“Lavinia,” frowned Theodore, “you owe Mr. Valentine an apology.”
But Lavinia wasn’t listening, and Larry wasn’t waiting for apologies.
“As soon as Miss Elmira rouses,” he told them, “we’ll be movin’ on.”
“You checked that map of yours, Larry?” asked Tom. “The map,” Larry grimly announced, “won’t be any use to us unless we can find our way back to the stage-route. Old Henry wasn’t countin’ on us runnin’ into a sandstorm.”
Elmira was conscious again, and weeping. Larry grimaced in disgust, and told Stretch to:
“Give everybody a couple mouthfuls.”
Stretch toted a canteen to the women, waited for them to drink their ration, then passed it to the stage-crew. The Texans were the last to drink. After Theodore had gulped his portion, Stretch took a short swig and passed the canteen to Larry, who followed his example. The canteen was restored to Larry’s saddle. He rose up and, for some minutes, carefully checked the condition of the horses.
Bart Darrance, who considered himself an expert, offered an opinion.
“Couple good animals you have there, Larry. They’ll last the distance.”
“If we treat ’em right,” nodded Larry. “If we use ’em careful and don’t overwork ’em.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” said Bart. “And now what?”
“And now we move on,” said Larry. “We can take a bearin’ from the sun and keep pushin’ east—unless anybody has any better ideas.”
“We’re in your hands, Mr. Valentine,” muttered Theodore. “I speak for my family, when I offer my heartfelt thanks for all you’ve done for us.”
“Thank me,” Larry soberly suggested, “when we’re well and truly clear of this doggone desert.”
“On your feet, folks,” ginned Stretch. “Here we go again.”
“You—and you.” Larry nodded to Elmira and Harriet. “Get mounted. Your turn in the saddle. After a couple miles, you change places with Miss Sarah Ann and your pappy.”
“I don’t mind walking,” muttered Theodore.
“You’re no youngster, mister,” countered Larry. He stared challengingly at Lavinia and the elder girls. “That’s somethin’ I ain’t forgettin’.”
This time, the Texans led off together, trudging shoulder to shoulder. Theodore and Sarah Ann tagged behind them, followed by Lavinia and Bart* then the horses toting Elmira and Harriet, with Tom Shackley bringing up the rear.
Stretch rolled and lit a cigarette one-handed and, for the first time, offered his opinion of the Newbolds.
“This’d be a real friendly family, but for the big mare. Ain’t she the orneriest?”
“Ornery,” shrugged Larry, “and mean—and not too damn bright.”
“Makes you feel kinda sorry for the old feller, huh?” Stretch suggested.
“Not much of old Theodore,” mused Larry, “but he hangs onto his nerve. I’ll say that for him.”
“That little Miss Sarah Ann now.” Stretch became enthusiastic. “She’s got more sand than all them other females put together. And purty, too. Yes, siree, runt, that’s the kinda gal I admire.”
“Well,” said Larry, “don’t tell her so—else you’ll scare her half to death.”
“Women ain’t never afeared of me,” Stretch virtuously protested. “They trust me, on accounta I’m such a handsome Texan.”
“You’re handsome,” jibed Larry. “Like the rear part of a flea-bit Missouri mule, you’re handsome.”
“Jealous is what you are,” shrugged Stretch.
“Have it your way,” grinned Larry.
They trudged a quarter-mile in silence, always questing for the stage-route, but failing to find it.
“Same old story,” Stretch reflected. “Funny, the way it keeps happenin’ to us. Every place we travel, we run into folks that needs a helpin’ hand. Even in a consarned desert, we find trouble and grief and strife.” He squinted towards the horizon. “Uh—runt—I just thought of somethin’.”
“You’re late,” growled Larry. “I thought of it ’way back when we quit the hollow.”
“Them six jailbirds?”
“Yep. Them six jailbirds.”
“If we got lost in that storm ...”
“Uh-huh. Maybe they got lost, too, and now they’re driftin’ just like us.”
“We could maybe run into ’em. You ever think of that?”
“Thinkin’ of it all the time. But let’s not tell the others. They’ll be stiff-scared, if they guess there’s any chance they’ll see the Elrigg bunch again.”
