“If I may,” Terry nodded. “I’ll pay, of course.”
“Ain’t necessary. I told you that earlier.”
Terry gave a shrug. Marchland was snappish, that was obvious. He turned to the girl as she stood thinking.
“Long past midnight, gal, in case y’don’t know it,” he said. “Time we were gettin’ some shut-eye. Which room are we fixin’ for Mr. Carlton?”
“I’ll—I’ll fix it up for you, Mr. Carlton,” the girl said, starting. “There’s a room on the other side of the hall. Come along with me.”
“Thanks,” Terry agreed, and followed her out.
The room into which she showed him, after lighting the oil lamp, was clean and comfortable and smelled of newly aired linen. He caught her hand and shook it as she turned to go.
“Don’t stay awake all night trying to think this thing out, Miss Marchland,” he said, smiling. “It’ll explain itself.”
She nodded. “I hope so. In any case, I’m not so worried over that—puzzling as it is—as I am over father’s reluctance to credit there’s a material explanation for phantom horsemen. Anyway, see you in the morning. And thanks for being on my side.”
Terry patted her arm reassuringly and she departed. He stood for a while thinking; then he blew out the lamp flame and moved over to the bed in the moonlight. A big nightshirt was lying on it for his own use. He grinned as he looked at it: he grinned even more when he’d donned it.
As he got into bed, he made up his mind to lie and think out the problem of Star Canyon—but Nature had other ideas. He fell asleep almost instantly, worn out by his exertions and riding. When he awoke again it was full daylight, the sun pouring its blazing heat upon him through the partly-opened window.
He dressed quickly and then stepped out into the hall, just as Hilda was crossing it with a loaded tray, from which drifted the aroma of grilled ham and coffee.
“Howdy,” Terry smiled—and she smiled back at him. Now he saw her in daylight he was surprised to find she was prettier than he had suspected, unless the effect was created by the simple cotton frock she was wearing.
“Sleep well?” she enquired,
“Sure did—ghosts or no ghosts. Where do I shave?”
“You mean how do you shave, don’t you?” she asked, as he took the heavy tray from her. “Or did you bring a razor?”
“Always carry one, Miss, in my shirt pocket—I’ll take this tray in for you. Mighty heavy for a girl like you.”
Before she could say anything, he walked into the living room. Marchland was there, sprawled in the sunlight near the window, his rocking-chair going back and forth. Opposite him sat a big fellow, dusty sombrero cuffed on the back of his head. Terry glanced over him and drew his own conclusions from the star badge on the man’s shirt.
“This is Mr. Carlton, Sheriff,” Hilda introduced, as Terry, set down the tray, “Sheriff Harrison.”
The Sheriff rose to his feet, hand extended. He was bigly made, square-shouldered, with twin cross-overs about his waist. Except for the smallness of his eyes, he could have been handsome with his beak of a nose, determined jaw, and brick-red complexion.
“Howdy,” he said, as Terry shook hands. “I jus’ bin hearin’ from Mr. Marchland here that you figger to stay around a bit, stranger?”
“I like the scenery,” Terry explained calmly.
“That ain’t the reason,” Marchland snapped, looking up at him sharply. “You know dog-gone well you’re stayin’ around so’s you can poke your nose into this phantom horsemen business. I say you’re loco to even try.”
“Guess so,” Harrison agreed, with a curiously hard smile. “I wouldn’t recommend it, Mr. Carlton.”
“I’m naturally inquisitive,” Terry responded. “And until I’ve found out all I want, I’ll just stay. All there is to it— Now, excuse me, will you. I must shave.”
He turned and left the living room, frowning to himself. He could not decide whether he liked the Sheriff or not. By the time he had finished shaving and was withdrawing his head from the cold water tub he had found in the back garden, he was decided that he did not like the Sheriff. He groped around for the towel and found it handed to him. He dried his eyes, and in surprise looked at Hilda.
“I was going to tell you there’s hot water in the kitchen for shaving,” she said.
“I managed,” Terry responded; then, as he noticed her serious expression, he added:
“That all you came to tell me?”
