The Spook Hills Mystery/Chapter 2

In that part of Idaho which lies south of the Snake, the land is spotted with forest, sage flats, lava beds, and grassland. You can find anything there—anything in the shape of wild desolation. In the days when the Sunbeam held by right of possession the range which lay east and south of Spook Hills, you could find more of the desolation, more of the forbidding wilderness than the land holds now. The Sunbeam Ranch—which means that bit of fertile land where stood the Sunbeam buildings—was tucked away in a coulee so hidden that one might ride to the very rim of it before suspecting its nearness.

Idaho is full of such coulees. You ride through miles and miles of bleak desert with nothing to break the monotony save a distant pile of rock-crowned hills. You enter a nest of thick-strewn bowlders, perhaps, and turn and twist this way and that to avoid the biggest of them. Then you find yourself on the brink of a steep hill—when it is not a cliff—and just below is a green little valley with trees; or a gray little valley with sagebrush crowding upon the narrow strip of grass which borders the stream; or a black hole of a valley that looks like the mouth of hell itself, with gleaming ledges of lava interspersed with sharp-cornered rocks the size of your head, and stunted sage and greasewood and no water anywhere. If you go down there you will hear the buzz of a rattler before you find your way out, and you will see horned toads scuttling out of sight in little crevices, and lizards darting over bowlders into hiding beyond. You will see the bluest sky in the whole world—or perhaps it only seems so when it bends above so much that is black and utterly desolate.

It was in a gray little valley that the Sunbeam cabins stood. Farther along there was a meadow, to be sure, where hay was cut for the saddle horses to feed upon in winter. But that was around a black elbow of lava that thrust out toward the stream like the crook of a witch's arm hiding jealously the green little nook she had found for herself. The cabins were built upon barren sand—perhaps because the green places were too precious to be used improvidently for mere comfort in living.

The cabin was low and gloomy for want of windows. Burney bent his head level with his chest every time he entered or left his own door, and never thought of building a house to match the immensity of his frame. Burney was six feet and eleven inches tall when he stood barefooted. His cabin was a little more than seven feet to the ceiling inside; so Burney, desert bred though he was, never wore his hat in the house; bareheaded he did not scrape the ceiling when he walked about, unless he went close to the wall; when he did that he ducked unconsciously.

Shelton C. Sherman spent the whole of the first evening in watching Burney with something of the incredulity which marks the gaze of a small country boy when confronted unexpectedly by an elephant. When Burney rose from his chair—it was made of planks spiked together so that it formed a square stool that would have borne the weight of a horse—Shelton glanced involuntarily upward to see how close he came to the roof. When Burney turned his back, Shelton C. measured mentally the breadth of his shoulders, and fought with his disbelief at the figures his mind named for him. When Burney sat down before the fire, Shelton stared at the huge boots thrust forward to the heat, half expecting that Burney would presently call out: "Wife, bring me my hen!" If you have never heard the story of Jack the Giant Killer you will not see any sense in that. When Burney filled his pipe Shelton wondered how he managed to avoid crushing the bowl of it in his fingers. Shelton C. Sherman caressed the swollen knuckles of his right hand and stared astonished at the light touch of Burney when he picked a coal from the fire and dropped it neatly into the center of the pipe bowl.

There were two things small about Burney. They were his eyes, which in the firelight looked like little, twinkling, blue sparks, and his voice, which, when he spoke, was high and thin and almost womanish. Only he seldom spoke.

At the bunk house the boys discussed the newcomer and wondered how he felt, shut up alone with Burney. Spooky's curiosity led him as far as the window of the cabin. He peeked in, with Spider looking over his shoulder. The scene within was disappointing in its tranquillity. Shelton C. Sherman was sitting on an upturned nail keg, smoking a pipe and staring meditatively into the fire. Three feet away, Burney sat upon his plank stool with his great made-to-order riding boots thrust away out toward the blaze, also smoking his pipe and staring meditatively into the fire.

Spider craned for a good look at the pilgrim, saw him lift his right hand, after a quiet moment, and run finger tips gingerly over his knuckles; he glanced afterward inquiringly toward Burney, and Spider snickered and nudged Spooky in the ribs.

"Looka that?" he whispered. "Bet he carries that paw in a sling to-morra."

"Unh-hunh—but he stood for it like a little major, and said he was pleased to meet him," Spooky testified, also in a whisper.

"Huh!" murmured Spider, and led the way back to the bunk house.

Breed Jim was there, having just put up his horse after a late ride from over toward Pillar Butte. That in itself was not far enough away from the commonplace to be interesting. But the look on Breed Jim's face as he glanced up at the two caught their attention and drew their speech away from the visitor.

"Say," Jim began, without prelude of any sort, "where was it you seen that there ghost of yourn, Spooky?"

