”

  He vaulted over the boardwalk rail, dropped to the street, and began running. In a few minutes he had reached the spot where the demoralised Swainson and his men were fighting desperately to free themselves, watching at the same time the approaching herds, now no more than a mile from the town.

  “What the heck’s the idea?” Swainson demanded blankly, as Terry sawed quickly through the ropes with his knife. “You loco, Carlton? You’ve not that much love for me that you—”

  “Shut up!” Terry snapped, as the ropes fell away. “Get on the move, all of you. Run like hell. I’ll be right behind you. You’re going to get justice, Swainson, but not this way.”

  With both his guns in his hands, Terry motioned them. Unable to credit that any man could have enough decency to free his enemy, Swainson just stared amazedly for a moment, then the growing din of the stampede set him on the run, his men beside him. They raced down the main street as hard as they could go, Terry hurrying up in the rear with his guns ready.

  The boardwalks were deserted now. Everybody had moved, and was going on moving, to the north. Out there in the open space it would be possible to dodge the raging feet; right here in town it was asking for death.

  Terry looked behind him as he ran. The first of the uncontrolled beasts was already nearing the sycamore tree. So much he had time to notice; then, just as he turned frontwards again to once more cover Swainson and his men, he saw Swainson throw something. So quickly did it happen Terry had no time to act before a large-sized stone struck him violently on the forehead. He tumbled over on his face, his head exploding, half the senses knocked out of him.

  By the time the daze had gone out of his brain, Swainson and his boys were out of sight. Terry staggered on to his feet, picking up his guns and holstering them; then he swung round at the sight of the first of the steers blundering wildly toward him. Immediately he dived to one side across the street, tumbling down the narrow space between one of the buildings. Just here stood the livery stable; a few horses were still pawing the earth restlessly and straining at their reins.

  Given a few seconds respite before the full onslaught of the stampede crashed down on the town, Terry slashed through the reins of three of the horses and set them moving. The fourth and last he used for himself, leaping into the saddle and digging in on the spurs savagely.

  With a whinny, the horse got moving, leaping out of the building, then swinging right down the narrow passageway between the buildings. With seconds to spare, Terry came out in the main street again, a solid, packed mass of crazy steers immediately behind him. He rode as never before, pursued by the din of hoofs and the rumbling crash of tearing timbers and collapsing wooden boardwalks and roofs.

  He knew that in those few brief moments when he hurtled out of the town he was taking a gamble with death. If the horse stumbled, or he himself were somehow jolted from the saddle, nothing could save him going down under the murderous feet; but his luck held and he kept going, slowly widening the distance between himself and the nearmost line of cattle ploughing through the shattering town.

  At last he flashed beyond the town and hit the trail, coming almost immediately upon the struggling people who were still on the move. One of the first people he saw was Hilda. He swung down from the saddle and hurried to her.

  “Terry!” she gasped thankfully. “I was wond— What’s happened to your forehead? It’s bleeding—”

  “Swainson,” he retorted. “He threw a stone at me when I released him. I’ll get him later. Right now, we’ve got to act fast. Get a fire going!” he ordered, swinging round on the people. “Right across the trail. It’ll divert the cattle to one side. And for heaven’s sake hurry up!”

  The men in the assembly jumped to assist him as he dragged dry weeds and small bushes from the side of the trail and set fire to them hurriedly with a lucifer. Bush was piled on bush; the flames fanned by the stiff morning breeze, until a broad line of fire was right across the trail. The stampeding cattle —slowed up by the tangled debris of the town they had shattered—came into view at last, their numbers spaced out more than they had been, which made gaps in the solid wall of bone and sinew.

  Tensely waiting with their guns behind the flames, Terry and the men of the party watched what happened next. But the strategy worked. Though the line of fire was not particularly dense, it was enough to scare the cattle. They shied when they came towards it, and careered off to left and right, blundering through the grass of the pastureland and there dispersing somewhat and slowing down from sheer exhaustion.

  Just the same, Terry took no chances. He and the rest of the men kept the fire blazing furiously. It was as well they did, for dozens more cattle still came
hurtling out of the shambles that had been Verdure; and, like the cattle before them, they swung aside when the flames barred their path. Then at last the onslaught began to cease. Terry looked about him and pointed to the dozens of steers scattered around the pastures. Their panic stampede was over. Docile once more, they were grazing at the rich grass.