“No. It’s about Sheriff Harrison.” She gave an uneasy glance through the kitchen towards the living room. “I think I ought to explain something. He—er—he fancies his chance with me.”
Terry dried his massive forearms. “Congratulations,” he said briefly.
“I mean, he may think that you are now standing in his way,” Hilda added. “If so, he may become dangerous. He’s got a vile temper. I’ve seen it on occasion. He also has some sort of a hold over Dad. I think that’s why Dad is so edgy sometimes. They have innumerable conferences, locked up in the living room. I think one is brewing right now, otherwise Harrison wouldn’t have ridden over so early.”
“Ridden?” Terry repeated, buttoning his cuffs. “His office is only fifty yards down the street.”
“His office, yes—but he’s come from his ranch. That’s ten miles away out of town—the Falling-J.”
Terry hesitated for a moment. “After all, Miss Marchland, it doesn’t really concern me what happens to you or your father. I don’t want that to sound as though I’m not interested, but I’m only a stranger who has asked for temporary lodgement.”
“Can’t you understand that I need help?” Hilda asked earnestly.
“How?”
“This ghost business, for one thing: The fact it makes Dad behave so queerly every time the matter is mentioned. Then there is the fact that he keeps thinking of leaving the district, from which I am trying to dissuade him. Lastly there’s Sheriff Harrison. I can’t bear the man, or his attentions, yet there isn’t anybody else I can turn to—or wasn’t. Since he’s sheriff, most men are afraid of him.”
“Thanks for the build-up, Hil,” commented the sheriff himself, and Terry and the girl turned sharply to see him lounging in the kitchen doorway looking out into the yard.
“Well, it’s all true and you know it!” the girl retorted, her violet eyes glinting as she faced him. “I never asked you to come chasing after me. Anyway, you’re too old.”
“Seven years ahead of you, Hil, Mebbe,” Harrison commented. Then his small eyes moved to where Terry was tightening up his kerchief. “As for you, Mr. Carlton,” he added, “I guess you might do worse than hit the trail. Verdure is a mighty dangerous place to be in right now.”
“Meaning ghosts?” Terry asked calmly, and he gave an innocent smile.
“Meanin’ lots of things. I’m tellin’ you plain as I can to get goin’—an’ not ter come back.”
“Sorry, Sheriff. When I like a place I stick around, and it’ll take more than the law to make me move on. It has no legal reason to, so I just stop.”
“I figger it isn’t that you like the place so much as Miss Marchland,” Harrison snapped.
Terry reflected. “Could be. Miss. Marchland’s a mighty fine girl—pretty as they come. Too pretty to be pestered if she doesn’t want it. Or mebbe you don’t know the meaning of the word, no matter how often it’s fired at you?”
Hilda looked from one man to the other uneasily. Not that Terry seemed disturbed. With a comb minus several teeth he was smoothing out his unruly ginger hair and smiling impudently. It seemed to rattle Harrison, for he came down the steps and. ambled across, big hands on his gun-holsters.
“Listen, fella,” he said deliberately. “I don’t know jus’ how plain y’want it sed, but you’re not welcome around here. Now start movin’—”
On the last two words, his right-hand gun flashed up into his fingers, but at the same time something else happened. Terry’s right hand detoured somehow in smoothing up his hai
r and crashed in an iron fist under Harrison’s jaw. It was one hell of a wallop, and made Hilda wince as she heard it click. The Sheriff hardly knew what hit him. His gun dropped and he was partly lifted off his feet. Stumbling backwards, he caught helplessly at the huge water butt. It overbalanced and deluged him. He lay gasping and spluttering, his jaw feeling as though it were on fire.
Then Terry reached down and, with an easy movement, twisted his fingers in Harrison’s shirt front and swung him dizzily on his feet.
“Now listen,” Terry said deliberately. “Since I aim to be around this district quite a while, Sheriff—and since I like Miss Marchland every bit as much as you do—we might as well know how we stand. I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. Okay! Now we know. I’ll take no orders from you, and if I choose to roam around, I’ll do it. Lastly, you got the idea I wasn’t welcome around here. Should be the other way about. You keep away from here—or else! Savvy?”
