Terry did not answer for a moment. He glanced down momentarily at his gun, weighing up chances. Swainson saw the movement and straightened his own gun up quickly.
“You’ll forget that hardware of yours for the time bein’, Carlton, if yore sensible,” he warned. “I’d take it from you, only it might be noticeable to the folks and they’d wonder why you’re not armed. Now get outside and talk, and if you flunk anything I’ll kill you anyway and take my chance.”
Terry moved forward and Swainson opened the door. He walked through the saloon with the gun to his back, Burridge bringing up the rear. By the time he had reached the boardwalk, Terry noticed that the people had closed in round the saloon in the moonlight and were evidently waiting’ restively.
“Well, Sheriff, what about it?” somebody shouted. “Do we get a posse together and go chasin’ these phantoms, or what?”
“Still sure they’re human, Sheriff, with Swainson and Burridge back of ’em?”
Terry looked about him, then to the eaves overhanging the edge of the boardwalk where the saloon roof reached down to its gutter. He mentally measured the distance.
“I guess I got the idea wrong,” he said deliberately. “The four horsemen are—”
He went no further. Abruptly his hands flew up, clamped on the edge of the low-hanging roof, and with a long vaulting swing he went hurtling over the rail and into the crowd below. Swainson cursed, his gun wavering. He couldn’t risk firing in the poor light. To distinguish Terry amongst so many people was impossible. Then Terry’s voice came constantly on the move, so he could not be pinpointed by the two men on the boardwalk.
“Folks, I take nothing back,” Terry shouted. “These two guys here are responsible for the ghosts; they admitted it back there in their office. They figger to chase me outa town and kick the rest of you out, too. Right now I’m going to find my wife. If any of you want to help me, let’s go—”
“What about these guys?” somebody yelled. “If that’s the game they’ve got, ain’t it time they was talked to, the hard way—”
Somebody fired from the edge of the crowd. Just in time Swainson jerked back, wood splintering from the roof pillar beside him. He fired savagely in retaliation…and that started it. A gun duel suddenly blazed out, the two men on the boardwalk backing into the safety of the saloon and sniping at intervals. For Terry it was a heaven-sent chance. He vaulted onto his horse, caught at the reins of Hilda’s mare, and then beat it out of town as fast as he could go.
It was not long, however, before he realised horsemen were following him. Prepared for the worst, he slowed up, his gun ready, when out of the distance and moonlight, as the pursuers came into view round a bend in the trail, came a shout:
“Don’t shoot, Carlton! We’re friends!”
Terry was prepared to expect deception, then changed his mind as a group of townspeople, all men, came speeding up. There were perhaps a dozen of them.
“We’re following along with you, Sheriff,” explained the man who had shouted. “We’re satisfied that you’re on the level even if some of the others aren’t. Wherever yore headed, we’ll stick by you.”
“We got provisions outa the general stores before followin’,” another added eagerly.
“Nice going, and thanks a lot,” Terry said gratefully. “How’s about Swainson and Burridge? Have they been shot yet?”
“Nope. I guess we’re the ones who did the shootin’, then we figgered we’d better follow you. Those left behind are too leery of Swainson and Burridge to attack ’em, I guess. It’s up to us to prove what kind of crooks those two are.”
“I’m going to search for my wife,” Terry said grimly. “When I’ve found her, I’m going to trace several thousand head of stolen cattle and try and solve the mystery of Star Canyon. I hope all of you know what it means, throwing in your lot with me?”
“Sure thing.”
“We ain’t worried, Sheriff. We always did figger Swainson an’ the Mayor were crooked as rattlesnakes, only there weren’t nothin’ we could do ’bout it ’til you came along.”
“It means,” Terry said, “that you’ll all be in the same class as outlaws. In fact, you won’t be able to return to Verdure without risking a bullet.”
“Them two critters running Verdure is the outlaws,” one of the men snapped. “And we’ll blast them before we’ve finished. Meantime we’ve got provisions an’ th’ hills ter live in.”