  “Okay, it’s over,” Terry said at length, looking about him. “And I guess Verdure’s about in ruins, from what can be seen of it here.”

  The men and women were silent for a moment. Through the trees nearby could be seen the tangled mass of broken timber beams and fallen walls which had been the town.

  “I guess Swainson achieved his object after all,” one of the men said grimly. “He got the stolen cattle into the pasture and blasted us out of house an’ home.”

  “And made good his escape!” It was the big rancher who spoke, as he came riding up from the rear of the crowd. “I hope yore satisfied, Sheriff! You released him and got a stone at your head fur your generosity. Some guys are suckers!”

  “At least he gets no benefit from the cattle,” Hilda said. “He has made himself into an outlaw.”

  “But not for long,” Terry said, taking out his guns and examining them. “I’ve an account to settle with Swainson. I’m going after him. The rest of you folks get back to Verdure and do what you can to rebuild the ruins. Some of you had better get these cattle straightened out, too. Fortunately, they’ve been released before the brands could be changed, so they can be returned to their owners.”

  Terry slipped the guns back in their holsters and turned to his horse. He paused as Hilda caught his arm.

  “Since Swainson has made himself an outlaw, Terry, can’t you leave it that way?” she pleaded. “He’ll never dare to come back to Verdure. He’ll just have to keep going on and on, with those men of his.”

  “I’ve got my job to do, Hil; I mean to finish it.” Terry patted her arm gently. “You go back with the folks and try and salvage what you can of our home. And soon as you can, get some rest and attention for that mouth of yours. It’s badly knocked about.”

  “I’ll get over it.” Hilda brushed the issue aside lightly. “It’s you I’m worrying over, Terry. Chasing after Swainson is too much like committing suicide. Besides, you have no idea where he is.”

  “I’ll pick his trail up. He can’t have gone far, he had no horse, remember. None of us have moved beyond this point, so whatever footprints there are should belong to him and his boys.” Terry kissed Hilda’s cheek gently and then swung in the saddle. “That’s the way it has to be, Hil. I’ll be seeing you.”

  He nudged the horse forward and left the group. In a moment or two, he was alone on the trail, watching the white dust intently. There were no prints, however. Evidently Swainson had been smart enough to think of that and had escaped through the grassland where no trail could show.

  So Terry kept his attention first on one side of the dusty track and then on the other, but he failed to see anything beyond the pastures drenched in the sunlight. There was no sudden brief glimpse of men moving, no stray shots. Then it occurred to him there couldn’t be any shooting, anyway. Swainson had gone without his gun, unless he had wrested one from somebody in his travels.

  Half an hour later Terry was no nearer sighting his quarry. He drew to a halt on a rise in the trail and peered around him. To look for Swainson without a track was pretty much of a fool’s game. He had only got to stay lying low to get away with it. Here in this limitless waste there could not be a greater advantage on his side.

  As he sat and thought it out, ideas came to Terry. Swainson might hide indefinitely, but he couldn’t do it without food. In Verdure he wouldn’t stand a chance if he tried to get any, but at the mountain retreat there was all the food he needed. Sooner or later he would probably go there, or one of his men would. And having no horse, it would take a fair time to do it.

  Terry nodded to himself, spurred his horse again, then headed for the mountains as fast as he could go. Before long, he reached the foothills, and from here went on to the nearby entrance of Star Canyon. Exactly as he had hoped—and expected—the hole in the canyon floor was open. He dismounted some distance from it, tied his horse to a shrub, then—remembering that he could be observed through peepholes in the rocks—he made a cautious advance forward.

  Nothing happened. He reached the hole without getting a bullet in him. Taking a risk, he slid over the edge of the cavity and prepared to drop; then he changed his mind, as at the opposite end of it he saw a long wooden ramp was in position, a contrivance of rutted boards, up which the cattle presumably been driven before descending upon Verdure. He had wondered how the cattle had been stampeded from the underground cavern.

  There was a quietness about everything which Terry found uncomfortable. It was hard to understand why everything was left open—too much like an invitation to walk to death. Nonetheless, he began moving cautiously down the slope the depths, both his guns ready, and still nothing happened.