"Ghost uh mine! I ain't paying taxes on no ghost," Spooky denied indignantly. "What you driving at, anyhow? Come in at this time-a night and begin on me about"

"Oh, I ain't beginning on nobody." Jim pried off the corner of a fresh plug of tobacco and spoke around the lump. "I seen something out on the aidge of the lava bed. Follered me for about a mile. I couldn't ride away from it and I couldn't git within shootin' distance. 'S too dark to make out what the thing was—but it was something. Scared m' horse so I couldn't hold him hardly."

"Whereabouts on the lava bed?" Spider wanted to know. "Up next the hills? That's where I seen something last winter."

"It wasn't there—I was away over on the fur side-a that black coulee. You know the one I mean—the one that heads up into the big butte. I hit the coulee just about dusk—she got dark quick to-night—and I was driftin' along toward the Injun trail to come across and on home when I first felt the thing a follering."

"Felt"

"Yeah—I felt it. Something told me I was bein' follered, and I looked back. First I didn't see nothing. I was comin' along through the rocks and I couldn't a seen a hull army of soldiers. I went on a little piece further and looked back again; and I never seen nothing that time neither. But there was something—I could feel my back crawl cold. More'n that, m' horse got to actin' oneasylike, and lookin' back. It went along like that till I come to the Injun trail—and then I seen something back a piece behind me, jest duckin' behind a big rock."

"Do ghosts ever duck?" Shelton was standing by the half-open door listening fascinatedly. Now that he had spoken, he entered the room, his hat in his hand. "Pardon me for listening. I didn't mean to, but I arrived just at the point where your back crawled cold. That sounded interesting, so I waited for the rest of it. Sherman is my name, fellows. I'm just as green as they make them in stories; possibly a shade greener. But Mr. Burney sent me down here to sleep, so I've just about got to force myself on you and crawl into some corner where I won't be too awfully conspicuous." He grinned down at Jim with that cheerful candor which had disarmed Spooky. "Won't you please go on with your story?" he begged. "I didn't mean to interrupt, honest. But I was so interested I forgot my manners."

"Hunh!" grunted Jim from behind the mask of stolidity which he wore before strangers, and comforted himself with more tobacco. He made no attempt to go on with his story, however.

"This is only the young feller I brung out from town," Spooky explained. "Burney's took him to raise; name of Shep—or something like that. You don't want to mind him, Jim. Go on and tell us."

"What did it look like? A man?" Spider sat down on the end of a bunk and leaned forward interestedly.

Jim shook his head, with a quick glance at Shelton from under his black eyebrows. "I d'no what it was like."

"Didn't yuh see it ag'in?"

"Nh-hn!" Jim rose and went to the door and looked out, mumbled something about his horse, and disappeared.

"Oh, say! I'm afraid I spoiled the whole story," Shelton protested remorsefully. "I didn't mean to do that. What was it all about, anyway? Did he really see something?"

"I dunno," Spooky answered him tonelessly. "You can sleep in that bed over there, Shep. Nobody lays any claim to it. The feller that owned it blowed his brains out right in that there bed last fall."

"Oh, it'll do all right for to-night," Shelton C. assured him amiably. "I'm tired enough to sleep any old place. Don't bother about me—I'll be all right."

"We ain't bothering about you, Shep," smiled Spooky deceitfully. "Not a-tall, we ain't bothering."

He watched covertly while Shelton C, having brought in his suit cases, robed himself in a nightshirt and went to bed. He sent a meaning glance toward Spider because of the nightshirt, which to Spooky seemed absolutely ridiculous. And after that he lifted his eyebrows inquiringly toward Spider when Shelton C. turned back the blankets and with a long sigh of animal comfort stretched himself out in the bed where a man had blowed his brains out. Spooky was suspicious of Shelton C.'s seeming indifference to the gruesome history of that bed. He picked up a deck of cards, shuffled them absently, and made a "spread" for that game of solitaire which he called Mex.

"You don't want to git to dreaming about pore old Mike," he warned Shelton by way of reopening the subject. "The only feller that tried to sleep there after it happened woke us all up screaming and fightin' the air. He was foaming at the mouth something fierce when we got the lamp lit. Took four of us to hold 'm down. I dunno what got aholt of 'im, but next day he blowed his brains out." He glanced at Spider for the grin of approval he felt he had earned.

Shelton C. yawned widely and involuntarily, and turned over on his back. "Say, you fellows out here must have all kinds of brains to waste," he observed sleepily, and yawned again. "This cabin must have a very brainy atmosphere; maybe—I'll—catch some if I sleep" He trailed off into mumbling. Presently he opened his eyes with a start and looked toward Spooky. "Good night, fellows," he muttered. "Hit me a punch if I—bother you with—sn-snoring." Then he went to sleep in earnest, and breathed long and deep.