Harrison ripped himself free and looked about him for his gun. He glared when Terry stooped, picked it up, and handed it over.
“A little spoiled by water, Sheriff; otherwise okay,” he said pleasantly.
“You think this is goin’ t’get you anywheres?” Harrison whispered, his breathing hoarse with fury. “I’ll blast you outa town before you’re finished, Carlton. You’ll find out what it means to stick around where yore not wanted!”
“Move!” Terry ordered, his grin vanishing and his gun springing into his hand. “Hurry it up!”
Arguing with a loaded gun was evidently not Harrison’s idea of fun. He gave a final glare, straightened his sodden hat, then marched angrily back into the kitchen. Terry kept right behind him, and stayed behind him until the sheriff was speeding away down the High Street. With a grin Terry leathered his gun and turned to meet the eyes of Hilda behind him.
“I—I appreciated that,” she said. “Dangerous though it may prove later on.”
“Dangerous?” Terry gave a grim smile. “I’m not worrying, Miss Marchland.… And how’s about some breakfast?”
She nodded and led the way back into the living room. Old man Marchland was already at the table, pouring out coffee. He gave Terry a bitter look as he settled at his. place.
“I guess that wasn’t very sensible of you, Mr. Carlton,” he snapped. “For one thing, the sheriff is a friend of mine, and for another he stands for law and order around here. It’s plain loco to bounce around the man who runs the law.”
“I’ll bounce any man who makes himself a nuisance,” Terry replied calmly. “Miss Marchland made it plain that she doesn’t like his attentions, so I had to do something—since you won’t.”
Marchland said nothing. He seemed at a loss. He gave the girl a glance and then went on with his breakfast in dogged silence.
“Do you still intend to see what happened to those riders last night?” Hilda asked presently, and Terry nodded.
“Sure thing. In the daylight it might be possible to pick up a few clues. The moment I’ve finished this breakfast I’ll be on my way. I’d like you with me, if you can make it.”
“Why?” Marchland demanded. “Apart from trying to convince my gal that these ghosts ain’t genuine, you have to start running around with her as well. I don’t like it, Mr. Carlton.”
“She’s a free agent,” Terry said. “Up to her.”
“I’m going,” Hilda said. Then she looked at her father sharply. “I wish I could make some sense out of your attitude, Dad. It just sounds as though you want to perpetuate this idea of ghost riders.”
“It ain’t that, gal: I just say we shouldn’t dabble. Our best move would be to give a lead to the rest of the people in this town an’ be on our way to some other place.”
“So you’ve said for weeks past—ever since the phantoms first came,” Hilda pointed out. “But you don’t go. Either admit the phantoms are phoney and brave it out—or else get on the move. As it is, you’re playing both sides at once.”
Marchland got on his feet angrily, threw down his napkin.
“I’ll not have my own daughter dictatin’ to me what I’ll do!” he snapped. “I’ll go when I’m good an’ ready: meantime, I’ll say what I like.”
And before the girl could answer, he left the living room and passed through the hall to the outdoors. Hilda was silent for a moment, biting her lower lip; then, with a shrug, she resumed her breakfast.
“Mebbe I said too much,” Terry muttered.
“No, it’s not that. It’s Dad. He’s so touchy, and I can’t think why. Or can I? I sometimes believe it’s the sheriff who makes him that way. Every time the sheriff’s been here’s always this sort of trouble with Dad.…”
Terry did not take up the matter, because he considered it was not strictly his business. He finished his breakfast, then when the girl had done likewise she said:
“The stables are at the back, Mr. Carlton. If you’ll saddle my horse and your own I’ll join you in a minute or two. I’ve got to change. I’d have dressed in readiness earlier on, only I thought that might give Dad too big a shock.”
Just what she meant by this Terry was not sure, so he merely nodded, took down his hat from the door, then went out to the stables. He found old man Marchland in the yard smashing sticks with an axe. He stopped his job and watched as, presently, Terry emerged with the saddled mounts.
