The mayor of Verdure was a short, tubby little man with a genial grin and pink cheeks. Anybody could have liked him, but Terry was more wary. He remembered that Hilda had told him Burridge had a great deal of power in the town, and that didn’t suggest he was lily-white.
“Morning, stranger,” he greeted, looking up from the shiny I roll-top where he was working. “Something I can do for you?”
“Yeah.” Terry sat down and noticed how neat and clean I the office was, compared to Harrison’s. “I guess you can record two murdered men.”
“I can?” Burridge looked startled. He had wide blue eyes, like those of a child awakened in the night. “That isn’t my province, stranger. You should see the sheriff, further down the street.”
“I did. He’s one of the dead men.”
Burridge swallowed hard. “Harrison—dead?”
“That’s what I said.” Terry was studying the man intently, trying to make up his mind about him. “The other one is Marchland. You know him?”
“Sure do. Regular fella. So he’s murdered, too?” Burridge’s expression changed, and the grinning face became sinister. “How come you know so much about the business?”
“I’m staying with the Marchlands. When Miss Marchland and I got back from a ride this morning, we found old man Marchland shot through the heart. I went straight away for the sheriff and found him shot, too—through the head. Looks like there’s a maniac or a trigger-happy outlaw on the loose somewheres. Only other person to report it to is you.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure thing.” Burridge looked troubled. “It is one hell of a shock to know ’bout Harrison. He was a good man.”
“If you need a new sheriff, you haven’t far to look,” Terry said. “I’m not doing anything at present.”
“I’ll remember that,” Burridge said. “First, though, I want a few facts about yourself—regarding your finding these two murders, I mean. How do I know but what you did ’em yourself?”
“You don’t. But I didn’t. That’s all I aim to say. Best thing you can do if you want to check up is dig the slugs out of the bodies of both men and find the guns which match ’em. I know this gun is the one which killed Marchland—or, leastways, I think so.”
Terry took the paper-wrapped Colt from his hip-pocket and laid it on the desk. The mayor looked at it, then glanced up.
“That’s Marchland’s own gun!” he snapped. “See that V-shaped piece bitten outa the butt there? I’d know it any place. Just what are you trying to pull, stranger?”
“I’m not trying to pull anything,” Terry replied calmly. “I’m just showing you this gun because, legally, that’s what I’m supposed to do. There are such things as fingerprint experts, remember—not around here, I don’t mean, but in the big towns. They might find prints on this gun which would match Harrison’s. And that’d be mighty interestin’.”
“You don’t mean you think he killed Marchland?”
“That’s just what I mean.” Terry put the Colt back in his pocket, then sat back in his chair and measured the mayor with steely eyes. “To hand it to you neat, mayor, I believe that you, the now dead Harrison, and a guy named Grant Swainson are running this town as you like—but to what exact end I’m not sure. I further think that Marchland was a man who knew too much, so he was rubbed out before he got too awkward.”
“You’ve got your blasted gall, comin’ in here accusin’ me of such things. Get to hell outa here before I throw you out!”
Terry grinned a little. The idea of the fat little mayor throwing him out was fantastic.
“I’m going, anyway,” Terry said. “Later on I’m tellin’ the people of this town just what kind of a dirty set-up they’re fighting, and I’ll put them on their mettle to defeat it. So far, it seems they’ve been bouncin’ around without anybody to lead ’em—so I’m taking it on. I might even get myself elected as sheriff—that’s up to them. Right now, you’re coming over to the Marchland place and take a look at that body before it’s buried. That is, if you act as coroner around here.”
“I don’t!” Burridge retorted. “Bill Carson is the coroner, as well as blacksmith and parson.”
“Okay, I’ll get him. And I’m warning you, mayor, that if there is any more monkey business around this territory, you’re going to get hurt—and those who work with you.”