Spooky played in silence until the game was hopelessly blocked. He dropped the remainder of the deck upon the table, got up, took the lamp, and went over and held the light close to the sleep-locked eyes of Shelton C. Sherman. He waved the lamp back and forth twice, saw the sleeper move restlessly away from the glare without waking, and stood up and looked at Spider.

"I'm a son of a gun!" he stated flatly. "Whadda yuh know about a kid like that?"

Breed Jim went into the cabin where Burney still bulked before the dying embers, his pipe held loosely in his great ringers, his little blue eyes fixed abstractedly upon the filming coals. Jim went over and leaned an elbow on the rough mantel, and stared down reflectively into the fire, the Indian in him being strong enough to induce a certain deliberateness in beginning what he had come to say.

There was no Indian blood in Burney; yet he sat perhaps five minutes before he stirred. At last he shifted his feet, gave a great sigh as if he were dismissing thoughts that were somber, and looked up.

"Well, what did you find out, Jim?"

"They're back, all right," Jim said, without moving his gaze from the fire. "Been back a month or so. They're runnin' three big bands—mostly eyes. Lambin's on full blast. They ain't worked over this side Pillar Butte yet, but they're workin' this way, all right. Feed ain't so good over there and they got to cover lot's of ground. They'll be crowdin' up on us purty soon."

"Talk with any of 'em?"

"Nh-hn! I kept back on the ridges and sized things up. Don't think any of the bunch spotted me. I didn't know what yuh might want to do about 'em, so I left the game plumb open."

Burney got up and stretched his arms out full length from his body—and he had a most amazing reach for any human outside a circus. "They needn't think I'll buy 'em out again," he remarked half to himself.

Jim grinned approvingly. "They made good money off'n you last time," he twitted tactlessly. "You can't blame 'em for bringing in another outfit to unload on yuh. I guess they made more on the deal thn what you done."

Burney turned and scowled down at him, and Jim pulled the grin from his lips and backed a step. Sometimes Burney would stand for joshing, Jim remembered, and sometimes he wouldn't; and when he wouldn't silence was a man's best friend.

He waited a minute or so longer, decided that Burney was not going to say any more—or that if he did, what he said would not be pleasant to hear, and went out without a word of explanation or adieu.

Burney walked twice the length of the cabin, hesitated, and then busied himself in his little storeroom, and came out with a bundle under his arm. He went outside, stood upon the doorstep, and stared hard at the bunk house. When he saw the lighted square of the window wink dark and open its eye no more he moved away toward the stable, and for all his bulk he moved swiftly and quietly. In the corral a big, brown horse nickered and came forward expectantly. Burney reached out a hamlike paw and the horse nuzzled it like a pet dog. He went over to where his saddle, a huge, heavy thing made especially for him, hung by one stirrup from the end of a top rail; and the horse followed at his shoulder. He did not speak once to the animal while he put on the saddle and the bridle, but every touch was the touch of affection.

Presently he rode quietly away through the sagebrush, across the little flat, and up the steep hill to the east. In the starlight he looked like the magnified shadow of a horseman moving slowly up toward the stars. Frequently he stopped to breathe his mount, for the hill was steep, and though the horse was big like his master and heavy-boned and well-muscled, Burney was a load for him. At the top Burney turned and rode forward on the trail which Breed Jim had lately followed, and went forward at a slow, easy trot that slid the miles behind him with the least effort.

At the Sunbeam the men slept heavily in the stuffy darkness of the bunk house. But Burney, their boss, rode and rode through the sage and the lava, and crossed steep gullies, and skirted ledges that no four-footed thing could scale—unless we except the lizards that lived there—and still he went on. The Great Dipper tilted more and more, and the wind rose and blew chill across the uplands. A thin rind of moon rose and slid behind a flock of woolly clouds that reminded Burney disagreeably of sheep; and after a while the wind grew tired and blew long, sighing gusts, and then forgot to blow at all. And still Burney was in the saddle, riding alone with no trail to guide him, and yet not aimlessly.

When daylight was close behind the deeper gloom of the fading stars he rode slowly down the hill and back across the little barren flat and stopped at the corral gate.

In the dark he hunted for an old gunny sack in the grain shed, and when he had found one he unsaddled his horse, and with the sack he rubbed and rubbed until he felt certain that the animal betrayed no sign of having been ridden that night. Then he hung saddle and bridle back upon the rail end, closed the gate, and went up to the cabin and got into bed.

In the bunk house Spider and Jim and Spooky were sleeping still, with an occasional snort or a mumble of half-formed words to show that Spooky was dreaming again. Shelton C. Sherman snored rhythmically on the bed of horrible history. And then the window brightened with the first flush of dawn—and the Sunbeam Ranch faced the beginning of a new era of its little, personal history.