“It’s not a reprieve, Carlton. 1 mean to cash in on what’s happened. The cattle are in the pastures, and Verdure’s in ruins—just the way I wanted it. The only thing wrong is the people aren’t away from the territory. So I guess it’s to their big, good-natured hearts whether they want you to die, or whether they’ll quit and let you live.”
“Meaning I’m a bargaining factor?”
“Right. I release you unharmed if they get on the move.”
“They don’t love me that much, Swainson, and even if they did and you did release me, I’d hound you down the minute I was free. I’d never rest until you’re either dead or brought to trial. That’s straight.”
“Mebbe.” Swainson eyed him narrowly, then turned to one of his men. “Len, get back to Verdure and tell those mugs there what the set-up is. They can have Carlton back if they agree to get on their way by sundown. They might as well: Verdure’s in ruins, anyways.”
“Expect me to go back there and git lead in me belly?” Len demanded. “I ain’t loco, boss.”
“You’ll get lead right now, you louse, if you don’t do as 1 tell you. They won’t shoot you until they’ve heard what you say. They’re kinda righteous that way. Now start movin’.”
Len gave an uneasy look, turned to Terry’s horse, mounted it, then began the ride back over the pastures to Verdure. Swainson motioned with the guns.
“We’ll go below, Carlton,” he said. “There’s grub down there, an’ it’s outa this blasted sunlight. After you.”
Terry began moving, keeping his hands raised. He gained the ramp and went slowly down it, Swainson and his three remaining men coming along in the rear. Then when Swainson saw the imprisoned corpse in the stone gears, he stopped and stared fixedly. It was a wrong move to make, too. Terry took instant advantage of the distraction and twirled round, lunging out with his fist.
Swainson jerked his head to one side just in time and fired, but he was some seconds late, and the force of Terry’s body cannoning into him deflected his aim. The bullet snicked stone somewhere, then Swainson really went down for the count as Terry spun about and came up with his left. The dim light stopped Swainson timing when to dodge and he got the fist clean in one eye. He toppled backwards on the slope, caught his foot in one of the wood slats, then crashed over.
Terry dived for him, twisting out of the grip of the three other men who hurtled on top of him. He fell flat on the gasping Swainson, missed getting the guns, but nonetheless kicked out of reach in the shadows.
Then hell descended on Terry as the three gunmen clawed, kicked, and battered at him, Swainson undermost and gasping with anguish as he, too, got the shock of the blows meant for Terry. Terry kicked out one foot and got in a lucky blow, doubling one man up with his hands at his stomach. The remaining two men redoubled their attack. Some of the blows Terry was forced to absorb, his head singing in consequence, but one savage punch missed him entirely and instead struck Swainson in the mouth. He gave a yell of pain and swore,
“Sorry, boss—” the man gulped; then his words snapped off as his jaws slammed together under the impact of Terry’s right fist. The man jolted upright and lost his balance, his tongue guillotined at the end and bleeding furiously.
Terry used every trick he could, foul and otherwise. With so many enemies, he had no time to be ethical. He brought his knee up into the stomach of the remaining man, then with his hands Terry caught the man at the back of the neck, dragged him down, overbalanced him, then pitched him several feet away.
Up came Swainson’s right, and Terry jolted back as he took it on the ear. He crashed down his right fist in retaliation, and it added anguishing fire to Swainson’s already bruised mouth.
But the ascendancy for Terry could not last long. One of the gunmen picked up the weapons from the shadows, and levelled them. Breathing hard, aching and bleeding from onslaught, Terry rocked into an upright position and held up his arms. Swainson got up, too, a hand at his damaged mouth.
“Okay, Carlton, that settles it,” he said bitterly. “I was going to hand you back in one piece in return for Verdure. After this, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll get Verdure by my own methods and finish you right now! Give me those guns, you,” he added, to the man holding them.
They changed hands. Terry remained motionless. He heard the hammers cock. Around him the gunmen were groaning a little from the punishment they had taken.
“This is it, fella,” Swainson said grimly—then he broke off and twirled as one of his men gave a shout.
“Look out, boss—above yuh!”