“Can’t want much more, I reckon.”
“Okay,” Terry exclaimed, relieved. “In that case let’s go. I’ve got to find my wife before anything else happens.…”
CHAPTER SIX
At the entrance to Star Canyon, Terry drew rein and looked about him. His followers gathered around in a group, their horses moving restlessly.
“I guess there are enough of us to make a proper search,” Terry said finally. “I’ll go straight forward along the canyon; an’ you three fellas come with me. The moonlight’s bright enough for us to spot anythin’ unusual. Three more of you go up the left-hand cliff face, and another three up the right. Search every rock and crack and gully. We’ll meet down here when we’ve finished. Okay? Let’s go, then.”
The various horsemen, their guns at the ready, deployed in the various directions Terry had indicated. He himself dropped from his horse and, with the three men he had ordered to work with him, began a careful study of the canyon floor. The moon had risen high now, at the full, its brilliance painting everything in a harsh pattern of black and white. Prints in the dust were easily distinguishable; so were the surrounding rocks and cliff faces.
Inch by inch, foot by foot, the ground was covered—until at length the narrowest neck of the canyon was gained. Terry came to a halt and pointed.
“That’s the spot, fellas—see where those tracks vanish? Our job is to find why.”
The men with him stared up at the cliff faces, their tops clear and grey against the shimmering stars. Dimly visible were the silhouettes of the other men investigating at the summit.
“I don’t rightly see, Sheriff, how four horses and men could disappear right here,” one of the men muttered. “Ain’t even’ reasonable. Can’t turn aside and can’t go up—’less they got wings.”
“Fact remains, they vanished,” Terry snapped. “And so did my wife, from right off her horse. She gave one scream—but by the time I’d gotten here she’d gone.”
“Yeah? Sounds like this cliff face may swing aside somehow. Naturally balanced rocks ain’t so unusual.”
“I thought of that,” Terry responded. “I can’t find a trace anywhere. The cliff faces are solid.”
There was silence for a moment, then a shout came floating from above.
“Any luck down there, Sheriff?”
“Not a thing,” Terry called back. “How’s it with you?”
“No dice. Ain’t nothing but rocks and tableland. I guess it wouldn’t be possible to lift four horses an’ men up here with ropes, if that was how it was done.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t,” Terry muttered, looking at the men around him. “All right, let’s eliminate possible methods until we get around to the right one. They couldn’t go upwards: it would be impossible to haul such weights without winches and cranes—and if Hilda had been dragged upward I’d have arrived to see it before she could have been hauled clear up the full distance.… And it isn’t a moveable cliff: I proved that in daylight.”
“So the only answer is the canyon floor—or ghosts,” one of the men said.
“It isn’t ghosts,” Terry assured him. “Swainson’s admitted that much. It’s all very material and logical—so that brings us to this canyon floor. Okay, we all concentrate on that.” He cupped his hands and yelled: “Okay, you fellas up there. Come down and lend a hand.”
This done, he and the men with him strung themselves out in a line, which was soon augmented as the other men came from above. Then, over a dozen strong, they went carefully over the ground, so arranging their moves that not one sectio
n of ground was left uncovered.
So intent were they on their task that they failed to notice that half a dozen other men had ridden up and were at the entrance to the canyon. Swainson, grim-faced, watched the proceedings for a while, then he motioned his head and he, Mayor Burridge and the four gun-hawks accompanying them drew into the cover of the rocks.
“Just what I figgered would happen,” Swainson said. “They’re trying to solve how that horsemen trick is pulled—an’ trying to find the girl, too, I s’pose.”
“Let ’em go on trying,” Burridge chuckled. “I guess they’ll not manage anythin’ even if they stick around here for fifty years.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Swainson retorted. “Carlton’s got his wife to find, don’t forget, an’ he’ll go the limit to do it. There’s just a chance he might find out how the trick’s done—’less we pull something first.”
“Such as?” Burridge growled.
“Well, he ain’t going out of the territory, as we told him, so mebbe we’d better take care of him after all and risk what happens afterwards.”
