“I—I hope this gets Swainson in mighty bad,” he whispered. “He—he’s got it comin’—”
“What else do you know about Swainson?” Terry demanded. “Is he mixed up in some kind of cattle rustling and connected with the four phantom horsemen?”
He found he was talking to himself. The puncher had relaxed, his eyes fixed on the night sky. Terry shrugged to himself and hauled the body up, dumping it on the horse. He led the animal down the main street, halting it when he arrived outside the home of Bill Carson, the blacksmith. After a while Carson appeared, flinging open the screen door impatiently.
“What the devil d’yuh—” Then he broke off, his tone changing. “Oh, it’s you, Sheriff. What gives, this hour uv night?”
“The hour of night doesn’t matter if you’re a public servant,” Terry told him. “Here’s a body for burial—Al Naycross by name. Murdered. I got the particulars from him before he died. The rest of the job’s up to you; his horse you can take for auction in the livery market. Okay?”
“Okay,” Carson agreed, and hauled the corpse from the saddle. “Murdered, you say? Who?”
“That’s my worry. Just get on with your job and I’ll get on with mine. Let me have your certificate when the body’s been buried.”
With that Terry departed, satisfied that the legal side had been taken care of; but he did not set off for Swainson’s ranch and attempt to arrest him. Instead, he returned to Ma Granslade’s and went to bed. Sleep was essential if he were ever to keep alert; and it proved to be a long sleep, too. It was past nine in the morning when he awoke to the glare of the sun.
He shaved and dressed hurriedly, and then went down to breakfast. Hilda was the only other person present; everybody else had finished, which fact Ma Granslade herself wasn’t slow to mention.
“I’ve reg’lar hours fur my boarders,” she said, when she had put Terry’s breakfast before him. “I’d be obliged if yuh’i keep to ’em, sheriff or no sheriff.”
“Okay, Ma,” Terry assured her, smiling. “I had some night work to do; guess I overslept.”
Ma muttered something and then went out. Immediately, Hilda gave Terry an anxious look.
“How did you get on during the night?”
“Well enough. I got plenty of evidence, and ran into a murder as well.”
“Another murder?”
Terry gave the details as he ate his breakfast. He had finished it by the time his story was over, and Hilda carefully examined the invoices he handed to her. Her frown deepened after a while.
“From the look of these,” she said, “Dad was in receipt of about three thousand dollars every time he signed one of these invoices. What do you suppose became of the money? There was hardly anything in his account at the bank.”
“I can only hit in the dark,” Terry answered seriously. “My guess is that your Dad was a go-between between Burridge and some other party. There’s nothing there to show that the cattle deals were not legitimate, but I think that perhaps some gang has been stealing cattle—not necessarily in this territory—and passing them on to Burridge, your father acting as the medium between. As to the money, it doesn’t say that money was all your father’s; it may have been the amount paid to the thieves, for which your father was responsible. Probably he drew an agent’s percentage.”
“You refer only to Burridge, Terry? What about Swainson? Since it was he who tipped off that puncher last night to kill me, I suppose he’s mixed up in it, too?”
“Sure he is, but he’s smart enough to keep his name off any papers. I always said Burridge was a dimwit. I think Swainson is using him as a cat’s-paw.”
Terry took the notes back and considered. “That,” he said, “is how things look. Later we may confront Burridge or Swainson with this evidence and see how they wriggle. I’m expecting something to happen mighty fast when Burridge finds these invoices gone from his desk.”
“It’s part of the problem solved, perhaps,” Hilda said, thinking, “but it still doesn’t explain the ghost horsemen or the reason for them.”
“Sure it doesn’t?” Terry asked dryly.
“Well, I—I can’t see the connection. If cattle rustling is at the back of everything, what possible relation can it have to trying to scare away the populace?”