Terry glanced up. On the rim of the cavity stood a small group of men and women, looking down. Hilda was amongst them, pointing into the depths. These facts registered in split seconds in his brain, as they did in Swainson’s—then Swainson fired his guns. Above, three figures dropped, Hilda amongst them. Almost instantly a volley of shots came from above. The impact of the bullets swung Swainson round dizzily, clutching at his chest, across which a red stain appeared on his shirt. He half-tried to raise his guns again, then more bullets crashed into him. He dropped helplessly, the guns falling from him.
The remaining gunmen made to dive at them, but Terry was quicker. He tripped the nearest man up and stopped the next one with a vicious left jab. Then he had both the guns in his hands and jerked them fiercely.
“Up that ramp, all of you!” he barked out. “Quick, damn you!”
The men obeyed, hands raised. Terry took one moment to satisfy himself Swainson was riddled, then he hurried up the slope, left the gunmen to the care of his rescuers, and went straight over to Hilda. She was still conscious, but her hand was gripping her shoulder painfully. In a moment Terry had ripped the blouse sleeve away and examined the wound. He sighed with relief.
“Bullet passed on, kid,” he murmured, making a pad out of his kerchief. “Just scored you, that’s all.”
“Worth it, to save you,” she said, smiling faintly.
Terry looked about him at the gathered men and women, and then he frowned. Foremost amongst the rescuers was the big rancher who had attempted the necktie party. Terry realised now it had been he who had done the shooting which had got Swainson.
“What gives?” Terry demanded. “How come you all arrived at the right moment?”
“Y’can thank your wife fur that, Sheriff,” the big man replied. “She insisted our job was to help you and let Verdure wait till afterwards, so we followed right after you. I guess you were in sight all the way to the foothills; figgered you wus making for Star Canyon. We’d nearly got to it when we saw a horseman riding towards us. He came out with some phoney spiel about us having you safe it fur Verdure, so I shot him dead.”
“You what?” Terry asked, starting.
“Shot him.” The rancher shrugged. “He was a no-account killer anyways. We’ll never have peace in this territory till we blot out every black-hearted skunk that’s in it. I shot him after he’d told us you an’ Swainson were in the canyon here. I guess that’s all there is to it. If you want ter try me for murder, I’m pleadin’ self-defence.”
Terry shrugged. “I’m not trying you for anything, old-timer, after the way you saved me down there. And I don’t need to bring the law in, either. Swainson’s paid for everything at one sweep, and these two remaining guys hounded outa the territory for keeps. As for the evidence I collected, I guess I can turn it in and explain that Swainson got what was coming to him.”
“Or destroy it and start again,” Hilda said. “That would be better, Terry. Return all the stolen cattle, rebuild Verdure, and make a fresh beginning.”
“Up to the rest of you,” Terry said, looking about him. “Mebbe you still don’t want me as sheriff?”
“Yeah, we do,” said the big rancher, grinning. “Only I still say you’re too soft-hearted. Shoot to kill fust time.”
“I’ll remember.” Terry raised Hilda gently to him. “That is, if I need to,” he added. “From the way this territory’s been cleaned out, I guess we might be able to
live henceforth without ever drawing our guns.”
With his arm around Hilda, Terry held her close to him; despite the pain of her shoulder she smiled up into his eyes. There was a strange silence about the folk of Verdure as they looked at the happy couple, then the big rancher grinned again as he yelled:
“Folks, as your self-appointed deputy sheriff, I call for three cheers for the sheriff and his missus!” The crowd laughed and shouted their approval.
Up the walls of the canyon the cheers echoed and re-echoed, heralding the beginning of a new and law-abiding life for the people of Verdure.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
British writer John Russell Fearn was born near Manchester, England, in 1908. As a child he devoured the science fiction of Wells and Verne, and was a voracious reader of the Boys’ Story Papers. He was also fascinated by the cinema, and first broke into print in 1931 with a series of articles in Film Weekly.
He then quickly sold his first novel, The Intelligence Gigantic, to the American magazine, Amazing Stories. Over the next fifteen years, writing under several pseudonyms, Fearn became one of the most prolific contributors to all of the leading US science fiction pulps, including such legendary publications as Astounding Stories, Startling Stories, Thrilling Wonder Stories, and Weird Tales.
During the late 1940s he diversified into writing novels for the UK market, and also created his famous superwoman character, The Golden Amazon, for the prestigious Canadian magazine, the Toronto Star Weekly. In the early 1950s in the UK, his fifty-two novels as “Vargo Statten” were bestsellers, most notably his novelization of the film, Creature from the Black Lagoon.
