Ghost Canyon. John Russell Fearn
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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