Pulp Fiction | The Ghost Riders Affair (July 1966) (3 page)

"Just hang on, Mr. Maynard. I think the ghosts will be real enough, once we track them down."

"I hope so. Because it won't take much more to put me out of business. People come here, and they hear about those cattle. Then they get scared, and they take off! Any way you look at it, I stand to lose. First my customers, and even some of my men are afraid to ride up there in the Sawtooth Mountains. The worst part of it is, I can't blame them."

Solo stood up. "People clearing out fast, eh?"

"Right. They come in, hear some of the stories and the rumors, get scared, and clear out soon as they hear about it."

"Not all of them," Solo said. He walked past the puzzled rancher, grabbed the doorknob and jerked the door open.

A girl sprawled forward into the den. She landed on her knees, awkwardly.

"Why, Miss Finnish!" Carlos stared at her.

The girl caught herself. She stayed a moment on all fours, then got up alone when neither Solo nor Maynard moved to aid her. Her eyes were unafraid.

Solo stared at her. The looks of her were as heady as brandy. From profile to brand new riding boots she was like something tailored by angels. Her shoulder-length hair seemed to have the sun roosting in it, even in the darkened office. She wasn't tall but she looked as if nothing had been stinted in perfect packaging. She wore buckskin skirt, frilly vest, a pale green shirt with matching neckerchief at her throat.

Her cheeks were fiery red. She stared from Solo to Maynard, shaking her head.

She straightened, heeled around and almost ran from the room.

Maynard stood, mouth ajar, staring after her.

Solo couldn't blame him. She even looked exciting going away from you.

"Not all of them are running away from what they can hear," Solo said.

Maynard gazed through the opened door. "Yeah. Mabel Finnish. She arrived here two days after the cattle disappeared. Come to think of it, she's been here ever since. Nothing has scared her away."

"As a matter of fact, she can't seem to hear enough," Solo suggested.

Maynard didn't answer, only stood, frowning, puzzled.

Pete Wasson went over his story again for Solo.

They sat on the bunkhouse stoop, along with Marty Nichelson and Maynard.

Pete said, "That's right, I rode northwest up into the Sawtooth ranges—"

"There was a pretty clear trail in the foothills," Maynard said. "Then, up in the lava spikes, we lost them. But Pete and Marty are good trackers. We sent Marty up there first, then Pete. But they lost any trace of the cattle."

"Could a flash flood have washed away the tracks?" Solo asked.

"Could have, if there'd been any flash flood," Carlos Maynard said. "But there wasn't any rain. Hasn't been none in weeks. No matter what Pete thinks."

Solo watched the young cowpuncher. "So what happened is, you rode looking for sign—"

"Right. Ought to be able to find sign of some kind of a thousand head—"

"And you fell, cracked your skull?" Solo said. "That's what happened?"

"Yes. I told you. I must have fallen."

"What time was it?" Solo said. "Morning? Afternoon? Late evening?"

Pete scowled, staring at him. He shook his head. "I swear to you, I don't know."

Maynard and Nichelson stared at each other.

Solo said to Pete, "You mind taking off your hat?"

Pete frowned, puzzled. "I don't mind, but why should I?"

Solo shrugged. "Let's just say you're being polite to Miss Finnish out there under that cottonwood tree. She hasn't taken her eyes off us."

Solo heard Maynard's intake of breath. "By golly, there she is. Hanging around. You reckon she can hear what we say?"

Solo shrugged. "She might have some kind of listening device, but it seems to me that she's reading lips."

Maynard swore. "Looks like we better check into her."

"We'll check her out," Solo agreed. "But we better take things in order of importance." He moved his fingers expertly across Pete's scalp.

"What you mean?" Maynard said, watching him check the cowboy's skull.

"We have more urgent matters," Solo said. "Like Pete's scalp."

"What about Pete's scalp?" Maynard whispered.

Even Mabel Finnish under the cottonwood tree appeared to be holding her breath.

"Yeah." Pete straightened. "What you looking for in my head, Solo?"

"If you fell from your horse, and struck your head hard enough to knock yourself out for three days, Pete," Solo said, "shouldn't there be some kind of knot on your skull?"

Pete Wasson stood up slowly. His eyes were thoughtful.