Apart from science fiction, he had equal success with westerns, romances, and detective fiction, writing an amazing total of 180 novels—most of them in a period of just ten years—before his early death in 1960. His work has been translated into nine languages, and continues to be reprinted and read worldwide.
Matthew W. Japp was born in Glasgow on January 16, 1914, and moved to Manchester at the age of nine, where he later won a scholarship to Manchester Central High School. As was the convention at that time, he left school at fourteen, and his family moved to Blackpool, where young Matthew became the bread-winner when he started working with a grocery firm (his father being unable to work because he had been gassed during the Great War). He worked so assiduously that he was promoted to Branch Manager, and pursued a highly successful career in the grocery trade until his retirement.
During the War he was a special operator in the Royal Corps of Signals and served with the 8th Army in the desert, Malta, Sicily, and Italy. He was posted back to England in time for D-Day, then battled through Normandy, Holland, and Germany, gaining a mention in dispatches. On his return to Blackpool on demobilisation, he met John Russell Fearn and the two men became firm friends.
Fearn had founded the Fylde Writing Society, of which he was Chairman, and Japp became a member, along with his Belgian-born wife Nini. At first Japp had aspirations to write a book based on his action-packed war memoirs, but Fearn persuaded him that there were better opportunities in writing popular fiction, so Japp shelved his war memoirs—a decision he very much came to regret in later years.
After the war, Fearn had diversified from being a specialist science fiction writer to embrace detective novels, westerns, and even romantic fiction, and he was regularly weighed down with commissions to write westerns for several publishers at the same time. Japp had a facility for plotting novels, but lacked the experience to write them himself. To help him out—and to also help himself to meet his writing commitments—Fearn invited Japp to write a complete synopsis of western novels, with notes on the main characters and action. Fearn then did all of the actual writing, and privately paid Japp 25% of his income from the eventual sale of the books. The arrangement worked well, and no less than six collaborative westerns were quickly published by Scion Ltd. between February and October 1950: Bonanza, Firewater, Ghost Canyon, Lead Law, Rattlesnake, and Skeleton Pass.
Their collaborations then came to an end when Fearn signed a contract with Scion to write science fiction exclusively. But Fearn had encouraged Japp to attempt to write his own western novel, and he completed a book entitled Jackson’s Spread, which he sold to Brown Watson Ltd. in 1952.
After the sale, Japp waited eagerly for his first book to come out, but he never heard another thing from the publisher. As time passed, he was forced to the realisation that the book must never have been published. Discouraged, he gave up writing and concentrated on building up his grocery business,
In 1968, Philip Harbottle’s biblio-biography of John Russell Fearn, The Multi-Man, was publicised in a Blackpool newspaper, and Harbottle was contacted by many of Fearn’s former friends, including Matt Japp. Harbottle travelled to Blackpool to meet him and his wife Nini, and they became friends. Japp was able to supply many anecdotes, letters, and documents revealing valuable information about Fearn’s writings that enabled Harbottle to eventually uncover and track down hitherto unknown pseudonymous works by Fearn. Grateful for Japp’s assistance in finding hitherto unknown stories by Fearn, Harbottle offered to research whether or not Jackson’s Spread had ever been published by Brown Watson Ltd. He had a suspicion that it had been, but under a changed title and house name. He made a copy of its opening chapter from Japp’s own carbon copy, and set to work on a search that would take more than a dozen years before he discovered that it had been published in 1952 as Sudden Death under the house name of Paul Daner. In common with many of the small “mushroom” publishers, Brown Watson never sent out complimentary copies or notified their authors of title and byline changes (standard practice at the time)
Japp was delighted when Harbottle presented him with the copy. He was even more delighted in 2000 when Harbottle—having only recently found a second copy of the extremely rare book—submitted it to the UK hardcover publisher Robert Hale Ltd, and sold it. Hale published it under the new title of The Rancher’s Revenge, this time under Japp’s own name. Robert Hale would also republish some two dozen Fearn westerns, including his six collaborations with Japp.
Ghost Canyon is the first of this amazing centenarian’s westerns to be published in the USA, and others are in preparation.
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