three hours out of Elkhorn and riding by moonlight, when he began to wonder whether he shouldn’t have gone by Alkali Flat after all. From Elkhorn Pass to Forlorn Gap ran an ancient, lonesome road. White men did not much concern themselves about its past. It was merely a means of getting from one gold town to another, haunted because of stagecoach robberies and murders along its course, but no more forbidding to mad gold-hunters than any other cutthroat trail.
Deputy Winters, however, recalled something Doc Bogannon’s half-breed wife had said about it; an ancient warriors’ path, Athi-ami-owee, she’d called it, a trail where Shoshone braves had tramped to and fro to test their metal against enemy tribes in far-off valleys. It had been a death-trail, too, where warrior bands fell in bloody ambush. There were always haunts in a place like this.
Winters had half-expected to tie in with a ghost or two on this winding cliff-lined road, but he hadn’t expected to get his daylights scared out. He didn’t see anything; he just heard a voice that came out of a wall of solid rock. It was a spook’s voice, of course, for only a spook could live within a crackless, holeless cliff.
It was a quick, hollow voice, hard and mirthless. It said, “Going somewhere, stranger?”
Winters drew rein, hand dropping to six-gun. “What’s that?”
It came again. “No use to hurry, stranger. Time and tide have already passed you by. What difference does it make, whether you die tonight or tomorrow? Tarry a while, rest your weary bones, and renew acquaintances with departed souls. You are closer to Happy Hunting Ground than you think.”
Winters wanted no truck with disembodied spirits. He lifted bridle leather and gigged with spurs. His horse, Cannon Ball, leaped into action; his clattering hoofs filled canyon and night with wild echoes. Winters looked back at every turn, expecting to see pursuers, but except for him and his speeding horse, Athi-ami-owee was a lonely, deserted road.
* * * *
Doc Bogannon’s saloon had been a busy place all evening. His customers were local citizens, as well as travelers who were stopping over at Goodlett Hotel to await transportation either to Pangborn Gulch or to Elkhorn Pass. Then trade had tapered off, citizens and travelers had departed, some nicely braced, some stewed, and some just ordinary happy.
One visitor remained. He sat alone at a table, where he’d been all evening. Doc Bogannon regarded him as one of those queer fellows who never seemed to play out, but always straggled in on opportunity’s tail-end. Bogie had seen plenty of them, year by year; halfwits, sneaks, mad-dogs, wolves, skunks, hop-toads, blabber-mouths, prophets, apes and war whoopers. He’d even seen a scissors-grinder, a sewing-machine fixer, and a dimwit leading a goose by a string.
But here was something different; a scrawny, undersized gopher, pert and slim. He was clean shaved, well dressed, and had animated eyebrows, that were always lifting, whether he looked up or down. He hadn’t smiled all evening; in fact, he appeared to be pouting about some mild grievance.
Bogie dried a glass and set it back. He eyed his guest curiously. “Service bad, or something?” Eyebrows went up. “I didn’t say so.”
“Truth is,” said Bogie, “you didn’t say anything. I was just afraid I’d hurt your feelings. Have I?”
“I won’t say you have, and I won’t say you haven’t; in very truth, I hadn’t given it a thought.”
“That’s fine,” said Bogie. He studied his guest a moment. Doc Bogannon was big and tall; in appearance more a statesman than a barkeep. At heart he was a philosopher, curious, and altogether charitable toward human nature. In prying into this gopher’s private affairs, he was conscious of no more than a helpful mood.
“I’ll tell you how it is with me,” said Bogie. “I’m sort of an off-brand missionary. Always like to get acquainted. In case you hadn’t heard, I’m Doc Bogannon. Now then, I’d be obliged if you’d just haul off and tell me your name, what your trouble is, and whether it’s something I can do to help out.”
Eyebrows went up and remained so for many seconds. “My name? According to most reliable sources, it is Horner—Scoby Grimstead Horner. I wouldn’t vouch for it absolutely, but according to my information and belief, that’s it.”
“That ought to satisfy most people,” Bogie commented gently. “It’s not customary around here to demand birth certificates. Indeed, it’s a question how many men pass under their true colors. More than a few, I’d say, are known otherwise than they were christened. You inward or outwards bound?”
“Depends on your point of view,” Horner replied, eyebrows lowering slightly. “When I began my journey, I was undoubtedly outward bound. With respect to Forlorn Gap, I was until now inward bound.”
Bogie nodded in appreciation. “As matters now stand, you’re a voyager in horse latitudes.”
“Horse latitudes? Never heard of ’em.”
“It’s a manner of speaking,” said Bogie, arms folded across his chest. “It means that possibly you’re stranded, doldrum-struck, or just plain undecided.”
It was Horner’s turn to nod appreciation. “That’s it. I’m undecided! You see, only recently, due to my grandfather’s generosity, I’ve come into considerable money. My grandfather always said that if you have money, make it work for you; invest it, put it to interest, for money makes money. Well, when my grandfather willed me this money, I says to m’self, I says, ‘Scoby, put it to work.’ And what better place, I asked myself, is there to put money to work than where there’s gold? It took me a long time to make up my mind, but when I did make it up, I started—I moved. And here I am in Forlorn Gap.”
Doc Bogannon wrinkled his big forehead and scratched a corner of it. “Seems to me you quit moving a mite too soon. Gold-mining has sort of petered out in these parts.”
Horner twisted slightly in his chair and looked at Doc understandingly. “That’s just it. This is not where I meant to stop. However, my gallant horse cantered into this town at a time when I was completely undecided.”
“About what?”
“Well, about whether I should go to Elkhorn Pass or to Pangborn Gulch. Since I could not make up my mind, I stopped here to remain until I could reach a decision. I understand there’s gold at both places; men getting rich, mining companies being organized, everybody alive with enthusiasm and a rushing boom of good times. But which one shall I go to?”
Bogie shook his head. “Quite a question. Why not toss a coin?”
“And leave it to chance? I was never one to do that.”
Doc’s batwings squeaked on their hinges and Deputy Marshal Lee Winters strode in. He was a six-foot, lean, weather-beaten veteran who took in everything at a glance. “A drink, Doc.”
“Whiskey or wine?”
“Wine. I’m getting off of whiskey.”
Bogie poured a glass of wine. “That’s strange news. Been seeing ghosts, I suppose.”
Winters sipped wine. “Now, Doc, you know there ain’t no such things as ghosts. They just exist in men’s minds; you’ve always said so.”
“And I say it again,” declared Bogie.
Winters turned slowly