“The answer’s so simple I wonder I didn’t think of it before,” Terry said. “This town is called Verdure on account of its wonderful pasturelands, the best for miles around. Now, supposing Swainson, Burridge, and mebbe others have a whole flock of stolen cattle somewhere and need good pastures to fatten them before selling? What better place to feed them than right in this territory? But how can they do it unless everybody is scared right out of town—except, of course, those who know what’s going on.”
Hilda snapped her fingers. “You’ve got it, Terry!”
“I think I have. And the longer the delay in scaring everybody out of town, the more the stolen cattle will suffer. They must have the best grazing land if they are to be worth selling. Since they’re hidden somewhere, they can’t be enjoying life at the moment. From here on, since last night, I told everybody to stay put and fight. Swainson, Burridge, and others may try everything they can to be rid of me and those who support me—you included.”
“And the cattle? Where do you think they might be?”
“I dunno. Star Canyon perhaps. Anyway, I’m convinced those four horsemen are purely a means to an end. Of course, I’ve no proof as yet that the cattle referred to have been stolen, but it seems mighty likely.”
“Can’t have been stolen from any ranches about here,” Hilda said, “or we’d have heard about it. And what about Swainson?” she added quickly. “Now you have proof that he ordered Al Naycross to knife me, and afterwards shot him because he bungled it, aren’t you going to arrest him?”
Terry shook his head. “That wouldn’t be good policy. With him arrested, the mainspring might fall out of the plan aimed against this territory, and we’d never solve it. It would also let a lot of smaller fish go free. Best thing is to let him carry on, unaware that I know the facts. He’ll hear about Naycross being buried, of course, and that he was murdered—but he won’t know I’m aware of the killer’s identity.” Terry got to his feet, and Hilda, her meal finished, did likewise.
“We’ve Dad’s funeral to attend,” she said quietly. “You haven’t forgotten?”
“Nope. I’m coming home with you while you change into black. I don’t trust you being left by yourself after last night.”
They left the rooming-house together and returned down the main street to the girl’s dwelling. Whilst she disappeared into her bedroom to don black, Terry did what he could with a piece of black cloth round his shirt sleeve.
When he saw her again he was surprised how little black suited her. The crinoline-style dress and poke bonnet with ribbons under the chin made her look ten years older.
“This was mother’s,” she explained. “I kept it back against a time like this when I might have to use it.”
Terry nodded, but he said nothing. He took the girl’s arm, and they went down the front path. From the gate to the graveyard at the back of the tabernacle on the outskirts of the town it was only ten minutes’ walk. Such a thing as a funeral procession was unknown in this region. One dead body more or less meant nothing, just as long as the last rites were performed.
Most of the people of Verdure seemed to be present round the oblong grave Bill Carson had prepared. Whilst he gave the short funeral service from a worn Bible, Terry glanced about him. He noticed that Mayor Burridge and Swainson were both present, their hats off, both looking very solemn. It made Terry writhe inwardly that they could have such gall; then it occurred to him that as prominent citizens there was little else they could do but attend. Marchland had been a pretty respected man in the district.
Throughout the proceedings Hilda kept her face averted, and when the crude coffin was lowered into the earth, she turned away. Terry followed slowly after her as she went down the
churchyard. He had just caught up with her when an unfamiliar voice spoke.
“You’re the sheriff around here, ain’t you, sir?” Terry turned in surprise. A burly, middle-aged man, travel-stained, red-faced, was advancing towards him.
“That’s right,” Terry assented, nodding to the star-badge on his shirt. “Anything wrong, stranger?”
“You won’t know me—I’m from Winslow way. I took the stage specially to have a word with th’ sheriff of this burg. You busy right now?”
“Not now.” Terry glanced towards the assembly moving from Marchland’s grave. “We’ve been burying this young lady’s father—he was the victim of a killer.”
“Mighty bad,” the stranger sympathised, as Hilda gave a wan glance. “I figgered somethin’ important must be goin’ on ’cos I couldn’t find anybody when I rode inter town. Anyways, can we go to your office, sheriff?”
“Sure thing—an’ you’d better go back to Ma Granslade’s, Hil, and wait for me.”
