THE GHOST-MAN
As the sun paled to nothing in the yellow murk of dust, a high cloud of
sand overleapt the northern peaks and came sifting down the slopes of
Shadow Mountain. The gusts of wind began to wail in boding fury and then
the storm struck the town. Dirt and papers flew before it; tin cans
leapt forth from holes and alleys; and sticks and small stones, sucked
up in the vortex, joined in on the devil's dance. Ancient signs creaked
and groaned and threatened to leave their moorings, old houses gave up
shingles and loose boards, and up the street on the deserted bank
building, the fire-doors banged like cannon. Then the night came on and
the streets of Keno were empty, except for the flying dirt.
But it is nights such as this that move some men to greater daring and
as Wiley Holman, far out on the desert, felt the rush and surge of wind
he struck a swift circle and, turning back towards Keno, he bored his
way into the teeth of the storm. The gravel from the road slashed and
slatted against his radiator and his machine trembled before the buffets
of the gale, but it was just such a night as he needed for his purpose
and he ran with his lights switched off. If the Widow Huff, by any
chance, should glance out across the plain she might notice their gleam
and divine his purpose, which was to inspect the Paymaster mine. As a
stockholder and part owner it was, of course, his right to enter the
premises at will, but the Widow had placed her own personal mandate
above the laws of the land, and it was better, and safer, to avoid all
discussion by visiting the property after dark.
Up the long slope of the valley the white racer moved slowly, shuddering
and thundering as it took the first hill, and as the outlying houses
leaped up from the darkness, Wiley muffled his panting exhaust. In the
sheltered valley, under the lee of Shadow Mountain, the violence of the
wind was checked and some casual citizen, out looking at the stars,
might hear him above the storm. He turned off the main road and,
following up a side street, glided quietly into the shelter of a barn,
and five minutes later, with his prospector's pick and ore-sacks, he
toiled up the trail to the mine.
The Paymaster mine lay on the slope of Gold Hill, directly overlooking
the town--first the huge, dismantled mill; then the white slide of the
waste dump; and then, up the gulch, the looming gallows-frame of the
hoist and the dim bulk of abandoned houses. The mine had made the town,
and the town had clustered near it in the broad oval of the valley
below; but in its day the Paymaster had been a community by itself, with
offices and bunk-houses and stores. Now all was deserted and in the pale
light of the moon it seemed the mere ghost of a mine. A loose strip of
zinc on the corrugated-iron mill drummed and shuddered in a menacing
undertone and at uncertain intervals some door inside smote its frame
with a resounding bang. Straining timbers creaked and groaned, the wind
mourned like a disembodied spirit, and as Wiley Holman jumped at a
sudden sound he turned and glanced nervously behind him.
It was not a shadow but the passing of a shadow that caught his roving
eye and as he stripped off his wind-goggles and looked again he felt by
instinct for his six-shooter. But it was not on his hip. He had taken
his pick instead, and for the first time he felt a thrill of fear--not
fear for his life nor of anything tangible, but that old, primordial
fear of the night that only a gun can banish. He picked up a rock and
walked back down the trail; but nothing leapt forth at him--even the
shadow was gone, and he threw the rock petulantly away. It was the wind,
and the noises, and the blinders on his goggles; but now that the great
fear was born he jumped at every sound. He had been out before on worse
nights than this--what was it, then, that he feared? With his back
against a rock he stared about and listened until at last his nerve
returned; then he went boldly to the dump, where the white quartz lay
the thickest, and began to dig a hole with his pick.
Deep as he could dig there was nothing but the white waste and he paced
off the width of the pile; then very systematically he moved across the
slope, grabbing handfuls of fine dirt at measured intervals and throwing
them into an ore-sack. There was something about Virginia's piece of
"barren quartz" that had appealed to his prospector's eye and even in
the excitement of meeting the Widow he had not forgotten to sequester
it. But a piece of rock from a girl's case of specimens is a far call
from "ore in place" and he had come back that night to look the mine
over and collect an average sample from the dump. There were hundreds of
tons of that rock on the dump and it certainly was his right, as a part
owner in the property, to sample it and have it assayed.
