Ghost Towns. Martin H. Greenberg

flicker and dance. Then a rumble sounded in the distance. Bo and Scratch both looked up, and Scratch said, “Thunder?”

      “Sounded like it. Might come a little shower up in the mountains. But that doesn’t mean it’s going to flood down here again.”

      Scratch looked around as the horses shifted nervously where they were tied with picket ropes to an old hitch rack about twenty feet away. “Somethin’s spooked those cayuses,” he said as he got to his feet with his Winchester. “I’ll take a look.”

      “I saw a coyote earlier,” Bo said. “That’s probably what’s got them nervous. They must smell him.”

      “Yeah.” Scratch walked toward the animals.

      Before he got there he let out a startled yell and flung the rifle to his shoulder. He didn’t fire, though. Bo uncoiled from where he sat on the ground, drawing his Colt as he did so. “What is it?” he asked.

      “I…I thought I saw somethin’,” Scratch said. “Over by the horses.”

      “That coyote?”

      “No.” Scratch hesitated. “It looked like…a couple of kids.”

      Scratch’s shout had roused Ledbetter from sleep. The old man heard what Scratch said, and he shrieked, “They’re back! Oh, dear Lord, the children are back!”

      There was no point in keeping anything from Scratch now. Bo told him what he’d seen earlier. “Yeah, a boy and a gal,” Scratch agreed. “No more’n twelve years old, either of ’em.”

      Ledbetter moaned. “Those are the spirits that always appear to me. The girl’s name is Ruthie. The boy is Caleb. They died when the orphanage collapsed.”

      “That don’t hardly seem possible,” Scratch insisted. “Folks don’t just get up and walk around when they’re dead. It ain’t natural.”

      “Nothing is natural about this accursed town, my friend.” Ledbetter shuddered. “Nothing.”

      A distant flicker of lightning to the north made Bo glance in that direction. Ledbetter noticed it too and whimpered, probably at the memories that sight must arouse. No doubt those were the first warning signs the inhabitants of Duster had had on that night months earlier: the rumble of thunder like the sound of distant drums, and fingers of light clawing their way across the ebony skies.

      “God is about to visit His final judgment on Duster,” Ledbetter went on. His voice rose on a note of hysteria. “You should leave, my friends. Leave while you can still save your immortal souls!”

      The ragged old preacher leaped to his feet and began dashing back and forth, howling like a madman. Scratch said, “Dadgummit!” and tried to grab him, but Ledbetter was too fast. Scratch missed. Bo moved to get in the old man’s way, but Ledbetter darted past him too—then tried to stop as a dark shape loomed around the corner of the building, blocking his path. Ledbetter bounced off of whatever it was, stumbled, shrieked, and fell to his knees.

      This was no apparition, Bo knew. Ledbetter had run into something—or someone—solid. Bo reached for his gun, but the metallic ratcheting of a revolver being cocked made him freeze.

      “Hold it, both of you hombres,” a deep, gravelly voice rasped. “Keep your hands away from them hoglegs.”

      Several more men came around the building. Starlight glinted on the barrels of the guns they held. Bo couldn’t make out many details about them, but he felt the menacing undercurrent in the air.

      “No need to go waving guns around,” Bo said in a calm, level voice. “We’re not looking for any trouble.”

      Ledbetter lay huddled on the ground, whimpering. The first gunman jerked his Colt toward the preacher and asked, “What the hell’s wrong with this old coot?”

      “He’s just scared,” Scratch said. “There ain’t no need to hurt him.”

      “Scared o’ what?”

      Ledbetter looked up and sobbed, “The Lord’s vengeance! Save yourselves! Flee while you can!”

      One of the other armed men said, “He’s loco, Tarver. You’d be doin’ him a favor if you put a bullet in his head.”

      The leader turned sharply toward the man who had just spoken. “You’re the one who’s loco, you damn fool! You know better’n to go spoutin’ my name all over the place.”

      “Sorry,” the man muttered.

      But the damage was done, and they all knew it—all except Ledbetter, who didn’t seem to know anything except his fear. Sam Tarver was the leader of a gang of outlaws that had been plaguing West Texas for months. Posses hadn’t been able to run him and his men to ground, so now the army was giving it a try. Bo had seen a newspaper article about Tarver in El Paso, before he and Scratch left in a hurry.

      Tarver turned toward Bo and Scratch again and came close enough for them to see that he was a big man with a craggy face and several days’ worth of beard. “You fellas got horses,” the boss owlhoot said. “We want ’em.”

      “We only have two horses,” Bo pointed out, “and there are…” He made a quick head count. “Five of you.”

      “Yeah, well, that’ll still let us rest two of our mounts,” Tarver said. “Anything that helps us move a little faster and stay ahead o’ that cavalry patrol.”

      So the army was catching up to the gang, Bo thought. In fact, he seemed to recall reading that Tarver’s gang was larger than five men. He wondered if the outlaws had already fought a skirmish or two and lost some of their members.

      “We’ll want any supplies you got too,” Tarver went on. “And hell, you might as well go ahead and hand over any dinero in your pockets. We’ll make it a clean sweep.”

      Lightning flashed as he spoke, and a crash of thunder followed his words like punctuation. Reverend Ledbetter howled like a kicked dog and curled up on the ground again.

      “Maybe you’re right, Harry,” Tarver added. “Puttin’ a bullet in this crazy varmint’s head would be a blessin’.”

      “I thought you said we wasn’t supposed to use each other’s names.”

      Tarver shrugged. “Well…it don’t hardly matter now, does it?”

      Bo and Scratch both knew what that meant. The outlaws didn’t intend to leave anyone alive in Duster. They didn’t want anybody telling the cavalry patrol which way they had gone. Five to two odds were pretty heavy, especially when the five already had their guns drawn, but the drifters had faced worse in their adventuresome career. And since they still had their guns, they’d be damned if they would die without a fight.

      But before Bo and Scratch could hook and draw, one of the outlaws who hadn’t spoken before suddenly said, “Look yonder, Tarver! It’s a couple o’ kids!”

      “What?” Tarver exclaimed. “Where?”

      “Right over there,” the owlhoot said, pointing. “I…I…Where the hell’d they go?”

      “Spirits!” Ledbetter screeched. “Spirits of the dead!”

      “Shut up!” Tarver roared. “I’m gettin’ mighty tired o’ you, old man—”

      “Hey, mister….”

      The childish voice floated through the air and seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. It caused all of the men except Ledbetter to jump a little and look around, even the usually iron-nerved Bo and Scratch. They had already encountered the mysterious youngsters, and now they heard the boy’s voice.

      The girl chimed in a second later, saying, “Over here, mister…” The voices were so wispy they didn’t seem real.

      But what else would you expect ghosts to sound like, Bo thought?

      “No,