Dick Martin Starts Something

: Bar-20 Days

Dick Martin slowly turned, leaned his back against the bar, and

languidly regarded a group of Mexicans at the other end of the room.

Singly, or in combinations of two or more, each was imparting all he

knew, or thought he knew about the ghost of San Miguel Canyon. Their

fellow-countryman, new to the locality, seemed properly impressed. That

it was the ghost of Carlos Martinez, murdered nearly one hundred years

before a
the big bend in the canyon, was conceded by all; but there was

a dispute as to why it showed itself only on Friday nights, and why it

was never seen by any but a Mexican. Never had a Gringo seen it. The

Mexican stranger was appealed to: Did this not prove that the murder

had been committed by a Mexican? The stranger affected to consider the

question.



Martin surveyed them with outward impassiveness and inward contempt. A

realist, a cynic, and an absolute genius with a Colt .45, he was well

known along the border for his dare-devil exploits and reckless courage.

The brainiest men in the Secret Service, Lewis, Thomas, Sayre, and

even old Jim Lane, the local chief, whose fingers at El Paso felt every

vibration along the Rio Grande, were not as well known--except to those

who had seen the inside of Government penitentiaries--and they were

quite satisfied to be so eclipsed. But the Service knew of the ghost,

as it knew everything pertaining to the border, and gave it no serious

thought; if it took interest in all the ghosts and superstitions

peculiar to the Mexican temperament it would have no time for serious

work. Martin once, in a spirit of savage denial, had wasted the better

part of several successive Friday nights in the San Miguel, but to no

avail. When told that the ghost showed itself only to Mexicans he had

shrugged his shoulders eloquently and laughed, also eloquently.



"A Greaser," he replied, "is one-half fear and superstition, an' the

other half imagination. There ain't no ghosts, but I know the Greasers

have seen 'em, all right. A Greaser can see anything scary if he makes

up his mind to. If I ever see one an' he keeps on being one after

I shoot, I'll either believe in ghosts, or quit drinking." His eyes

twinkled as he added: "An' of the two, I think I'd prefer to see

ghosts!"



He was flushed and restless with deviltry. His fifth glass always

made him so; and to-night there was an added stimulus. He believed

the strange Mexican to be Juan Alvarez, who was so clever that the

Government had never been able to convict him. Alvarez was fearless to

recklessness and Martin, eager to test him, addressed the group with the

blunt terseness for which he was famed, and hated.



"Greasers are cowards," he asserted quietly, and with a smile which

invited excitement. He took a keen delight in analyzing the expressions

on the faces of those hit. It was one of his favorite pastimes when

feeling coltish.



The group was shocked into silence, quickly followed by great unrest and

hot, muttered words. Martin did not move a muscle, the smile was set,

but between the half-closed eyelids crouched Combat, on its toes. The

Mexicans knew it was there without looking for it--the tone of his

voice, the caressing purr of his words, and his unnatural languor were

signs well known to them. Not a criminal sneaking back from voluntary

banishment in Mexico who had seen those signs ever forgot them, if he

lived. Martin watched the group cat-like, keenly scrutinizing each face,

reading the changing emotions in every shifting expression; he had this

art down so well that he could tell when a man was debating the pull of

a gun, and beat him on the draw by a fraction of a second.



"De senor ees meestak," came the reply, as quiet and caressing as the

words which provoked it. The strange Mexican was standing proudly and

looking into the squinting eyes with only a grayness of face and a

tigerish litheness to tell what he felt.



"None go through the canyon after dark on Fridays," purred Martin.



"I go tro' de canyon nex' Friday night. Eef I do, then you mak apology

to me?"



"I'll limit my remark to all but one Greaser."



The Mexican stepped forward. "I tak' thees gloove an' leave eet at

de Beeg Ben', for you to fin' in daylight," he said, tapping one of

Martin's gauntlets which lay on the bar. "You geev' me eet befo' I go?"



"Yes; at nine o'clock to-morrow night," Martin replied, hiding his

elation. He was sure that he knew the man now.



The Mexican, cool and smiling, bowed and left the room, his companions

hastening after him.



"Well, I'll bet twenty-five dollars he flunks!" breathed the bartender,

straightening up.



Martin turned languidly and smiled at him. "I'll take that, Charley," he

replied.