With that, Terry departed and went on his way to Bill Carson’s forge. The massive blacksmith promptly accompanied him in a fancy buckboard to the Marchland home, took down all details concerning Marchland’s body, then transferred it to the buckboard with the curt announcement that the funeral would be at ten the following morning. The crudity of it all, the contempt with which a dead body was treated, and the knowledge from Terry that the sheriff, too, was dead, left Hilda moodily silent.
Terry stood looking at her as the last rumbling of the funeral buckboard-hearse died away.
“What’s done is done, Hil, I guess,” he said at length, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Our job isn’t to mope around because these damned thugs got your father; it’s to blast their whole rotten plan wide open.”
“What plan?” Hilda demanded, looking up in desperation. “What is it all about, Terry? That’s what I can’t understand! Phantom riders, my Dad murdered—and even the sheriff killed! Not that I’m worrying over that; but why was it so important that neither he nor Dad should say too much?”
“Either of them might have given away the truth about the four phantom horsemen and blown a neat scheme sky-high,” Terry said. “At least, that’s my guess. I believe two other men know the truth, and they’re still alive—Mayor Burridge and Grant Swainson. You said yourself that those two men, with Harrison, run the town.”
“That’s right, but—Terry, what are you going to do?”
“Become sheriff,” he said, shrugging.
“But you can’t—not just like that! It demands election, the mayor to swear you in. You don’t suppose he’d ever do that, after the things you said to him, do you?”
“He may have no choice if the people want it. I’m going to put that to the test tonight.”
“And Harrison? Who do you suppose murdered him?”
“Could have been the mayor—or mebbe Grant Swainson. If neither of them, then somebody who wanted Harrison shut up pronto. I might trace it from the bullet in Harrison—finding the gun to match—but that would expose me to too much danger, so I’m not risking it. I don’t care much who killed Harrison, anyway; though, of course, the man responsible will have to be tried at some time.”
There was a long silence. Terry sat down slowly on a chair so that he faced Hilda. She studied him through half-concealed tears.
“Just why are you taking all these risks?” she asked at last. “You’re only a passer-through, Terry. Why get mixed up in such a dirty intrigue when you could just as easily ride off and leave it behind? You know as well as I do that, if they can, the powers-that-be in this town will try and pin the sheriff’s murder on you, and probably the murder of Dad, too, since you have his gun.”
Terry gave his infectious smile. “I’d thought of that, don’t think they’ll attempt that; deep down, they’re afraid of me. They will be even more afraid if I’m elected sheriff. As to my staying on in Verdure— Well, I have you to protect, haven’t I? You haven’t a soul in the world who can stand by you now your Dad has gone.”
“I—I appreciate that, Terry. I just don’t know what am going to do henceforth.”
“I’ll tell you. You’ll find out just how your affairs stand in the way of finance and so forth, and then you’ll carry on living here as before. Whatever other time you have to spare you’ll spend beside me, if you will.”
“Nothing I’d like better. Trying to solve this mystery over the town, you mean?”
“Yeah. As for me, I’ll have to move on, live someplace else. Now you’re alone I can’t stay. Unless—”
Hilda was silent, though she had a good idea what was coming.
“Bill Carson’s the local preacher,” Terr
y added. “D’you suppose you like me well enough to marry me, Hil? Then we can stick together, no matter what.”
“I more than like you, Terry,” she answered, her voice low. “Don’t you remember me saying you’re the only man I ever feel safe with around here? But do you think I should go to such lengths just to—?”
He took her in his arms and kissed her.
“I’m marrying you because I’m in love with you, Hil,” Terry said tenderly, “and because it’s the only decent way a man and woman can live together. And since you’ve taken me on trust, so to speak, you deserve to know more about me. You’ve already noticed that I’ve had a passable education. You’re right. I come from a good family, only they stay put and I like to wander. Just one of those things. I like the open air and the trail. I couldn’t get it way back in a city where I was learning to be an engineer. Ranching’s more in my line.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself away,” Hilda smiled.
“Okay. Just thought I’d explain. I came to Verdure by accident, because it happened to be in my track. Now I am here I’m sticking, chiefly because I think I’ve a self-appointed mission to accomplish in laying down this ghost business. What bit I’ve seen of this place so far convinces me it’s being run by gun law—so I guess it’s time I stepped in and showed certain gentlemen that they can’t get away with it.”
