Читать книгу Ghost Canyon - John Russell Fearn - Страница 5

CHAPTER ONE

It was nearly sunset when Terry Carlton loped his weary sorrel over the rise. Then he drew rein and sat motionless. For a while horse and rider were part of the flaming vermilion sky, vignetted by the towering rocks at the fringe of Pinga Mountains.

Terry Carlton was as tired as his mount. The journey he had covered had been a long one, through the midst of burning sun with few water holes. And now he had gained a rimrock overlooking a small, unmapped town. For a long time Terry Carlton sat gazing at it thoughtfully.

“Guess I never heard of this burg, Smoky,” he murmured, and his mount pricked up his ears. “Nothing queer in that, though: dozens of these sorta places scattered around.”

He cuffed up his dusty Stetson and considered the scenery. In the immediate foreground on his left were the mountains, their bases already purpling with the coming of night. To the right were the endless stretches of the desert. In the distance lay pastureland—rich, verdant, greying in the evening—and beyond it a town of sorts.

It looked ramshackle, like all these Western outposts, and indeed something more. It had an oddly deserted aspect. There should have been some sign of lights; in the buildings of the main street, Kerosene flares ought surely to have been glowing here and there.… But there was nothing.

“Mebbe a ghost town,” Terry murmured, flicking the reins. “Not that it makes any odds: just as long as we can settle for the night.… On your way, Smoky.”

The animal began moving again, down the long, dusty slope which led into the valley. The gloom intensified as the last dying rays of the sun were cut off by the mountain range. By the time Terry had reached the trail which led to the town’s main street, only a few minutes separated him from the sudden intense dark of the Arizona night. HR slowed the horse’s pace, staring ahead, still baffled. It looked as though the town was completely empty. Not a soul, not a movement.

“Keep goin’,” he murmured, and the horse obeyed. Then, as he came to the halfway line on the main street, Terry realised he had been mistaken. There were lights, but they were nearly obscured by heavy wooden shutters closed across the insides of the windows. This in itself was one of the most surprising things Terry had yet struck. In the dozens of Western towns he had seen, none had ever had shutters.

There were lights behind the windows of the big Black Coyote Saloon—which had top-to-bottom swing entrance doors instead of the normal half-size batwings.

There were lights, too, behind the shuttered windows of several of the dwellings. The general stores, however, together with the livery stables and the various offices of law and order—if any—were completely unlighted.

“Queer,” Terry said, half aloud. “Darned queer.” He was debating the idea of pulling up outside the Black Coyote and going in for a drink when a sudden distant fan of light caught his eye. It came from the doorway of one of the small shack-like dwellings at the far end of the street and only lasted for a matter of seconds; then it expired again and the darkness was complete.

“More chance of a bite to eat there, fella, than drinkin’ on an empty stomach,” Terry muttered. “Might as well see what gives.”

He nudged his mount onwards, then dropped wearily from the saddle when he reached the gateway of the solitary wooden dwelling. In the darkness which had now dropped, he could see few details beyond the whiteness of the building’s front. Tying Smoky to the gatepost, he went up the short path, then up the steps to the screen door. He knocked sharply and then dropped a hand to his single .45, just in case.

There was a long pause. He knocked again. He couldn’t be dead sure of it, but he thought for a moment that he saw the white outline of a face looking at him from a lower window, as though the shutter had been drawn back and the light extinguished behind. Then came sounds of movement, the glow of a lamp through the glass of the door behind the screen—and finally a dark-headed girl, the lamp held at shoulder level, came and looked out onto the porch.

“Yes?” she asked quietly, and Terry gave a little start as he saw she was holding a gun steadily. She looked as though she might know how to use it, too.

“Er—beggin’ your pardon, ma’m.” Terry raised his hands and touched the brim of his dusty hat as he did so. “I’m askin’ for a night’s rest for myself and my horse, an’ mebbe some grub and coffee. I can pay for it and I’ll bunk anywheres: in a stable if need be.”

The girl said nothing. Her gun remained pointed. Terry looked at her intently. The lamp revealed well-cut features and a very straight nose. Her mouth and chin were decisive; her eyes seemed black or dark blue. She, for her part, saw only a six-footer with lean, powerful hands, and narrow hips, a friendly grin on his young but craggy face.

“You don’t speak like a saddle tramp,” she said, “yet that is what I assume you are?”

“You don’t speak like most of the dames—I mean gals—one meets out here,” Terry countered, a twinkle in his grey eyes.