Back and forth across the slide, now buffeted by the wind, now pelted by
loosened stones, he continued his methodical test and then as he knelt
to dig out a hole a great rock came bounding past. It came out of the
darkness and went smashing down the hillside like some terrific engine
of destruction and before he had more than scrambled from its path a
second boulder was upon him. He dodged it by a hair's breadth and fell
flat on his face, just as a stream of loose stone which the first flying
rock had dislodged sent him rolling and tumbling down the slope in an
avalanche of flying debris. For a minute he lay breathless while the
waste rattled past him, and then he looked up the hill. No movement of
his had started those great boulders. They had been launched by someone
from above, and as he raised his head cautiously he beheld a gaunt
figure standing outlined against the sky. It stood like a gibbet, its
head to one side, a pistol in its hand; but as Wiley moved the man
crouched and drew back as if he feared to be seen.
Who he was Wiley did not know, nor could he divine his animus in thus
attempting to take his life, but, being caught in the open without his
gun, he played safe and lay quiet where he had fallen. The wind howled
along the ridges and trailed off into silence and, looking around, Wiley
caught the wink of a lantern as it came across the flat from town. The
crash of the boulders as they bounded down the dump and then on through
the brush below had undoubtedly aroused some inquisitive citizen, who
was coming over to investigate. Wiley rose up quickly, for he did not
wish to be discovered, but as he started towards the trail he met the
ghost-man, creeping forward with his pistol ready to shoot.
At times like this a man acts by instinct, and Wiley Holman dropped to
the ground; then with the swiftness of an Indian he bellied off down the
hill, looking back after every lightning move. The man was a murderer, a
cold-blooded assassin; and, thinking him injured, he had been stealing
up to his hiding-place to give him the _coup de grace_. Wiley
rolled into a gulch and peered over the bank, his eyes starting out of
his head with fear; and then, as the lantern began to bob below him, he
turned and crept up the hill. Two trails led towards the mine, one on
either side of the dump, and as the wind swept down with a sudden gust
of fury, he ran up the farther trail. Once over the hill he could avoid
both his pursuers and, cutting a wide circle, slip back to his machine
and escape. The wind died to nothing as he neared the summit and he
turned and looked back down the trail. Something moved--it was the man,
his head twisted over his shoulder, his gun still held at a ready,
creeping waspishly up the path.
Wiley turned and fled, sick with rage at his own impotence, but as he
whipped over the dump the earth opened up before him and he slipped
and stopped on the brink of a chasm. It was the caved-in stope, the
old glory-hole of the Paymaster, and it cut off his last escape. A
sudden sinking of the heart, a feeling of fate being against him, came
over him as he slunk along the bank; and then, as a path opened up
before him, he took the steep slope at a bound. Further on in the
darkness he saw the roof of the mill and the broken hummocks of the
dump; beyond lay the other trail and the open country and his car--and
the six-shooter--beyond! His feet seemed to fly as he dashed across
the level and breasted a sudden ascent and then on its summit as the
wind snatched him back someone struck him in full flight. "God!" he
cried, and fought himself free but the other clutched him again.
"Run!" she begged, and he knew it was Virginia, but he was in a panic
for fear of what was behind.
"No!" he cried, catching her roughly in his arms and starting the other
way, "there's a crazy man back there and----"
"No--no--no!" she clamored, bringing him to a halt with her struggles.
"The other way--can't you hear what I'm saying to you----" And then
Wiley saw the Widow.
She was standing on the dump with her shotgun raised and pointed, and he
hurled Virginia to one side.
"Don't shoot!" he yelled, but as he ducked and started to run, the
Widow's gun spoke out. A blow like that of a club struck his leg from
under him and he fell to the ground in a heap, but even in his pain he
remembered the presence which had followed with its head on one side.
"You danged fool!" he cursed as the Widow ran up to him. "Keep that
cartridge, whatever you do. There's a crazy man after me and----"
"I see him!" shrieked the Widow, making a dash for the bank with her gun
at her hip for the shot. "You git, you dastard!" she shrilled into the
darkness and once more the old shotgun roared forth.
"Oh, mother!" wept Virginia, throwing her arms about Wiley, and
attempting to raise him up. "Oh, look what you've done--it's Wiley
Holman--and now I hope you're satisfied!"
"You bet I'm satisfied!" answered the Widow, exultingly. "That other
fellow was Stiff Neck George!"