“Ought to, but don’t,” Terry retorted. “I guess you all musta heard by now that the sheriff was killed today by a bullet through his brain. If he couldn’t take care of himself, how d’you expect he could have taken care of you? You’re nothing but a lot of sheep,” he added bitterly. “Whole durned lot of you!”
There was no resentment, just an obstinate shaking of heads.
“Ghosts ain’t things ter argue with, fella,” a man snapped.
“These are not ghosts!” Terry declared flatly. “And if some of you would have the nerve to stay beside me and investigate this business, we’d darned soon prove there no ghosts! You can’t see it, but you’re all being kicked outa town as part of a plan. Somebody wants this territory bad, and to get it without paying for it yore bein’ spoon-fed a ghost story. Harrison knew the facts and got shot before he could tell ’em. Marchland also was mixed up in it, and he too got rubbed out before he could talk too much.”
“How do you know all this?” Mayor Burridge demanded, coming to the front. Then before Terry could answer he swung on the people about him and added: “I believe this guy is the killer himself, but I can’t prove it. If you folks want to listen to him you—”
“Oh, let the guy talk,” Swainson broke in, in his easy voice. “He’s interesting even if he is crazy.”
“Crazy, huh?” Terry gave a hard smile. “Listen, folks, tell me how crazy this is: I found Marchland murdered this morning after he had received a visit from the sheriff, during which visit I threw the sheriff off the premises. In other words the sheriff was aware that I intended to sift this ghost business to the bottom. I believe he killed Marchland to stop him having too much conversation with me. Next thing I went to the sheriff to report the death of Marchland, then, when I’d gotten him to the point where he was willing to confess the whole truth, ghost riders included, he was shot dead. Somebody must have heard him—somebody who was maybe going to call on the sheriff an’ saw us through the window. Two people have died today because they knew the facts about this campaign to drive you good folks out of town.”
“I tell you this man’s a liar,” Burridge half shouted. “He’s making all this up to cover his own guilt!”
“If I’d shot those two men, mayor, I’d have hit the trail long ago,” Terry told him. “And you know it!”
“Just how much good was Harrison to us?” Hilda asked suddenly, getting to her feet and thumping the table. “When these ghosts were first seen, we told him about them. He rode out with a posse and came back with the story that nothing could be done. Instead he issued an order, in conjunction with the mayor here, that we were to barricade ourselves in at night! I believe, as Mr. Carlton does, that the whole phantom affair is a scare. We’re going to be literally frightened away from our homes.”
“But why?” asked Swainson, puzzling, “What good would it be? There’s nothing valuable on this land—far as I know. What do you say, mayor?”
“Sure isn’t,” Burridge agreed, with a black glance in Terry’s direction.
“What we need is a sheriff who’ll look after our interests—who’ll tear this whole intrigue up by the roots,” Hilda insisted. “I’m one of you; I’ve suffered more than any of you because I’ve lost my father. I think Mr. Carlton should take Harrison’s place as sheriff.”
“A killer as sheriff?” Burridge roared. “Like hell!”
“Take that back, mayor,” Terry flashed at him, his gun in his hand. “I’m about tired of you calling me a murderer without ever trying to prove it! I could call you one, I guess, only I won’t till I’m sure.”
“Me? I never killed anybody in my life! An’ I still say that if anybody killed Harrison, it was you—to get his daughter!”
Terry fired. Burridge gave a yell as he felt hot hell sear over the top of his head. He did not know why he was alive—then he realised his hat had been blown clean off. A puncher handed it to him with a dry grin.
“Any more cracks, mayor?” Terry demanded. “For every one you make, I’ll remove a button from that fancy waistcoat of yours—granting you stand sideways, otherwise you’re likely to get the slugs clean in that overfed belly.”
“The guy can shoot,” somebody said, with approval.
“Yeah—so can I,” snapped a man at the back, and Terry was just in time to see one of the two men he had man-handled leap up with a gun in his bandaged hand.
Terry fired with split-second timing. For the second time that evening the gun-hawk found himself defenceless and already wounded hand turned red in its bandage.