“I’ll come with you that far,” she said. “Be safer.”
The stranger gave a mystified look but didn’t ask any questions. Nor did he say anything until he and Terry were behind the closed door of the sheriff’s office.
“It’s about stolen cattle,” the stranger said. “My name is Art M’Cord, and I run the Twelve-K spread near Winslow. Around my territory there’s mebbe twenty other spreads, each havin’ some of the biggest corrals an’ best cattle yuh could wish t’see. Leastways they did, until some Dad-blamed bandits recently started to do some thievin’.”
“Carry on,” Terry invited, listening attentively.
“These stealings have bin going on now fur about three months. All of us have lost a good deal of cattle. We got the sheriff to get together a posse an’ we started searchin’—but we couldn’t find them blamed steers anywheres. But we did find some trails, and they come straight in this direction—or at least towards yonder mountains. We had a pow-wow to see what could be done, an’ finally I got meself delegated to make inquiry down here. It’s the nearest town to the mountain range, an’ it looks like you might be able t’help with some information.”
“Have you any idea of the exact number of cattle stolen?” Terry asked.
M’Cord rubbed his big chin. “Not exactly. All I can say is there’s a helluva lot of ’em. I can’t rightly figger how anybody could keep that number uv steers outa sight.”
“Obviously they can,” Terry replied, musing. “Later, all that will be necessary will be to change the brands, or burn them off entirely, and that will be that. I’m glad you came to inquire, M’Cord. You’ve helped me more than you realise.”
“Y’mean you have an idea where them cattle might be?”
“Not right now, but I’ve a notion who’s back of them being stolen. Best thing you can do is return home and mount guard all round your territory. Get a permit from your sheriff to shoot on sight if you find any thieving—and leave me to sort the rest out from here. The moment I’ve some definite news about your cattle I’ll contact you, either direct or through your sheriff.”
“Good enough for me,” M’Cord said, satisfied. “Yuh look like a guy who knows his job. Well, I guess I’ll grab meself some food and a rest and then be gettin’ back home. Mighty nice t’have met yuh, Mr. Carlton.”
Terry shook hands, and then stood thinking when M’Cord had gone. He looked about the office for a while. It had only just occurred to him that this was the first time he had occupied it in an official capacity; but he had little doubt that everything in the nature of evidence to help his cause had been removed long since, either by Burridge or Swainson.
There was a sudden sound at the office door. Terry came back from preoccupation and found himself looking at Swainson. His thin face was smiling deceptively.
“Gettin’ bedded in?” he inquired, looking about him.
“Uh-huh.” Terry waited for the next, an eyebrow raised.
“Just wonderin’ about tonight,” Swainson added, resting an elbow on the roll-top. “Are we still keeping to the plan we mapped out—to set a watch on Star Canyon?”
Terry shook his head. “No, I’ve changed my mind. I want to work out a different strategy. I’d intended telling you later to cancel tonight; since you’ve looked in that’s saved me the trouble.”
“Yeah.” Swainson seemed to be having difficulty in not looking surprised. “What do you aim to do, then? Let these phantom raiders do as they like if they show up?”
Terry gave a grim smile. “If we’re on the look-out for them, Swainson, they won’t show up. They’re controlled by somebody—or a group of men—in this town. Those men know right now we had intended going tonight to waylay the spooks—so naturally they’ll call the whole thing off.”
“Could be,” Swainson agreed, without moving a muscle. “Which means they’ve a better chance of showing up if we don’t watch for them?”
“Right. Tell everybody else concerned that that plan is off. I’m going to work out a different strategy. Soon as I’ve done it I’ll tip you off.”
Swainson took his elbow from the roll-top and considered; then he asked a casual question: “Who was the big stranger who came to see you?”
“Private business, Swainson. You’re not entitled to know.”
“Okay, don’t get sore—and don’t get too big for your boots, either. No sheriff lasts long around here if he don’t play the game the way it should be played. Anyway, I’ve a reason for coming here. I could have mentioned it at the graveyard, only it wasn’t a good moment with so many mourners around. I’m reporting a theft on behalf of Mayor Burridge.”
