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  Ghost Canyon

  BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY JOHN RUSSELL FEARN

  1,000-Year Voyage

  Account Settled

  Anjani the Mighty: A Lost Race Novel (Anjani #2)

  Black Maria, M.A.: A Classic Crime Novel (Black Maria #1)

  Bury the Hatchet

  A Case for Brutus Lloyd

  The Crimson Rambler: A Crime Novel

  Death in Silhouette (Black Maria #5)

  Don’t Touch Me: A Crime Novel

  Dynasty of the Small: Classic Science Fiction Stories

  The Empty Coffins: A Mystery of Horror

  The Fourth Door: A Mystery Novel

  From Afar: A Science Fiction Mystery

  Fugitive of Time: A Classic Science Fiction Novel

  The G-Bomb: A Science Fiction Novel

  The Genial Dinosaur (Herbert the Dinosaur #2)

  The Gold of Akada: A Jungle Adventure Novel (Anjani #1)

  Here and Now: A Science Fiction Novel

  Into the Unknown: A Science Fiction Tale

  Last Conflict: Classic Science Fiction Stories

  Legacy from Sirius: A Classic Science Fiction Novel

  The Man from Hell: Classic Science Fiction Stories

  The Man Who Was Not: A Crime Novel

  Manton’s World: A Classic Science Fiction Novel

  Moon Magic: A Novel of Romance (as Elizabeth Rutland)

  The Murdered Schoolgirl: A Classic Crime Novel (Black Maria #2)

  One Remained Seated: A Classic Crime Novel (Black Maria #3)

  One Way Out: A Crime Novel (with Philip Harbottle)

  Pattern of Murder: A Classic Crime Novel

  Reflected Glory: A Dr. Castle Classic Crime Novel

  Robbery Without Violence: Two Science Fiction Crime Stories

  Rule of the Brains: Classic Science Fiction Stories

  Shattering Glass: A Crime Novel

  The Silvered Cage: A Scientific Murder Mystery

  Slaves of Ijax: A Science Fiction Novel

  Something from Mercury: Classic Science Fiction Stories

  The Space Warp: A Science Fiction Novel

  A Thing of the Past (Herbert the Dinosaur #1)

  Thy Arm Alone: A Classic Crime Novel (Black Maria #4)

  The Time Trap: A Science Fiction Novel

  Valley of Pretenders

  Vision Sinister: A Scientific Detective Thriller

  Voice of the Conqueror: A Classic Science Fiction Novel

  What Happened to Hammond? A Scientific Mystery

  Within That Room!: A Classic Crime Novel

  World Without Chance

  THE GOLDEN AMAZON SAGA

  1. World Beneath Ice

  2. Lord of Atlantis

  3. Triangle of Power

  4. The Amethyst City

  5. Daughter of the Amazon

  6. Quorne Returns

  7. The Central Intelligence

  8. The Cosmic Crusaders

  9. Parasite Planet

  10. World Out of Step

  11. The Shadow People

  12. Kingpin Planet

  13. World in Reverse

  14. Dwellers in Darkness

  15. World in Duplicate

  16. Lords of Creation

  17. Duel with Colossus

  18. Standstill Planet

  19. Ghost World

  20. Earth Divided

  21. Chameleon Planet (with Philip Harbottle)

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1950 by John Russell Fearn

  Copyright © 2000 by Philip Harbottle

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  DEDICATION

  To the memory of Nini Japp

  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.