“Bad medicine, this Elrigg,” Stretch sourly opined. “What kind of a skunk would rob a passel of women in the middle of a desert, take all their food and water and leave ’em to die?”
Larry was ready with a grim answer.
“A skunk like Elrigg—and the five hombres that ride with him.”
The wind continued to drop, as they travelled the sand-dunes, the flat areas and dried-out arroyos, in a futile search for the stage-route. Their plodding feet made prints that were almost immediately erased, lending an air of unreality to the situation.
At a quarter of four, by Tom Shackley’s timepiece, they were still trudging, thirsty, hungry and weary. They had failed to relocate the regular trail, or any of the waterholes indicated on Henry Sheldon’s map, and Larry was beginning to wonder how long they could survive, but keeping his thoughts to himself. And then, quite suddenly:
“We’re on a trail again,” declared Bart. “Not the stage-route—but a trail.”
Larry dropped his eyes to the ground. It was a trail, he decided. Barely discernible and showing no wheel-ruts nor hoofmarks, but, as Bart so emphatically asserted, a trail, a route of some kind. To where? They followed it for a mile, and, at intervals, it seemed to disappear completely, to become part of the flat, monotonous terrain all around them. “What d’you make of it, runt?” Stretch demanded.
“It ain’t the stage-route,” asserted Tom. “I know every foot of the regular trail. This here’s strange territory to me.”
“An old trail, I guess,” shrugged Larry. “Scarce a trail at all.”
Ten minutes later, with their pulses quickening, they came upon a rotted plank staked into the hard ground. A signpost? No. A warning. The inscription painted onto the plank was undoubtedly intended as a warning, a discouragement, but the bad spelling defeated the writer’s purpose, introducing a note of humor, probably unintended. Under a rough sketch of a human skull had been printed the four curt words:
“FLEA WILE YOU CAN!”
Stretch slapped his thigh, slid an arm about Larry’s shoulders and began chuckling. Tom grinned uneasily. Sarah Ann showed Bart a hesitant smile. The other women fired questions at Larry. What did it mean? Who could have left this sign for them to find?
“A practical joke,” opined Lavinia. “A cruel, stupid jest.”
“What d’you say, runt?” challenged Stretch. “Do we turn back, or do we push on a ways?”
“Inside another hour,” said Larry, “it’ll be sundown. No use turnin’ back. We have to find shelter, a place to hole up for the night.”
At his command, they continued their advance. The trail showed clearer now, winding towards and past a litter of lava rock and dry logs—beyond which they came upon the second warning sign. The same death’s head. The same childish spelling.
“NUTTHIN’ BUT DETH IN FORTUNA!”
“Whoever he is,” growled Bart, “he’s doing his damnedest to scare us off.”
Tom, who was nervously caressing his rabbit’s foot, mumbled a suggestion.
“Let’s turn back.”
“Why?” challenged Larry.
“Well—uh—ain’t it plain enough?” asked Tom. “We’ve been warned off. You buck a warnin’, you gotta take the consequences—and I’m a hombre that don’t admire to take consequences.”
“These signs,” said Larry, “were likely rigged by some lame-brained old desert-rat, some lone-wolf prospector that holed up
in Fortuna and got tetched by the sun.”
“But you can’t be sure,” protested Elmira. “You’re only guessing.”
“Just what is Fortuna?” Sarah Ann wanted to know. “Same jasper that gave us a map,” said Larry, “told us about Fortuna. A ghost town:”
“A—what ...?” gasped Lavinia.
“I’ve heard the term before,” frowned Theodore, “but I must confess I don’t fully understand its significance.”
“When a town is deserted,” Bart patiently explained, “when there’s nothing left but the old buildings and the dust and the tumbleweeds, it gets to be what we call a ghost town.”
“Well, damn it all!” exploded Tom. “I don’t crave to tangle with no ghosts!”
“We’re goin’ on to Fortuna,” announced Larry, in a tone that invited no argument. “I’m bettin’ some of those old shacks are still standin’, which means we’ll find shelter. What’s more, we might find an old well, a pump that still works. Our water won’t hold out much longer.”
“It’ll be haunted,” fretted Tom. “It’s just bound to be haunted ...!”