“I had an education of sorts—in Columbus.” The gun lowered and, in a different tone, the girl added, “Come in.”

“Thank you, ma’m.”

Pulling off his Stetson to reveal curly, ginger-tinted hair, Terry stepped past the girl into the narrow neck of hall, then, as she closed and bolted the doors, he followed her into a cosy, oil-lit living room. There was a fair supply of furniture, a skin rug or two, the inevitable shutters over the window.…

A big fellow, sixtyish, got up from a rocker and stood by the fire, eyeing Terry intently.

“Howdy,” Terry said, smiling and extending his hand; then he frowned as the upright older man took no notice. “It’s all right, Dad,” the girl said, laying the revolver on a side table. “He talks pleasantly. Obviously not one of the usual type around here. Er—this is my father,” she added, as Terry waited. “The name’s Marchland. I’m Hilda Marchland.”

“Terry Carlton,” Terry said, as the girl’s father now shook hands. “Glad to know you, sir—and you, Miss Marchland.”

“What do you want here?” Marchland asked briefly, and a pair of deep blue eyes pinned Terry intently.

“Nothin’ more than a meal and a chance to bunk for the night. Then I’ll be on my way.”

“Where are you headed?”

Terry shrugged. “No place in particular. I used to be foreman at the Tilted K in Montana, but I got sore with the boss and took to the trail. Since then I’ve just wandered around usin’ up what I’d collected of my payroll. I’ve come clean across Wyoming, Utah, and Nevada. Now I’m in Arizona. When my money’s gone, I’ll settle. I kinda like to wander.”

Marchland compressed his lips. He looked a fierce old devil, with the high cheekbones and reddish skin of a North American Indian. Possibly it was in his ancestry somewhere. Then when he grinned to reveal big, rugged white teeth, there was a complete transformation.

“Okay, son—stay till you’re rested. Guess I’ve no objections. My gal’ll see to a meal—an’ your horse. You left it outside?”

“At the gatepost, sir.”

Marchland nodded and looked at his daughter. There was a certain relief in her expression. She stepped forward into the lamplight and Terry settled a problem which had bothered him. Her eyes were not black but deep violet, like her father’s.

“Fix things up, Hil,” her father said. “I’ll have a word with Mr. Carlton while you do it. An’ don’t forget your gun when you stable his horse.”

“Gun?” Terry repeated, startled. “What’s the idea? What do you aim to do with my cayuse?”

“Stable it, son, and feed it—like we’d do with any horse.” The big fellow was silent for a moment, then added: “The gun’s for my gal to protect herself with. Never know around here.”

“Oh—I see.” And Terry stood waiting and wondering.

There was an atmosphere of complex mystery about everything which he couldn’t understand.

“Sit ye down,” Marchland invited, and returned to his own rocker by the fire at the same time. “I guess Hil won’t be long gettin’ some grub together for you.”

“Naturally, I want to pay for everything,” Terry said, and put his hat on the small rail under his chair.

“Forget it. I know the law of the range as good as anybody: give what you have to the traveller, and if you haven’t got anything, wish him luck. Only Christian, I reckon.”

“Yeah—and thanks. I wasn’t too sure of my welcome when your—er—when Miss Marchland pointed a gun at me round the door. Never had that sort of a greeting before.”

“I’ll apologise for it right now,” Marchland smiled. “It’s just that we have to be careful. Might have been—anybody,” he finished vaguely.

Terry gave a mystified nod. He realised the big fellow was still studying him searchingly, as though trying to assess just how much good he was.

“So you’re moving on?” Marchland said finally, and began to clean out the pipe he’d taken from his shirt pocket. “You’re mighty sensible, son. Guess that’s what all of us’ll be doing before long. I’d have gone long ago, only—well, I guess my roots are mighty deep. Born and bred here in this self-same house. Mother and father died here—an’ my wife, when Hil was born. Looks like the good God took one and gave one to sort of even things up a bit. I ain’t resenting it; just say it’s a bit hard, that’s all.”

“I’m—sorry,” Terry said quietly.

“What for? Life’s life, ain’t it? I’m not kickin’. Only thing I am sorry for is to have to get out of here. But I must—an’ Hil. An’ everybody, before we’re through.”

There were sounds of movements in the rear of Terry, and the flutter of a cloth as the girl spread it on the table. Terry frowned and thought for a moment. Then he said: “Can’t think why you want to move on, sir. As I rode into town I couldn’t help but notice what grand pastures you have around here. Best I’ve seen for over a hundred miles. Why on earth do you want to leave?”