“Shoot, y’mean?” one of the gunhawks growled. “Ain’t so sure I like the idea uv that, boss. Must be more’n dozen men there—an’ there ain’t half that number uv us.”
“Who’s talkin’ about shooting?” Swainson snapped. “I’m thinking they’re right on the spot we want. Might be just one good chance to fix the lot of ’em at one sweep. Once we’ve gotten them in a bundle there ain’t nothing to stop them vanishing for all time. Hop to it, Curly, and see what you can do.”
“Y’mean—shove the rock?”
“Sure thing—and hurry up while they’re all in one spot.”
Curly nodded and sidled off into the moonlight. Swainson watched him go, and then turned as Mayor Burridge sighed:
“I don’t like it, Swainson. Trying to nab all these men you may miss some of them. They’ll escape, and in future they’ll know the whole secret. I think you’re taking too big a risk.”
“Who is?” Swainson demanded, and in his sudden anger at being questioned, he forgot to keep his voice low. It travelled on the still air. Terry raised his head from his activities.
“Somebody there—canyon entrance,” he muttered, fingering his gun. “Break up and move that way.…”
The men around him nodded and began to drift away from their site of operations. Swainson, abandoning his argument with Burridge, peered round the rocks—then gave a start.
“Beat it!” he said quickly. “They’re headed this way— Can’t fight a dozen of ’em!”
“But Curly—!” Burridge gasped. “If he shifts the rock like you told him, it’ll—”
“I’ll grab him,” Swainson snapped. “The rest of you get going back towards town. I’ll catch you up.”
He wheeled his horse round and jabbed in the spurs. To his annoyance, the animal whinnied in retaliation. Terry heard it distinctly and broke into a run, stumbling through the dust and loose stones, and watching intently for action as he ran.
By the time he had reached the canyon entrance there was no sign of any horseman. He came to a stop, trying to puzzle the thing out, the rest of his followers catching up with him.
“What gives?” one of them asked quickly.
“Dunno. There was somebody here: we heard ’em—”
“There’s two!” one of the men snapped, pointing. “Riding out there, heading for the trail.”
Terry watched intently for a moment. Two riders had abruptly emerged from the cover of towering rocks some distance away, and were beating it as fast as they could travel. The moonlight picked them out distinctly.
“Damn—no horses!” Terry looked about him in exasperation; then the gun of the man beside him exploded. Not that it proved of any use. The two men went on riding, gradually becoming lost to view in the common grey of the pastureland.
“Be Swainson and his boys, I s’pose,” the man next to Terry said, holstering his gun. “I thought I could pick one of ’em off and get him t’ talk. Light too bad, I guess.”
“Yeah.” Terry’s voice was thoughtful. “Wonder what they were doing back of those rocks there? It was something that delayed ’em or they’d have been on their way sooner. Might do worse than take a look. We haven’t explored round the back there—only on the top. Come on.”
He hurried forward until he gained the spot from which the two horsemen had emerged. At this point there were dozens of rock spires, large and small, jutting from the white dust of the ground. From the look of the prints in the dust two horses had stopped at this point, and quite distinctly one man’s footmarks were visible leading towards a curiously-fashioned needle of rock standing in comparative isolation.
Terry, the men beside him moved over to it, following the footmark trail. It was a smooth-faced rock, almost glazed, and upon it, dimly visible in the silvery light, were odd symbols and traceries.
“Say,” one of the men said abruptly, “that’s bin part of an Indian shrine at some time. Them marks are Indian. Quite a lot of ’em scattered around this territory. Throw back to the Aztec days, I guess.”
“We should have looked here sooner,” Terry said quickly. a new note in his voice. “The old Aztecs were renowned for their mines, and shrines, and underground haunts. I guess Arizona is riddled with such places if y’know where to look. Just what did those two horsemen—or one of ’em, apparent from the prints—want with this?”
