just how much good he was.
“So you’re moving on?” Marchland said finally, and began to clean out the pipe he’d taken from his shirt pocket. “You’re mighty sensible, son. Guess that’s what all of us’ll be doing before long. I’d have gone long ago, only—well, I guess my roots are mighty deep. Born and bred here in this self-same house. Mother and father died here—an’ my wife, when Hil was born. Looks like the good God took one and gave one to sort of even things up a bit. I ain’t resenting it; just say it’s a bit hard, that’s all.”
“I’m—sorry,” Terry said quietly.
“What for? Life’s life, ain’t it? I’m not kickin’. Only thing I am sorry for is to have to get out of here. But I must—an’ Hil. An’ everybody, before we’re through.”
There were sounds of movements in the rear of Terry, and the flutter of a cloth as the girl spread it on the table. Terry frowned and thought for a moment. Then he said: “Can’t think why you want to move on, sir. As I rode into town I couldn’t help but notice what grand pastures you have around here. Best I’ve seen for over a hundred miles. Why on earth do you want to leave?”
“Don’t want to,” Marchland growled. “Got to!”
“Bought out, do you mean?”
“No,” Hilda said, in the background, setting out crockery. “Because of ghosts.”
Terry hesitated for a split second, then he grinned. “Ghosts? Who are you tryin’ to kid?”
“Honest truth, son,” Marchland said. “This whole territory is hag-ridden, and Verdure ain’t safe either. Verdure’s the name of this town, case you don’t know. Called that on account of the pastureland. Ain’t nothing like it anywheres.”
“But ghosts—” Terry protested.
“I don’t believe in them,” the girl said, as though to defend herself, and her violet eyes met Terry’s steadily as he turned to look at her. “It’s Dad here who thinks they amount to something. I say there aren’t such things—and if they’re there, it must have a human explanation. Naturally, I don’t get listened to. The folks in this town have lived their own little narrow lives for so long they’re up to their necks in superstition. Even Dad—sorry though I am to say it.”
“I sometimes think I made a mistake in giving the gal a decent education,” Marchland mused. “It’s made 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