“Don’t want to,” Marchland growled. “Got to!”

“Bought out, do you mean?”

“No,” Hilda said, in the background, setting out crockery. “Because of ghosts.”

Terry hesitated for a split second, then he grinned. “Ghosts? Who are you tryin’ to kid?”

“Honest truth, son,” Marchland said. “This whole territory is hag-ridden, and Verdure ain’t safe either. Verdure’s the name of this town, case you don’t know. Called that on account of the pastureland. Ain’t nothing like it anywheres.”

“But ghosts—” Terry protested.

“I don’t believe in them,” the girl said, as though to defend herself, and her violet eyes met Terry’s steadily as he turned to look at her. “It’s Dad here who thinks they amount to something. I say there aren’t such things—and if they’re there, it must have a human explanation. Naturally, I don’t get listened to. The folks in this town have lived their own little narrow lives for so long they’re up to their necks in superstition. Even Dad—sorry though I am to say it.”

“I sometimes think I made a mistake in giving the gal a decent education,” Marchland mused. “It’s made her that she ain’t got time for anything outside material things. I reckon ghosts are just as natural as th’ wind an’ the rain. Specially round here, ’cos there’s cause for them.”

“Here’s your meal, Mr. Carlton,” the girl said deliberately, and it sounded as though she were trying to change the subject. But her father was not shaken that easily from his course.

“’Specially round here,” he repeated, as Terry set to work on the stew which the girl ladled out for him. “Long ago this was Indian territory. The whites moved into it. There was a massacre of the whites by the Indians. Four whites—all men—vowed that they’d return from the dead and haunt the territory. They died more horribly than all the others in the party. For many years the folk around here have reported seeing four horsemen riding the night—like they came out of the Apocalypse; and just recently they’ve been seen more’n ever! I’ve even seen ’em myself.”

“Probably four saddle tramps in a hurry,” Hilda said in contempt. “You and the Apocalypse, Dad! It’s fantastic!”

“There’s a parallel for everything I say,” her father snapped. “Four horsemen in the Apocalypse. Why not four horsemen here? In each case they’re ghosts, ain’t they?”

“You ever seen them, Miss Marchland?” Terry asked, breaking a piece of bread.

“Once. Moving fast, away to the south, in the moonlight. But nothing will ever convince me they were ghosts.” Hilda moved towards the fire and stood with her back to it. The flames outlined her slender figure in the cheap cotton dress.

“And what’s all this got to do with your moving?” Terry asked.

“Because everybody in town’s scared!” Hilda flared back. “Or most of them, anyway. According to the legend of the massacre, the four who swore to come back said they would one day lay this entire territory to waste in revenge for their deaths. It hasn’t happened up to now, but everybody’s so convinced that it will before long—because the horsemen are seen so frequently these days—that they are moving on. Those that have not yet gone shutter themselves in by night, don’t go out except by the byways and alleyways, and always with their guns ready. That’s why I met you with a gun. It wasn’t my idea—it was Dad’s.”

“You’ve got to protect yourself, gal!” Marchland insisted.

“With a gun? Against ghosts? What use do you suppose a gun would be?”

There was silence. Something in the girl’s healthy contempt for spirits made Terry grin. She noticed it and frowned. “Did I say something amusing, Mr. Carlton?”

“Nope. I was just thinking. You seem to be one alone in a community of frightened people. Or at any rate you were one alone. So happens I don’t believe in ghosts, either.”

The silence came back. Marchland gave an ominous stare, and Terry drank some coffee unconcernedly. “Not to believe in ’em is blasphemous!” Marchland snapped.

“Sorry, sir, I don’t agree.” Terry shook his head. “When you’re used to riding under a clear sky in the fresh wind you just can’t believe in spooks.”

The girl came forward at that, her eyes bright. She flashed a triumphant glance at her father.

“Somebody on my side at last, Dad!” she exclaimed; then to Terry she added quickly: “I’ve been trying for long enough to get Dad to bury his silly superstitions and instead make an effort to find out the reason for these phantom riders. Only he won’t. In fact, nobody will—not even the sheriff, and he’s supposed to be the guardian of law and order around here. Everybody’s plain scared, and rather than face up to the reality they’re all walking out.”

Terry became thoughtful as he continued with his meal. “How often do these ghosts appear?” he asked presently.

“Almost nightly at present,” Hilda answered. “Sometimes they are at a distance by the mountains; sometimes quite near, but so far they haven’t carried out their supposed threat of laying the territory to waste. I don’t think they ever will. I think they may be outlaws or range riders who happen to pass in this direction each night. There being four of them superstition attaches to the legend.”