"How about that?" he whispered. "There ain't no knot on my head. Funny. Nobody thought about that."

"What's going on here?" Marty Nichelson said.

"That's what we've got to find out," Solo told him. "Can you tell me anything about your headache—and some of the things you did in Cripple Bend for three days?"

Marty frowned. "Well, nothing's clear, Solo. But that don't mean I'm lying!"

"Me either," Pete said. "Even if there ain't no knot on my head, I ain't lying."

"And I was in Cripple Bend. That ought to be easy enough to prove. People would of seen me there, wouldn't they?"

"Looks like it," Solo agreed. "Meantime, either one of you object to taking a polygraph test?"

"What's that?" Pete asked cautiously.

"A lie detector," Solo said. "I don't think either one of you is lying purposely, but a test might help you."

Marty and Pete stared at each other. Marty shrugged. "I got no objections. It all happened just like I said. It ain't clear to me, but I ain't lying."

"You got one of them lie detectors?" Pete said.

"We can have one by tomorrow," Solo said. "If neither one of you objects."

"Sure." Pete said. "Marty and me are willing. We ain't trying to hide nothing. If one of them things will help get at the truth, I want to know."

FIVE

Solo parked the Maynard Ranch station wagon outside the City Bar on the single street in the settlement at Cripple Bend. The town was the last lingering trace of the old west, but battered cars baked at the curbs instead of workhorses.

He walked into the bar, found it almost deserted in the middle of the morning.

"What can I do for you?" The voice was musical and warm.

Solo was mildly astonished but pleased to find that the cowtown bartender was a woman. She looked to be in her middle twenties, and enough to drive strong men to drink. Her blond hair was brushed upward on her head, piled there in rich waves. Her eyes were like a sparkling wine, glittering with promises. She wore a pastel dress and a fresh apron.

Solo ordered a beer and sat at the bar, turning it in his fingers.

"You're staying at the Maynard Dude Ranch," the bartender said. "Came from New York. Two suitcases—"

"You don't miss much, do you?"

"April. Name's April Caution." She smiled across the bar. "Small town like this, nobody misses much."

"Guess you'll know Marty Nichelson pretty well, then?

"Marty? Sure. Everybody knows him. Good kid. Been with Carlos Maynard a couple years. Used to take prize money in rodeos until he cracked his hip."

"Hear he was in here and tied on a real binge—"

"Who? Marty?" April straightened, frowning.

Solo nodded, watching her. "That's the talk," he said. "But it's no secret. Marty was talking about it himself. He was telling me about the tree days he spent here in Cripple Bend—most of it here in your place—on a bender. Now I've seen you, I can understand why he stayed for three days."

"There's something wrong here, mister," April Caution said, her face puzzled. She straightened when the door swung open at the street entrance.

Solo glance across his shoulder, but he was not even astonished to see that Mabel Finnish had entered the tavern.

Mabel didn't speak to him. She went to a table near the bar and sat down.

April said, "Just a minute. We'll kick this around, as soon as I wait on the lady."

"Why don't you come up to the bar, Miss Finnish?" Solo asked. "You won't be as comfortable, but you can hear better."

Mabel Finnish's lovely face flushed, but she did not answer. She ordered a daiquiri. April mixed the rum drink, delivered it and then came back to the bar, sat on a stool facing Solo.

"I been thinking this thing over, about Marty," she said. "When was he supposed to have tied one on in here?"

"About a week and a half ago," Solo said.

April shook her head. "Oh, no. Not in here. Marty hasn't been in here in over a month."

Solo sat a moment, staring at a wet place on the bar. "But there's been a lot of talk about Marty's being in here. Hasn't anybody from the ranch been in to check on it?"

April shrugged. "What's to check? I tell you Marty hasn't been in here in weeks."

Solo sighed. "Any other tavern in Cripple Bend where he could have been on a prolonged drunk?"

April smiled. "No other place in town to buy liquor. Nearest bar is in the next settlement, and that's over seventy miles away. No. If Marty was on a drunk, he'd have been in here—only I can tell you, he hasn't been in."

A few minutes later, Solo walked out of the City Bar. He paused on the board walk, stared both ways along the sleepy street. Then he glance over his shoulder at Mabel, drinking alone at the table inside the tavern.