  When he reached the base of the shaft, he understood. There was a sight which made him wince a trifle. Caught in the massive balancing stones which operated the levitating platform was the gunman who had escaped from Hilda: knocking her out. Terry recognised him in the dim light. He was not dead, but one leg and arm were tightly imprisoned and blood was smearing the stonework.

  “Fur heaven’s sake,” he whispered, half-conscious but aware somebody was there, “git me outa this.”

  “Do what I can,” Terry assured him, and moved to where the man was trapped. But it only took him a few moments to realise there was nothing he could do. The big top stone which controlled the stone bar operating the platform had slipped out of place, and obviously the gunman had not moved out of the way fast enough.

  “Hurry up,” the man whispered, his face wet with sweat. “I can’t stand no more of this. Me arm an’ leg are crushed

  “There are two answers,” Terry told him. “Either I cut you free, which amounts to amputation without any guarantee you won’t die from loss of blood, or I put a bullet in you. You’re fixed here, but good.”

  The trapped man groaned a little and closed his eyes. Terry waited, his guns ready.

  “What happened, anyway?” he asked, after a moment.

  “I—I shoved too hard on the balance rock.” The man opened his eyes again. “That’s how yuh—yuh operate the platform thing from inside. Guess it’s jammed fur good now, with me in it. I’d let all the cattle free and wus going to close the hole when it happened. I’ve been stuck here since.”

  “What was the idea of freeing the cattle, anyway? I thought you were on the side of Swainson.”

  “I was till recently then he kicked me around for somethin’ I sed which he didn’t like. I figgered I’d get even first chance could. This was it—to turn his blasted cattle loose—an’ mebbe wreck Verdure, too. The folks of Verdure were on the prod fur me, just as much as fur Swainson. I took care of the two guys who wus in the cavern back yonder on guard, then—then I did me stuff. I guess I didn’t expect ter end up like this.”

  “Would you be the guy who’s been in charge of the Aztec pillar outside?” Terry demanded. “The one who let the four horsemen in here after their night’s work had been done?”

  “Yeah, sure thing. Fur heaven’s sake,” the man broke off, with half a scream, “ain’t there somethin’ you can do—?”

  “I guess so,” Terry responded, and he fired once—straight to the heart. With a sobbing gasp, the trapped man relaxed, still held by his grisly arm and leg.

  For several moments Terry was motionless. It had not been easy to kill the man, but it had been the only merciful course. Death would have come anyway before long—much more lingering. He turned and looked at the jammed stonework, then he moved over to the wooden ramp and examined it. It had been made of timber lengths, apparently, with struts hammered on to one side to give support to the feet of the cattle. At one end of it—the end which touched the canyon floor above—were quadru
ple ropes slung over the pulleys and operated by a hand-winch. To raise the ramp to the desired angle was therefore a simple matter. Evidently the cattle had been brought in by this method—just as they had been allowed to escape.

  Then Terry’s thoughts drifted back to Swainson. Sooner or later he ought to arrive, or somebody who could say, under persuasion, where he was hiding. So Terry withdrew into the shadow at the furthest extremity of the ramp and waited for something to happen. Evidently he would have things his own way down here, since the guards had already been rubbed out. He relaxed but remained attentive, his eyes on the opening above. Then, suddenly, an annoying thought occurred to him. He had left his horse a little further down the canyon. If Swainson saw that, as inevitably he would, he would be instantly prepared for trouble. The realisation of this was no sooner in Terry’s mind than he was speeding up the ramp and back into the daylight.

  A quick look around him revealed the canyon still empty. His horse was where he had left it, fastened to the bush some yards away. He headed towards it, but before he could reach it something whistled through the air above him and fell about his neck. Too late, he realised it was a noose. He was flung from his feet, his guns jerked from his hands. By the time he had torn the choking rope from his throat he was staring not only at Swainson, now with both the fallen guns in hands, but at his unarmed men behind him.

  “I was just thinkin’ I’d have to come after you, Carlton,” Swainson commented grinning’ in triumph. “I knew you were down there ’cos of your horse. Nice of you to come up and be so obliging. The rope was the one they fastened me and my boys to the sycamore with—the one you cut apart. I figgered we might use it later. I was right. Okay, you can come up. I don’t aim to kill you just yet.”

  “Big of you,” Terry growled. “What’s the idea of reprieve?”