Ghost Canyon. John Russell Fearn
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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