“Yeah?” Terry’s eyes narrowed. “Is Mayor Burridge incapable of telling me himself?”
“Nope, but I happened to be coming this way to my saloon and he wasn’t. He’s had some cattle consignment bills stolen—sometime during the night. Signs of the window in his living room having been broken into. He figgered you might look into it—as sheriff.”
“Mebbe I will,” Terry agreed. “I’ve two other jobs on first, though. The murder of Al Naycross and the attempted murder of Miss Marchland. I guess they have first call on my time.”
Swainson hesitated, then he shrugged. He was still poker-faced.
“Okay, up to you. All I’m doing is reporting. Let me know when you’ve gotten that new strategy worked out.”
With a nod, he turned and left the office. Not very long after him, Terry departed too, and went over to Ma Granslade’s. He found Hilda quite safe in the big living room, apparently waiting for him to show up.
“I got worried,” she said. “I’ve been watching through the window, and I saw first that big fellow who wanted to talk to you leaving, and then Swainson. I wondered if between them—”
“There’s no connection between them, Hil,” Terry interrupted. “I gathered enough from the stranger—M’Cord by name—that the cattle we’re wondering about were stolen, and as far as Swainson is concerned, I’ve laid a trap.”
“How—a trap?”
Terry filled in the details and then explained: “I’ve called off the Star Canyon hunt tonight on purpose. We’d have wasted our time. If Swainson or Burridge are back of the phantoms, they naturally would lie low, knowing an attack was pending. Now I’ve called it off, it is possible the phantoms will appear. If they do, that satisfies me that it’s Swainson or Burridge who are back of them.”
“Yes, but what do we do? Sit still and wait?”
“No. We watch Star Canyon on our own account, just you and I, and this time we’ll see if we can’t solve the riddle of where those horsemen go to. Once we’ve got that, we’ve probably got the key as to where the cattle have been hidden. Right now we’ll go back to your place and stay there until evening—unless you think we could better occupy the time by getting married?”
Hilda hesitated, so Terry developed the situation quickly. “Your father’s buried now, Hil; it can’t make much difference whether we marry now or next year. I think it should be as so
on as possible if I’m to protect you adequately.”
“Very well,” Hilda agreed quietly. “I suppose it is the most sensible course—but give me time to find something a little less drab than this dress.”
“Come along back home and take your time finding something,” Terry suggested, taking her arm.
CHAPTER FIVE
By four o’clock in the afternoon Terry and Hilda were man and wife. They both retained black bands about their arms, in respect to Marchland, but otherwise they were grimly determined to go on with the business of living, both feeling more secure now they had the legal right to live side by side.
They had no celebration meal, no anything. They were thinking of nightfall and a job that had to be done. Both of them had the instinctive feeling that the calm in which they were at present existing would explode any minute. Neither had any illusions about the fact that Swainson, or Burridge—or both—would make a definite move before long, in case their own plans were thrown into confusion.
Towards sunset Terry left the house with Hilda beside him. Ostensibly they went to pay up Ma Granslade—and Terry to get his horse—but actually their aim was to see if anything seemed to be stirring in the town itself. Apparently nothing was. The twilight gloom was upon it, and the shutters were being put up to the windows.
“Do you suppose anybody will say anything with you not having been in your office today?” Hilda asked, as they walked back home with Smoky behind them.
“Let them,” Terry shrugged. “As long as I’m sheriff, I’ll go where I wish and do as I choose.”
So Hilda said no more. Since Terry seemed to know what he was doing, there was no reason why she should worry—but she did just the same. She moved about with the constant feeling that a knife would suddenly flick from somewhere, or a bullet would be fired, meant either for her or Terry.
She was thankful when they gained the comparative safety of home again. There was nothing to do now but wait for darkness to completely fall; then they could be off under the friendly cover of the night sky.
Ghost Canyon Page 7