“Sorry, fella,” Terry shouted at him. “You asked for it.”
There was a grim silence. Then Burridge shouted: “I protest! A guy like this for a sheriff would—”
“Be just the guy!” yelled a bearded rancher, leaping up. “I reckon the fella talks our language. He can handle a gun, ain’t afraid to speak up and even put the mayor in his place if he feels inclined. I’m for him! There never has bin a guy around here who acted like he was a real sheriff.”
“Yeah—you said it.”
“Seems to me the issue’s settled itself, Carlton,” Swainson said, getting to his feet. “The folks seem to want you fer sheriff, and I sure agree we need one. Can’t think of anybody more suitable for the job, ’less mebbe myself—and I’ve enough on my hands running this place.”
Terry said nothing. He was wondering for a moment if his preconceived notion of Swainson had been wrong. If he was really on the level after all.
“Only thing we can do is vote on it,” Swainson said. “I second Miss Marchland’s proposal that you should be elected as sheriff. How many of you folks here are in favour?”
Well over three-quarters of the people in the big room raised their hands. Swainson gave a nod.
“That settles it,” he said. “Swear him in, mayor.”
“Are you loco, Swainson?” Burridge demanded, coming forward.
“I said swear him in.” The saloon owner spoke deliberately. “Then afterwards it’s drinks all round and a plan of campaign. I’ll be mighty glad to get the shutters down and breathe fresh air in the joint at night.”
Mayof Burridge just gazed. He seemed incapable of realising what had happened.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was close on midnight when Terry prepared to take his farewell of Hilda. They had walked slowly from the closed Black Coyote and were standing outside the front gate of her home. The deathly quiet of the shuttered town was around them.
“You got your wish,” Hilda muttered. “They made you sheriff, though I can’t understand why Swainson came to your side. I’m still sure he’s no good, any more than Burridge.”
Terry smiled in the dim light. “A clever man plays the enemy as well as the friend,” he answered. “I learned that long ago. He has more brains than that fool Burridge. I shall become particularly wary of Swainson from here on. Perhaps he figgers he can lead me into a trap someplace. Anyway, as things stand, we set off tomorrow night to comb Star Valley. We’ll be on the spot if the four horsemen appear. If they don’t, all the better. There’s just a chance that knowing we’ll be ready for action, Swainson or Burridge—if they are mixed up in it—will call a halt until they decide how to get me out of the way.”
“I shan’t have an easy moment whenever you’re away from me,” Hilda said.
“Cuts both ways, Hil. But there are some conventions we’ve got to observe, I’m afraid. Sort it out properly when we’ve buried your Dad tomorrow morning. ’Bye for now; try not to worry.”
Terry kissed her gently and then turned away, heading back up the street to Ma Granslade’s apartment house. Hilda watched him go and then turned moodily into the garden, began walking slowly up the pathway to the porch steps.
She could not explain why, but just at that moment some instinct made her glance behind her. She was just in time to see a dark shape at the gateway advancing towards her. The figure stopped as she turned, and something thwacked hard into the pillar of the porch. Then the figure was
rushing away into the street without waiting to see the result of his handiwork.
Hilda looked at the pillar intently, and then gave a start as she saw a thin-bladed knife still swinging gently by its point. The blade was transfixing a folded note. A little shakily, she pulled the knife free and removed the note gingerly. Entering the hall, she lighted the oil lamp and read quickly:
THIS DEAD BODY IS TO WARN YOU, CARLTON, TO GET OUT OF VERDURE WHILST YOU ARE SAFE. NEXT TIME IT WILL BE YOU.
It only occurred to Hilda then how near she had been to death. The note had been written in the belief that she would be killed. Maybe she would have been, too, had she not glanced round and caused her potential killer to fling his knife and run for it rather than risk identification.
Hilda made up her mind immediately. Her nerve had gone for the time being. She couldn’t stay alone in the house all night with such danger stalking her. So she left the house quickly and hurried out to the street. It seemed deserted enough. She risked it, and arrived without mishap at Ma Granslade’s boarding-house five minutes later. The old girl grumbled at being aroused after midnight, but nonetheless showed the distraught girl to Terry’s room on the top floor. Apparently he had not gone to bed, for he opened the door immediately.