He strode along the walk, going past the ranch station wagon. He walked beyond the feed store, then stepped around the corner, pressed himself against the adobe wall, waiting.

It was a short wait. He heard Mabel's bootheels clattering on the boards as she half ran in pursuit. She slowed, then stopped, looking around puzzled, a few feet from where Solo stood.

Solo stepped out upon the walk immediately behind Mabel. He caught her arm.

Mabel heeled around. Solo fixed her with an unyielding smile. "Looking for anyone we know, Mabel?"

"Let me go."

"I let you go, but you don't go. Why? Do you find me that fascinating, Miss Finnish?"

Mabel shivered slightly. "I don't find you fascinating at all."

"You disappoint me. I had such high regard for your taste. Tell me, if I'm not your type, why do you follow me around?"

She winced, looked helplessly both ways along the sun-stricken street. "Maybe you just happen to go all the same places I must go."

"An interesting theory. Maybe you can tell me why you want to go all these places where I so inconveniently show up—just ahead of you."

"Need I remind you, Mr. Solo? It's a free country. I can go where I like?"

He continued to smile, coldly. "And let me remind you. Freedom and life are being threatened here. It's no game. I won't play by any rules that will please you. I might even get rough. Now, shall we try again? What are you doing here?"

"Because I heard that one thousand of Mr. Maynard's cattle disappeared without a trace."

"Are you interested in cattle? Or disappearances?"

Mabel's head tilted slightly. "Like everyone else, I heard that two huge trains also disappeared without a trace."

Solo stopped smiling. He shook his head, puzzled. "And that's why you came here?"

She met his gave levelly. "Doesn't the name Finnish mean anything to you, Mr. Solo?"

Solo frowned, filtering the name through his mind. There was the faintest stirring of recall. He shook his head. "Should it?"

"Leonard Finnish," she said. "He was a geologist known all over the world. He was my grandfather. He disappeared without leaving a trace."

"On one of those trains?"

She shook her head. "My grandfather disappeared five years ago."

"Here in the Sawtooth mountains?"

"No. Grandfather vanished while on a geology expedition in Death Valley, in California."

Solo nodded, remembering. "Yes. He was exploring some subterranean caverns in Death Valley, but that's fifteen hundred miles from here."

"Yes. And five years ago. Still, he did vanish without a trace. Just as the cattle and the trains disappeared. Is it so wild that I'd look for my grandfather here—try to learn all I can about these disappearances? You're here. Yet those trains disappeared in Indiana, didn't they, Mr. Solo?"

Solo smiled, released her arm. "Checkmate."

SIX

Solo set up the polygraph machine in Maynard's ranch house den. He was checking it out when the door was thrown open and Maynard burst into the room.

The rancher's sun-tanned face was gray. His eyes were distended. He said, "Solo. The bunkhouse. You better come. Quick."

Maynard turned on his heel and Solo followed. The few dude ranchers remaining on the place eyed them silently, coldly as they passed. These people stood up, tense, watchful.

They found the same chilled reception at the bunkhouse. The ranch hands were taut, eyes bleak and troubled.

Maynard thrust open the bunkhouse door and Solo followed him inside it.

Inside the room, Solo slowed, stopped, staring at the men on the bunks.

"Pete and Marty," Maynard said. "They got violently ill last night. Mabel Finnish drove into Cripple Bend to fetch Doc Cullin, but I don't think she'll make it."

Maynard was right. Marty died before Doc Cullin arrived, and there was nothing the medic could do to save Pete.

Maynard caught the doctor's arm. "Why? What caused them to die like that, Doc?"

Cullin shook his head. "I don't know, Carlos. There are no physical signs of any kind. We'll just have to wait for the autopsy."

That evening Solo was working on his daily report when there was a knock at his door in the upstairs of the ranch house. He said, "Come in."

The door opened and Doctor Cullin entered. "Maynard said I should give you the results of the autopsy report, Mr. Solo. Autopsy shows the presence of a nerve gas in the lungs of both men. Death was caused by strangulation; that nerve gas had been in them for some days slowly choking them."

Solo gazed at the doctor, then stared beyond him at Mabel Finnish, standing gray-faced in his doorway.

The train hurtled downward into the belly of the earth. The stifling darkness shrouded the car where Illya braced himself against the plunging descent.