“How do you see them if it’s dark?” Terry gave a puzzled look. “Are they illuminated or something?”

“They’re in white—and their horses are white.”

“Yeah—’cos they ain’t of this world!” Marchland snapped. “How much longer are you goin’ to blaspheme, gal, against things which come from the Other World?”

Hilda gave him a scornful look; then Terry spoke.

“I guess there are two sides to this business, Mr. Marchland,” he said. “All due respect to you, sure, but your daughter’s entitled to her opinion and so am I. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I won’t settle definitely for that until I’ve had a look for myself. What chance is there of seeing them tonight?”

“Every chance,” the girl answered, glancing at the clock. “They usually appear around midnight in the mountain foothills or on the trail which leads that way. I saw them once, and from then on Dad forbade me to leave home at night, After that the sheriff issued an order that everybody was to stay put and shutter their windows and bar their doors during the hours of darkness.”

Terry got on his feet and took his gun from his holster. He jerked it open and eyed the loaded chambers.

“This is good enough insurance for me against ghosts,” he said. “I’ll take a ride around until midnight and see if I can spot anything. I’ll soon decide then whether we’re dealing with spooks or not.”

“I’ll come with you,” Hilda said, turning to the door which was evidently that of her bedroom.

“You’ll stay right here, gal!” her father snapped. “1 gave you an order, an’ I mean to see you obey it! If Mr. Carlton wants to go, that’s his business, but no daughter of mine is—”

“I’m going, Dad,” the girl interrupted deliberately. “1 mean no disrespect to you, but this is the chance I’ve been waiting for—to have a man by my side who thinks as I do. As a lone woman trying to knock sense into a lot of superstitious fools, I’ve had no chance—but it’s come now, and I’m taking it. I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Carlton.”

Terry nodded and began to roll himself a cigarette. He looked under his eyes at old man Marchland as he stood frowning into the fire. Finally, he flung himself back in his rocking chair and scowled.

“I don’t see you can blame your daughter, sir,” Terry remarked, striking a lucifer on his thumbnail. “If these ghost are phoney, it lets out everybody in town. They don’t need to move on. You said yourself you don’t want to, so surely—

“I’m saying no more,” Marchland snapped, with a fiery glare. “I just say it isn’t right to dabble in things beyond us.”

“Yeah?” Terry gave a dry smile as he inhaled smoke. “Never yet found anything that was beyond me. Usually a six-shooter solves more mysteries than any durned sheriff—”

He turned quickly as Hilda reappeared. She had change quickly into a riding skirt and blouse, a leather mackinaw placed slackly across her. Terry’s eyes travelled to the gun swinging at her hip as she tied a floral kerchief about her dark hair.

“You wear a gun like you’re usta it, Miss Marchland,” Terry commented, and she turned to smile at him.

“You just can’t afford not to be used to it in this region, Mr. Carlton.” She turned to her father and kissed his forehead. “’Bye for now, Dad. And don’t worry so.”

He said nothing. Terry gave the girl a glance, then opened the door for her. Together they passed through the hall and presently gained the moonlit porch. A cold but gentle wind stirred about them.

“I’ll get the horses,” the girl said. “I’d bedded yours down for the night. Do you suppose he’ll be able to make the trip, or has he done enough for one day?”

“I imagine he has,” Terry said with regret. “Unless you can loan me another one, I’m afraid he’ll have to try—”

“I’ll fix it,” Hilda said, dodging away into the gloom. “I’ve a mare you can borrow.”

Terry nodded and lounged down the pathway to the gate. He opened it and then stood looking down the dark stretch of the main street. It went straight into the black vista of the town. It was a sombre, unnerving scene, the buildings turned into leprous white by the reflected light of the rising moon. It might have been three in the morning instead of around half-past nine.

Then the girl returned, mounted, leading the mare beside her. Terry vaulted easily into the saddle and followed the girl as she turned away from the town and headed instead for the open trail, down which Terry himself had come only a little while before.

In a matter of minutes all traces of Verdure had been left behind, and they were cantering along easily in the fresh night wind, the stars about ready to drop out of the cloudless dome overhead.

Terry glanced about him, determining his surroundings as he remembered them from his ride at sunset. As usual, the Western night was impressive, giving Terry the conviction that he and the girl were alone in the universe. The night wind brought with it the intangible aroma of untamed spaces, the smell of the mesa and desert, mixed also with the scent of pine. There was not a sound across the motionless expanses of brittle-bush to either side of the trail. No sign of activity until a night bird fled close beside the girl’s head. Far away, disturbing the silence at last, was the remote bass roar of a mountain lion.