“Hil, he exclaimed in surprise, as she stood in the light of the lamp Ma Granslade was holding.
“I ain’t sayin’ I approve uv this sorta thing,” Ma said grimly, “but the gal seemed so distressed I figgered yuh’d better see her.”
“I need a room for the night—after I’ve spoken with Mr. Carlton,” Hilda said urgently. “You’ve just got to fix me up, Ma!”
“Well, okay.” Ma rubbed her chin. “Second door, next floor down. We’ll square up in the mornin’. I’m missin’ my sleep!”
She went on her way, and Terry held the door wider. Hilda entered and sank down thankfully in the solitary armchair.
“What gives?” Terry asked, turning from lighting the oil lamp on the dresser.
“This.” Hilda handed him the knife and note and briefly explained the circumstances. He frowned as he listened, then he took the knife over to the lamp and examined it carefully. “Indian knife,” he said. “Nothing very special about it to give us a clue as to the owner. And you saw somebody throw it at you?”
“A man, Terry. I couldn’t make out his features. He seemed medium-sized and was wearing a sombrero. There’s no doubt he intended to stab me in the back, but I turned before he could do it. So he threw the knife instead. I suppose, in case he missed, he didn’t want me to recognise him.”
“Uh-huh.” Terry was examining the note carefully, both under and before the oil-flame. “Pretty good throwing, too, with a note fixed on to it,” he commented.
“Looks like the first move to get rid of you now you’ve been made sheriff,” Hilda added. “Striking at you through me, that is. Whoever killed Dad and the sheriff evidently is making an effort to kill me too.”
“Yeah. Seems pretty certain, from the wording of the note, that your being killed was a foregone conclusion. This note is on fair quality paper, and written with a good pen. Not the kind of thing you’d find an ordinary puncher or maybe a disgruntled Redskin using. There is also education in the wording—the word ‘whilst’ being but one sample.”
“Burridge or Swainson!” Hilda exclaimed. “They’re both men of passable education.”
“Right! And mebbe one of them has been a bit too smart in throwing this into the enemy camp. If I can prove where the ink and paper came from, I can probably fit in the rest. It’s pieces of evidence like this that I need.”
“It was neither Burridge nor Swainson who threw the knife at me,” Hilda said, reflecting. “I’d know their figures.”
“Hardly would be. And a knife was used so no bullets could be traced and so no sound would be heard if anybody was awake near your home. Best thing I can do is forego my sleep for a while and take a look round the abodes of both Burridge and Swainson. I want to find a paper and ink similar to these we have here.”
His mind made up, Terry took the knife across to a drawer in the dresser. He put it beside the still paper-wrapped gun with which old man Marchland had been killed.
“Exhibits,” he explained, closing the drawer and turning. “I guess they’ll be useful if certain gentlemen are brought to trial later on. Right now, Hil, you’d better get along to your room on the floor below and leave the rest to me.”
Hilda nodded and got to her feet. Terry accompanied her below, then went on his way to the outdoors. He left the building quietly and kept well to the shadows as he advanced down the main street to the big white dwelling which Hilda had pointed out earlier as the abode of Burridge.
Gun in hand, Terry sped across the flowerbeds in the back garden until he came to the usual French-type of window belonging to the living room. To deflect the catch with his penknife blade was only the work of a moment; then he glided into the dark interior. For a long time he stood listening, and heard no sounds.
Satisfied, he pulled over the window drapes tightly and felt round for the oil-lamp on the table. Lighting it at a low glimmer, he looked about him, then went over to the open bureau in the corner. Five minutes searching was enough to prove to him that there was no paper resembling that dispatched with the dagger.
“Wrong angle, mebbe,” he muttered. “Perhaps paper which he uses in his office. Else Swainson’s back of it—”
He stopped suddenly. A bundle of papers with a tape round it had caught his eye. It was the tail end of a word— ‘…hland’—which attracted him. He drew the paper out and studied it carefully. The paper was executed in the form of an invoice, referring to the sum of $3,000 having been paid to Joseph Marchland in return for the transfer of 1,000 head of cattle. What was even more interesting was the fact that Marchland’s signature, acknowledging the money, was sprawled at the bottom of the sheet.