Hilda reflected. “Don’t you think it might be more to the point to call in a marshal and have him look things over?”
“Might be—but even a marshal wouldn’t do much without proof. I think we stand a better chance of working this out by ourselves. What I want to do is get proof of everything that seems phoney—then I could hand it over to the law and, with evidence before them, they could very soon go into action. Up to now, I haven’t gotten far. I don’t know how the four phantom horsemen do their vanishing act; I don’t know who the men are behind it—not for certain; and I don’t know why the scheme exists at all. Those things I have to find out. As things stand, I came into town as a lone rider, and I’m sticking. If I accomplished nothing else, I at least met you, and that’s mighty good compensation.”
Hilda smiled a little. “You certainly have the stuff in you to deal with this crooked set-up in Verdure, Terry,” she said quietly.
“I think so.” Terry got on his feet, hesitated, and then said: “I don’t want to sound callous, Hil, but the living have to keep going. Both of us need a meal. Then this afternoon you’d better sort out your affairs, and this evening I’ll try and shake the populace into making me sheriff. If that doesn’t cause the mayor and other doubtful characters some discomfort, I’m crazy. At any rate, they’ll see that I mean business—at gun point. Then, later, soon as can be considered decent, we’ll be married.”
* * * *
It was towards sunset when Terry and Hilda had their various affairs sorted out. Hilda had discovered that her father’s bank account, becoming hers as next-of-kin at his death, was woefully small, but at least there was enough to last perhaps a year. The house was hers and one or two small-holdings of which she had had no previous knowledge. Luckily her father had left a will, so there were no complications.
Terry for his part had spent most of the afternoon finding fresh lodgement and had finally settled for a room at the boarding house of Ma Granslade’s in the main street.
So, for the time being, matters were as straight as they could be and the time for further action had come. Accordingly, towards, nine o’clock that same evening Terry and the girl arrived at the Black Coyote and entered it through the tightly fitting top-to-bottom doors.
Hilda coughed a little at the dense tobacco fumes which struck her. Terry stood looking about him, hand on his 45. It was surprising how busy the place really was, not one trace of which was evident from outside. Pretty nearly the whole population of Verdure seemed to be here, either at the bar or the tables. Some were busy with roulette in a far corner of the huge room, others were trying their luck at faro and poker. High up in the roof, swinging from massive beams, were the quadruple oil lamps which cast a yellow glow upon the proceedings.
“Couldn’t be better,” Terry murmured, taking the girl’s arm. “I guess all the likely people to make me sheriff are here under one roof.”
He moved forward, Hilda beside him. Men and women watched their progress towards the bar. Hilda was no stranger, even though she very rarely had visited the Black Coyote before; but Terry was something of a curiosity. News of his advent in town had already gone around the community.
At the bar-counter Terry stopped, ordering a whisky for himself and a sarsaparilla for Hilda, then he looked about him for a vacant table. The nearest one was occupied by two unshaven, grinning cowpunchers. Terry looked at them pensively for a moment.
“Feel like movin’ on, fellas, to another table and make way for a lady?” he inquired easily, moving towards them.
They looked at each other, then the grins faded. “Who yuh tryin’ to kid?” one of them demanded. “We’ve as much right to a durned table as you have! If you want one, yuh should come in time to get one.”
“I said—for a lady,” Terry repeated. “One thing you guys around here seem to lack is manners.” His manner changed. “Blow!” he snapped.
Neither of the men made a movement. Terry knew what that meant. To back down on an order in a place like this would blackmark him forever. He glanced about him and noticed that everybody had become attentive, waiting to see what he would do. They saw—and mighty quickly.
Abruptly both Terry’s hands lashed out and slammed at the back of each man’s head. Their skulls crashed together with savage impact, and it brought them to their feet in fury. Without waiting a split second Terry whipped up his left arm and spun the first man off his feet with a haymaker to the jaw. The second man whipped out his gun, then he howled with pain as Terry’s own gun flashed with bewildering speed and drew blood. The puncher swore, his palm brimming, his gun on the floor.