To left and right the illimitable brittle-bush fields rolling into the wastes of the desert: behind, a town full of frightened people. Ahead, the mighty pinnacles of the mountain range, their saw teeth cutting fantastic diagonals and segments into the gleaming backdrop of the stars.

Terry drew a deep breath and smiled to himself. This was life as it ought to be, made even more so by the presence of the girl at his side. He found himself thinking how naturally he seemed to have become acquainted with her; how completely she evidently trusted him to thus ride with him through the night.

They were nearing the mountain foothills when she broke her long silence.

“I’ve seen the ghost riders more than once, Mr. Carlton,” she said, “only I didn’t dare say so before Dad. You can see how he feels about such things. Not that I blame him really, since he has never seen anything of the world beyond Verdure— However, to get back to my topic. Each time I’ve seen the riders they have gone through Star Canyon, over yonder.”

She drew rein and pointed. Terry drew up beside her. In the pale light of the rising moon, he studied the foothills ahead. At one point the mountains came down to a lower level and were split in a gigantic ‘V’, to the very base of which the stars glittered. The actual trail leading into the canyon was as yet indistinguishable from the all-surrounding greyness.

“I’ve always seen them from a distance,” Hilda added. “I didn’t dare go too close in case anything happened. Now I have you with me I’ll take the risk.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Terry murmured.

“I don’t hand them out for the sake of it.” The girl’s voice had its usual directness. “I can tell from your manner and voice that you’re not any ordinary saddle-tramp. I feel safe with you. I never have with any other man around here.

“Thanks again,” Terry grinned, and he could see her face turned to him in the moonlight. “Let’s get nearer that canyon and see if anything happens. You lead the way: I’m foreign around these parts.”

Hilda nodded and spurred her mount forward again. Terry kept close beside her, and presently they hit the rocky incline which led to the canyon trail. Before they had moved halfway along its length, however, the girl moved, her horse to one side. Terry followed her through an outcropping of small cedar trees and they emerged again on a higher level of ground studded with rock spurs.

“Here’s a good place,” Hilda said, dismounting. “We can tie the horses here and then, by lying on our faces at the rimrock over there, we can see the riders if they pass through the canyon.”

Terry nodded and dropped to the ground. In another three minutes he and the girl were lying on their faces at the extremity of the small tableland, their heads projecting very slightly over the edge of the rimrock so they had a view of the canyon entrance a hundred feet below. They took care that they were not too far over in case the moonlight silhouetted them.

“Supposin’ these riders are not ghosts—as I don’t believe they are,” Terry murmured. “What do you suppose the idea is?”

“To frighten the people of Verdure and the outlying ranches, of course,” Hilda answered promptly.

“Yes, but—why? What’s the point of doing that?”

“No idea. It’s something I never got around to thinking about. I suppose I should have done.…”

“If we’re to tie things up properly, you should,” Terry said; then he became silent again, his gun in his hand in case it might suddenly be needed. He noticed Hilda, too, had her .38 resting in a niche of the rock beside her. She was quite the most replete Western girl he had encountered—unafraid, direct, and yet still a woman.

It was half an hour later, and they were both beginning to feel cramped and chilled through inaction, when Hilda suddenly raised a hand warningly, her whole attitude one of intent listening. Terry listened, too—then, after a while, he heard the far-off drumming of hoofs on the hard-baked earth. Straining his eyes, he peered beyond the chasm entrance to where the rich pasture lands spread right up to it.

“There!” Hilda said abruptly, gripping his arm. “See them?”

He nodded, peered at four white specks visible in the moonlight against the blackness of the pastures. They came nearer, and the hoofs drummed into echoes until the canyon walls began to reflect them.

Terry said nothing, but he was conscious of a little thrill, as he watched the quartet. They moved with a steady precision, dead in line with each other. Had he been at all superstitious, he could have believed they were phantoms. Not being woolly-minded, however, he put the quartet’s perfect riding down to fine horsemanship and an accurate knowledge of the terrain to be covered, which made for almost military movement.

They came nearer. Riders and horses were visible how as all white. Hats, clothes, horses—white as snow, reflecting the moonlight. They reached the canyon entrance and still kept going. Their eyes fixed on them, Terry and the girl watched. They passed below, moving swiftly, the horses snorting at intervals, then as they went on the sharp twist in the canyon hid them from sight and the echoing hoofbeats died away.