Terry thought for a moment, and then stuffed the paper in his shirt pocket. He searched further, with meticulous thoroughness, and came upon two more similar invoices. Since this seemed to be the limit, he added them to the one he already had, tidied the bureau up again, then blew out the lamp and departed.
He had not found the identifying paper he was seeking, but had instead discovered something that might be just as useful. It all depended whether the cattle referred to in the invoices were ‘straight’ or ‘rustled’. If the latter variety, then a good deal of the mystery which had surrounded Marchland might be a mystery no longer.
Still pursuing his original objective, Terry went next to the mayor’s office and forced his way in, to discover a locked roll-top and an impregnable safe. Rather than leave signs of his activity by smashing open the desk, he retired again and instead went on to the Black Coyote. Here he was beaten. Heavy bars over the window of Swainson’s office defeated him—and the front doors of the saloon were so heavily secured he just could not make any impression on them without a crowbar.
Pondering, he stood in the shadows of the boardwalk and looked over the moonlit town. He was in the midst of debating whether he ought to ride out to Swainson’s spread and investigate when he realised the sound of an approaching horseman was echoing on the still air. Immediately he drew his gun and moved well back into gloom cast by the bulk of the Black Coyote.
In a matter of minutes, the horseman became visible, riding hard from the direction of the desert trail—or so Terry assumed at first. Then he noticed that the horseman was not sitting upright in the saddle, but was half-lying on the creature’s neck—either dead, asleep, or somehow incapable.
It took Terry a split second to make up his mind. He hurtled out of concealment, vaulted the tie-rail at the side of the boardwalk, then dived across to the runaway. In a matter of seconds, he had dragged the snorting animal to a standstill and pulled down the barely conscious rider into the dust.
The man stirred weakly, and Terry watched him, gun ready. He gave a start as he saw the man had one hand bandaged.
“You, huh
?” he asked briefly, as the moonlight caught the man’s features. “The guy I shot twice in the Black Coyote tonight?”
“Yeah,” the puncher whispered. “Guess I’ve—I’ve packed more lead since then. That dirty skunk Swainson—”
He broke off, coughing thickly. Dark stain came to his lips.
“What gives?” Terry asked quickly, kneeling beside him. “How come you’re ridin’ with a slug in your lungs? What’s this about Swainson?”
“I—I—had ter tell him I—I weren’t sure if I got the dame or not—an’ jus’ fur that he put a bullet in me, then sent me ridin’.”
“Dame? You mean Hilda Marchland?”
“Yeah.” The puncher breathed hard. It was clear he had not got long. “Ter-night Swainson gave me a note—an’ a knife. He told me ter watch fur you an’ the gal leaving the Coyote. I was t’get the gal fust—then later mebbe get you, I was more’n willin’, I guess, after th’ way yuh’d shot at me. Only the gal looked round an’ saw me. I wasn’t takin’—”
“I know,” Terry interrupted. “You threw the knife and ran for it. Miss Marchland isn’t hurt. Then what? You reported to Swainson?”
“Sure—at his spread. He shot me fur not doin’ my job properly, shoved me on my cayuse, and sent it packin’. It just followed the trail, comin’ right back inter town here. I guess Swainson didn’t care where it went. He knew he’d got me an’ that I’d drop somewheres dead. I—I guess he wus right, too. I’m all in, Carlton.”
“You’re not so all in you can’t sign a statement before you die,” Terry snapped. “I want evidence of what you did, that you obeyed Swainson’s orders.”
The puncher said nothing. He lay breathing hard in the cold moonlight whilst Terry scribbled busily on a crumpled sheet of paper from his hip pocket. Finally, he hauled up the puncher’s head and shoulders and put the pencil in his hand.
“Sign it,” he ordered; and, too weak to argue the point, the puncher obeyed. The dim signature of ‘Al Naycross’ became visible.
Ghost Canyon Page 6