He moved a little closer, passing his finger-ends over half obliterated ancient Aztec signs. Then he frowned and pushed a little. It had seemed to him that the stone moved very slightly. There was no longer any doubt of it when he gave a vigorous shove. Naturally balanced by some long-forgotten Aztec engineering skill, the thin obelisk tilted until it was at an angle of perhaps fifty degrees from the ground.
“I’ll be dog-goned!” one of the men exclaimed. “What d’you reckon that does, Sheriff?”
“It’s a lever,” Terry said, straightening up and considering the tilted stone. “What it operates I don’t know. No sign of anything around here having changed position—but mebbe in the canyon—”
He swung round, everything else forgotten, and went back at a half run to the canyon, his men racing behind him. Halfway up it, where the walls narrowed, they slowed down. Instead of a continuous trail of white dust there was an oblong opening, like the entrance to an extremely large grave.
“We got it, fellas!” Terry cried excitedly, hurrying forward. “More luck than judgment, I guess, but this is it! Take a look.…”
Breathing hard from their running the men stopped at the edge of the pit which had been born in the cavern floor. In its depths was total darkness, a wind blowing out of it which smelled of age and mildew.
“Simple enough,” one of the men said quickly. “Swainson an’ his boys musta found this ancient Aztec entrance to the underground an’ the lever that works it. So they cashed in on the idea to manufacture four ghosts—I don’t get even now how it works, but mebbe we will if we risk going below.”
“We’re going,” Terry said decisively. “Or anyways, I am. I’ve still got my wife to find. Up to you fellas if you want to come.”
He picked up a stone and dropped it into the hole to judge the distance below. It sounded as if it might be ten or fifteen feet drop.
“One or two of you stay above on guard,” he instructed. “And keep watch on the horses.”
The order given, he lowered himself over the rim, then dropped. It was a longer fall than he’d thought. He landed heavily with an impact which shook his teeth. Scrambling up he looked around him. He was in darkness on all sides, but the reflected star and moonlight through the opening above was sufficient to enable him to see he was on dusty ground—or so it seemed at first. It did not take him long to discover it was a solid oblong piece of stone, wide enough to comfortably accommodate four horses and men. Plainly, when the stone was in its normal place, it fitted exactly the hole above and drifting dust hid the hair-thin cracks where stone
touched the natural cavern floor.
Right at this moment Terry had no time to admire the long-gone engineering genius which had produced this secret entrance to an underworld retreat: he was too concerned in thinking of Hilda’s safety. He called a warning above, reminding his followers that it was a long drop. Then when five of them had dropped beside him, he began moving, striking a lucifer and peering into the dark.
“This ain’t a tunnel, sheriff; it’s one helluva cavern. Our voices even echo.”
“I think you’re right,” Terry acknowledged. “Let’s see how far we can get.”
He found his way to the edge of the stone flooring, to discover it had come to rest about a foot from the normal level of the cavern. Jumping down, he struck another lucifer and held the flickering flame so he could see underneath the naturally hydraulic platform.
“Stone balances,” he said, after a moment. “One diagonal stone bar on a massive stone hinge to the underside centre of this, platform. That connects with another long lever bar. All a matter of balance, I guess. Shifting that Aztec pole back in the rocks moves the lever bar and raises or lowers this platform. I guess that’s logical enough. If you’ve a lever long enough you could balance the earth itself under fingertip control. Depends where you get your fulcrum. These guys sure knew their job—”
“Say, you hear something?” one of the men asked abruptly, as Terry’s lucifer expired.
They were all silent in the total dark, hands on their guns. It was a darkness which aided their hearing, however, and presently they heard again the sound which had been apparent to the man near Terry.
“Cattle!” Terry whispered. “Lowing cattle—somewhere in this direction.”
He began moving slowly in the darkness, the man nearest him holding onto his belt. The distant sound of cattle did not come any closer, though it still acted as a directive. Terry paused at length, feeling around him carefully—then he risked another lucifer. The momentary flame, flickering in a strong draught, revealed the opening to a tunnel.
Ghost Canyon Page 9