“Don’t have much say around here, do I?” Marchland growled.
“I think you’re taking it the hard way, sir,” Terry told him. “Surely if all your daughter and I are trying to do is rid this town of its fears, you ought to encourage us, not try and block us at every turn?”
Marchland spat on his hands and resumed chopping without another word. He didn’t even look up as Hilda came out in her riding kit. She said goodbye to him, but he took no notice. Her face troubled, she swung to the saddle and followed Terry out of the yard and into the sun-scorched dust beyond the gateway.
They were halfway to the mountain range before Terry spoke.
“Whether these horsemen are phantoms or not, Miss Marchland, our job henceforth is to find out the reason for terrorising the populace. Far as I know, there are usually three things that make it worthwhile getting tough—namely, gold, oil, and water. I have known massacres for those three things. Which of them is it likely to be around here?”
The girl shook her head. “I’ve no idea. None of them, as far as I know.”
“Then why scare the populace?” Terry demanded. “It doesn’t make sense without a reason! My belief is that these phantom horsemen are a plant, making use of an old-time legend for a modern purpose. There must be something about the territory around here which makes the game worthwhile.”
As the girl merely shrugged, Terry added: “We’ll look into it properly when we’ve seen Star Canyon.”
They reached it half an hour later, and began a slow advance, watching the ground as they went. Their own trail and that of the four horsemen was clearly distinguishable now in the blaze of the morning sun—but there was still no gainsaying the fact that at the narrowest neck of the canyon the prints of the quartet just vanished into thin air.
Terry dismounted and considered the sheer granite faces of the canyon sides, spreading out somewhat as they reached the summit. The tops of the escarpments were possibly two hundred feet, bright grey against the cobalt of the sky.
“Nothing could go up there and nothing could turn aside,” Hilda mused. “Likewise, we know that nothing turned back. So where did those horsemen go?”
“They went somewhere,” Terry said stubbornly. “Maybe one of these rock faces can swing to one side: I’ve known that to be possible sometimes.”
He knew he was talking for the sake of it, but he began an investigation none the less. It got him precisely nowhere. Though he and Hilda examined the rocks for over an hour, they came to no solution of the mystery. The cliff faces were sheer, unmarred by a single seam, and certainly immovable except by blasting.
“I sure could believe in ghosts if I wa
nted,” Terry confessed at length, mopping his streaming face. “Guess we might go up above and see if anything else shows itself. Be a little less grilling up there, anyways.”
Hilda nodded, limp with the searing heat burning down into the canyon. They secured their horses, found the acclivity of the previous night, and mounted to its summit. Fresh wind struck them as they came onto the rimrock and they had a vision of the countryside for miles around. Not that this interested them: their sole anxiety was to find an explanation for four vanished horses and men.
And yet again there was no answer. On the summit here there were rocks by the hundred, of all shapes and sizes, projecting from the mainly flat tableland. But nowhere was there a crack or a seam, or a single clue.
“Might be different over there,” Terry said, nodding to the opposite side of the canyon, from which they were separated at this height by a hundred feet of emptiness.
“We’d better look whilst we’re at it,” Hilda responded, regardless of the blazing sunlight. “We shan’t want to make this investigation again.”
Terry nodded and they returned to the canyon floor, then went up the opposite side. At the top of this escarpment, the rocks were flatter, but there were no fissures, naturally balanced spurs, clefts, or anything of a nature likely to arouse suspicion. The whole business was as completely baffling as a brilliant conjuring trick,
“It’s got me,” Terry admitted at last, and sat down with his back to a rock spur to rest. “I just don’t get it!”
Hilda settled beside him, fanning herself with her kerchief.
“You don’t suppose—” Her voice faltered and a profound look of worry came in her violet eyes.
“That they really are phantoms? Not on your life!”
“Then—where did they go?”
“I dunno.” Terry looked into sun-drenched distances. “We’ll solve it finally. Meantime, we’re off on another tack. I’m going into town to the local assayer. I want to see his maps.”
Ghost Canyon Page 3