Terry took a deep breath and drew his shirt sleeve over his face. He realised the girl was looking at him intently.

“Well?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“I can sure understand now why the folks think they’re phantoms,” he said. “First time out it’s a bit unnerving. Mebbe the moonlight and the silence. They sure look the part.”

“I felt the same way the first time. But you surely don’t think for one moment that they’re—”

“Ghosts? Hell, no!” Terry got on his feet and helped Hilda to hers. They holstered their guns.

“Good disguise,” Hilda admitted, thinking.

“Yeah—but I never heard of a ghost-horse snorting! And I never heard of a ghost-horse making noise enough to echo. If those were real phantoms, they’d go through everythin’ and not make a sound.”

Hilda gave a smile of relief. “You’re the kind of man I’ve been hoping for, Mr. Carlton! You think things out logically instead of rushing behind shutters and talking rot about the Other World.”

“Might as well see where they’re headed,” Terry added, moving towards the horses. “This business has got to be solved—and quickly—before anything else happens. I can’t believe these phoney riders are prancing about in the moonlight each night just for the fun of keepin’ a legend going.… Let’s move.”

His strong arms lifted the girl into her saddle, then he swung up on his mare. Together they returned down the rocky slope they had formerly ascended, and in a matter of minutes reached the canyon floor. Here Terry again dismounted, and the girl sat and watched him as he inspected the dusty hard-baked ground in the moonlight. Unsatisfied, he thumbed a lucifer into a brief glimmer, cupping it in his hands and peering at the ground. As the light extinguished he gave a chuckle.

“What?” the girl asked, as he came over to her.

“Just the fact that those horses have very material shoes,” he replied. “Real ghosts wouldn’t leave footmarks behind, I guess. Anyways, let’s see where we can go by following this canyon.”

“I can tell you that right now. It leads straight out to the mesa. After that, there’s nothing until the next town of Luna Mucho.”

“We’ll go, anyway,” Terry decided, and swung back into the saddle. This time he went first, his gun ready, Hilda coming up behind him. As he went, Terry watched the surroundings carefully. Once beyond the bend in the canyon down which the horsemen had vanished, the canyon walls came inwards suddenly, until towards the centre of it there was room for perhaps only six horses abreast. From here the canyon widened out again and in ten minutes Terry found himself gazing at the moonlit expanse of the mesa, the canyon trail running down towards it like a zigzagged white ribbon.

“No sign of ’em now, anyway,” he said quietly. “I sort of thought there might be, out on the desert there. White against black. It would show.”

“Might,” Hilda muttered. “Unless they’re out of sight.”

They became silent. The mystery of the night had closed down again. It was queer the effect it had in these lonely spaces. Even with the physical evidence of horses’ hoofs, in the dust Terry somehow felt uncertain.…

Struck by a sudden thought, he ignited another lucifer and held it cupped in his palm as he dropped from the saddle. Hilda alighted beside him. He didn’t know quite what to think when he found there was no trail of hoofs except those of his own and the girl’s mount.

“But—it’s silly!” Hilda protested.

“Yeah. Course it is.” The lucifer dropped and expired in the dust. “They must have gone straight on because we know they didn’t turn back, just as we know they couldn’t have turned aside and gone upwards—not with these sheer walls.”

Terry looked about him. Three hundred foot high escarpments at this point. No vegetation, no rockery niches, no acclivities. Either the four horsemen must have gone upwards, or—?

“I don’t get it,” Terry confessed finally. “Better go back a bit and see if there’s any sign of their trail leading off to some place.”

Hilda nodded, and leading their horses, beside them, they returned along the canyon floor. The moon had risen high now. It was possible to see the dust at their feet and the prints their own mounts had made on the previous journey. And presently they came again to the spot where the prints of a whole party of horses had been tramping.

“But look—!” the girl almost whispered, pointing in the moonlight; and Terry flared another lucifer just to make sure.

He couldn’t explain what he saw. It was next to uncanny. The trail of the four horses was mixed with the trail of his own and the girl’s horse but, whereas the trail of his and Hilda’s mounts went straight on, the others stopped short. Up to a certain point they were clear enough, then, without turning aside, they simply ceased to be.

“Sure is tarnation queer,” Terry breathed, as the lucifer died out. “Narrowest part of the canyon, too, where there’s no room to move to one side. An’ I guess these walls are so steep nothin’ could get up ’em. Smooth as a lake, I guess.”

The girl looked at him in the moonlight and said nothing. He knew just what she was thinking.