“Land sakes,” frowned Sarah Ann, “let’s be grateful for small mercies. If we spend this night under a roof, we should think ourselves lucky.”
“That’s smart thinking, Miss Sarah Ann,” approved Bart.
“Bart,” prodded Larry, “how’s the arm?”
“It doesn’t ache so bad,” shrugged Bart. “I’ll heal.”
“Couldn’t we keep lookin’ for a waterhole—I mean someplace else?” begged Tom. “I don’t hanker to visit no haunted ghost town.”
“I think Larry pegged it right,” said Bart. “The only ghost in Fortuna is probably alive and spry—some addle-brained old prospector that doesn’t crave company.”
“Why, sure,” nodded Stretch. “These signs are supposed to faze us.”
“All right, folks,” grinned Larry. “We’re movin’ on.” They advanced another three hundred yards. In the distance, Fortuna gradually took shape, a cluster of shacks and lean-to’s at its near edge with, beyond, a broad, tumbleweed-littered division between two rows of false-fronted buildings. To the oncoming travelers, it looked grim and forbidding, a dubious haven in the arid wilderness. But Larry’s agile imagination was never dormant. He could picture in his mind’s eye the old Fortuna, alive and bustling, noisy, rowdy, with the get-rich-quick prospectors trudging its boardwalks, rubbing shoulders with the merchants and tinhorns, and tinny piano music mingling with the other sounds in the crowded saloons, the clinking of bottles on glasses, the hoarse laughter of the diggers.
At the very edge of the ghost town, they paused to read the third and last warning. It was brief and to the point.
“SAY YORE PRAIRZE!”
Stretch chuckled again. Larry nodded knowingly, and remarked, “It’s like he’s sayin’ ‘I told you so. All right—you asked for it’.”
“Well ...” Bart gestured impatiently, “what’re we waiting for?”
Larry nodded to Sarah Ann and her father, who slowly dismounted from the sorrel and the pinto. Then, unhurriedly, he trudged on towards the beginning of the main street, with Stretch at his heels and the others strung out behind. Bart and Tom had taken charge of the horses. Theodore moved along with his womenfolk, trying to position himself in front of his assertive spouse, who insisted on taking the lead.
They were drawing level with the first shacks, when the two sounds smote their ears with chilling clarity. First, the strident, maniacal laughter. Then, from somewhere ahead, the sharp barking of a rifle. A bullet kicked up the dust bare inches from the hem of Lavinia’s gown and threw the women into disorder. To the accompaniment of shrill screams and startled protests, Lavinia and her brood whirled and dashed for the nearest cover, a shack some twenty-five yards to their right, with Theodore in hot pursuit.
Bart and Tom hustled the horses to their left. Larry went to ground, jerked his six-gun and sent a .45 slug whining in the general direction of Main Street, to prove he had arrived armed. Stretch darted across to slide his Winchester from the pinto’s saddle-scabbard, and the invisible marksman fired again. The taller Texan cursed luridly, as the well-aimed bullet lifted his Stetson.
This time, Larry spotted the puff of gunsmoke halfway along the main stem. He saw no figure—only the gunsmoke, wafting out of a side alley. Grim-faced, he raised himself on his elbows, cupped the barrel of his Colt in his left hand and triggered twice. He had the satisfaction of seeing his bullets gouging chunks from the corner of the building, before the raucous laughter again shattered the twilight air.
Then, to his right, he heard the crashing sounds and the startled cries of the Newbold women.
Chapter Five
Introduction to Fortuna
Elmira and Harriet had hustled into that tiny shack and their bulky mother was close behind, with Theodore and Sarah Ann tagging her, when the mishap occurred. Lavinia stumbled and lurched against the front wall, with spectacular results. That wall promptly collapsed inward. The other walls, plus the plank roof, followed suit, presenting Sarah Ann and the elder Newbolds with the harrowing sight of the elder girls floundering in a confusion of loose timbers.
Fortunately, the boards were rotted and thin, so that neither Elmira nor her sister suffered serious injury. Lavinia wrung her hands and screamed for her husband to come to the rescue. Bart and Tom abandoned the horses and advanced at the double, with the strident laughter of the “ghost” still assailing their ears.
