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