“Now, move,” Terry ordered, his eyes glinting. “Before I shoot the pants off you!”
The first man struggled up from the floor, cascading sawdust from his shirt and pants. He held his jaw, glared, then limped, away towards a further corner. The second man picked up his gun in his uninjured hand and holstered it, his eyes on the relentless barrel of Terry’s .45.
When they had both gone to a safe distance, Terry relaxed, swept the beer glasses from the table with his hand and jerked up a chair. He motioned Hilda to it and, wide-eyed, she sat down. From the bar-counter Terry took the two drinks he had ordered and set them down on the table. Then he relaxed, his eyes darting about him warily.
Finally he found himself looking at a tall, thin man in a black suit standing at the bar, his black stetson at an angle on his dark hair. He came lounging forward.
“You’ll be Carlton, I reckon?” he asked, and nodded to Hilda. “Howdy, Miss Marchland. Too bad about your father.”
Terry looked at the man thoughtfully. He had a pleasant manner, a pretty smooth line of talk, and evidently knew his manners. He had raised his stetson when speaking to girl.
“This is Mr. Swainson,” Hilda explained, seeing Terry’s look. “He owns the place.”
Terry nodded. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Swainson—you’ve evidently heard of me.”
“All I’ve heard of you is that you have been staying the Marchlands, so seeing you here—a stranger—with Miss Marchland, I guess I drew my own conclusions.” Swainson mused for a moment, a smile on his powerful lips. “I liked the way you handled those two punchers,” he added. “Pity there aren’t more men around here with your spirit.”
Terry glanced across at the distant corner where the two men he had hammered had taken refuge. They seemed to have forgotten all about the incident by now and were not even looking in his direction.
“I’m glad to see you aren’t letting your father’s—er—death get you down, Miss Marchland,” Swainson added, and the girl gave him a quick look.
“I’m
not in here just for the drink, Mr. Swainson, if that’s what you’re thinking! I’ve accompanied Ter—Mr. Carlton. He’s got something to say to the folks.”
“Yeah?” Swainson’s dark eyes pinned Terry for a moment. “Like what?”
“I’ll demonstrate,” Terry told him and got to his feet—then onto the table. He called once for attention and didn’t get it, so he fired his gun upwards twice in succession and brought an immediate halt in the conversation and din of the gaming tables.
“That’s better,” he said curtly, looking about him. “Folks, some of you know me; some of you don’t. And I’ve got something to ask. How much longer are all of you goin’ to be plumb scared of a phoney ghost story, even to the extent of some of you thinking of quitting town?”
The men and women looked at each other. One man stood up at the rear of the hall.
“There ain’t no proof that them ghosts are phoney, stranger! I guess you ain’t seen ’em or you wouldn’t be talking this way!”
“I’ve seen ’em all right—last night, even to the extent of them vanishing in Star Canyon, but there were a lot of things about them that convinced me they’re real flesh and blood. That being so, I figure it’s time all of you came to your senses and opened up this town properly at night instead of cowering behind shutters.”
The talking began again, urgently. Swainson settled himself in a chair, hands in his pants pockets and feet thrust out. No change of expression came to his lean face as he sat listening. Over in the distance Mayor Burridge got on his and made his way through the crowd.
“Yuh don’t know what yore talkin’ about, fella!” another man snapped. “Them ghosts is likely to come down into town any night—accordin’ ter legend—an’ set the whole caboodle afire. But if we keep the windows shuttered, lights off, like as not they’ll figger there ain’t anybody in town.”
Terry stared in amazement for a moment, astounded any man could be so childish in his beliefs.
“You mean you think that keeping out of sight will do the trick?” he demanded.
“Sure thing!” a woman said fiercely. “Mayor Burridge and the sheriff both told us that, and they’re men who ought to know.”
Ghost Canyon Page 5