Hefting his Winchester, Stretch fell in beside Larry, who had leapt to his feet and was running towards the alley-mouth. The laughter ceased abruptly and, when they turned the corner, they found the alley deserted. There wasn’t as much as one footprint in the sandy ground, and Stretch nervously commented, “Nary a track of him. Hell! Maybe he is some kind of a spook!”
“Hogwash,” growled Larry. “Watch your own tracks. The storm’s over, but there’s still plenty wind. Tracks blow out a couple seconds after you make ’em.”
“Well,” frowned Stretch, “where in tarnation d’you suppose he’s hid?”
“We could waste a heap of time trying to find him,” opined Larry. “Best we get back to the others, check every house and find a place where we can bunk tonight.”
“The way he laughs at us …” Stretch grimaced uneasily.
“Don’t let it fret you,” advised Larry. “He knows we’re armed. It’s my hunch he’ll stay clear of us from now on.”
“I sure hope so,” said Stretch.
“I hope so, too,” frowned Larry. “Not because he scares me, but for the women’s sake. One frightened female is a blame nuisance. Four of ’em are more than I can handle. C’mon.”
They retraced their steps along the street to the heap of rotted timbers from which Bart and Tom were extricating the distraught Elmira and Harriet. Lavinia stood by, barking orders, while her frowning husband rummaged in the wreckage. As the Texans arrived:
“No nails,” Theodore observed.
“How’s that again?” challenged Tom.
“No nails,” said Theodore. To Larry, he explained, “This wasn’t a regular structure. It was meant to collapse. You’ve seen a box fashioned from playing cards. Well, this box was built on that same principle. Nothing was secured. A strong gust of wind could demolish it, so—naturally—when Lavinia fell against the wall, it gave way and collapsed. In fact, I’d say it was erected only a short time before our arrival.”
“We might have been killed!” wailed Elmira.
“This shack was rigged to fall apart,” mused Bart, “just like Mr. Newbold says.”
“Uh-huh,” grunted Larry. “Our ghost is just full of tricks.”
“You figure he’s tryin’ to scare us off?” fretted Tom. “Doin’ his damnedest,” nodded Larry.
“All right,” said Tom. “I’ve had enough. I say we oughta cut and run. Them first shots were only a warnin’. Next time, he’ll likely shoot to kill.”
“This terrible place ...!” blubbere
d Harriet.
“Let up on that wailin’,” Larry gruffly ordered, “and get one thing straight. We ain’t quittin’. We’ve found shelter, and we’re stayin’.”
“For how long?” prodded Theodore.
“Overnight at least,” said Larry. “We’ve used up most of our water and provisions, and you can bet we couldn’t travel far in darkness—with our bellies empty.” He nodded to Stretch. “Go find your hat, and fetch the horses. Our first chore is to find a house that won’t fall down about our ears.”
“Ought to be a hotel in this burg,” opined Bart. “That’s what I’m thinkin’,” said Larry. “A hotel would do fine. Easier to keep an eye on each other if we’re all under the same roof.”
He advanced along the center of the street with his right fist gun-filled. Stretch passed his Winchester to Theodore, his left-hand Colt to Bart and fell in behind his partner, leading the horses. Theodore and the women followed, with Bart and Tom bringing up the rear. They passed disused and crumbling buildings—the shell of a livery stable, the decayed wrecks of barber-shops, stores and saloons, all that remained of an assay office.
And then, on his right, Larry saw the largest building, a double-storied hotel. It looked substantial and somewhat more weatherproof than the other structures. He nodded to his followers and veered to the hitch rack. They looped their reins and climbed the steps to the porch, where two rotted boards gave way beneath Tom, who sank to his hips and loosed a yell of despair. They gathered about him. He blinked up at them lugubriously, and said:
“Well—it felt like I was fallin’ a million miles.”
“Not all that far,” Larry consoled him, as he hauled him from the aperture. “Two-three feet at most.”
“This,” opined Bart, “could be the place for us.”
“Worth checkin’,” nodded Larry. He moved to the entrance, shoved at the door. It swung inward, its hinges groaning. “All right. Follow me—and stay close.”
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