Ghost Canyon. John Russell Fearn

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,”