Johnny Nelson was always late, and on this occasion he was later than

usual. He was to have joined Hopalong and Red, if Red had arrived, at

Dent's at noon the day before, and now it was after nine o'clock at

night as he rode through San Felippe without pausing and struck east

for the canyon. The dropping trail down the canyon was serious enough

in broad daylight, but at night to attempt its passage was foolhardy,

unless one knew every turn and slant by heart, which Johnny did not. He

was thirty-three hours late now, and he was determined to make up what

he could in the next three.



When Johnny left Hopalong at Dent's he had given his word to be back on

time and not to keep his companions waiting, for Red might be on time

and he would chafe if he were delayed. But, alas for Johnny's good

intentions, his course took him through a small Mexican hamlet in which

lived a senorita of remarkable beauty and rebellious eyes; and Johnny

tarried in the town most of the day, riding up and down the streets,

practising the nice things he would say if he met her. She watched

him from the heavily draped window, and sighed as she wondered if her

dashing Americano would storm the house and carry her off like the

knights of old. Finally he had to turn away with heavy and reluctant

heart, promising himself that he would return when no petulant and

sarcastic companions were waiting for him. Then--ah! what dreams youth

knows.



Half an hour ahead of him on another trail rode Juan, smiling with

satisfaction. He had come to San Felippe to get a look at the canyon on

Friday nights, and Martin had given him an excuse entirely unexpected.

For this he was truly grateful, even while he knew that the American

had tried to pick a quarrel with him and thus rid the border of a man

entirely too clever for the good of customs receipts; and failing in

that, had hoped the treacherous canyon trail would gain that end in

another manner. Old Jim Lane's fingers touched wires not one whit more

sensitive than those which had sent Juan Alvarez to look over the San

Miguel--and Lane's wires had been slow this time. When Juan had left the

saloon the night before and had seen Manuel slip away from the group and

ride off into the north, he had known that the ghost would show itself

the following night.



But Juan was to be disappointed. He was still some distance from the

canyon when a snarling bulk landed on the haunches of his horse. He

jerked loose his gun and fired twice and then knew nothing. When he

opened his eyes he lay quietly, trying to figure it out with a head

throbbing with pain from his fall. The cougar must have been desperate

for food to attack a man. He moved his foot and struck something soft

and heavy. His shots had been lucky, but they had not saved him his

horse and a sprained arm and leg. There would be no gauntlet found at

the Big Bend at daylight.



When Johnny Nelson reached the twin boulders marking the beginning of

the sloping run where the trail pitched down, he grinned happily at

sight of the moon rising over the low hills and then grabbed at his

holster, while every hair in his head stood up curiously. A wild,

haunting, feminine scream arose to a quavering soprano and sobbed away

into silence. No words can adequately describe the unearthly wail in

that cry and it took a full half-minute for Johnny to become himself

again and to understand what it was. Once more it arose, nearer, and

Johnny peered into the shadows along a rough backbone of rock, his Colt

balanced in his half-raised hand.



"You come 'round me an' you'll get hurt," he muttered, straining his

eyes to peer into the blackness of the shadows. "Come on out, Soft-foot;

the moon's yore finish. You an' me will have it out right here an'

now--I don't want no cougar trailing me through that ink-black canyon on

a two-foot ledge--" he thought he saw a shadow glide across a dim patch

of moonlight, but when his smoke rifted he knew he had missed. "Damn

it! You've got a mate 'round here somewhere," he complained. "Well,

I'll have to chance it, anyhow. Come on, bronc! Yo're shaking like a

leaf--get out of this!"



When he began to descend into the canyon he allowed his horse to pick

its own way without any guidance from him, and gave all of his attention

to the trail behind him. The horse could get along better by itself in

the dark, and it was more than possible that one or two lithe cougars

might be slinking behind him on velvet paws. The horse scraped along

gingerly, feeling its way step by step, and sending stones rattling and

clattering down the precipice at his left to tinkle into the stream at

the bottom.



"Gee, but I wish I'd not wasted so much time," muttered the rider

uneasily. "This here canyon-cougar combination is the worst I ever

butted up against. I'll never be late again, not never; not for all the

girls in the world. Easy, bronc," he cautioned, as he felt the animal

slip and quiver. "Won't this trail ever start going up again?" he

growled petulantly, taking his eyes off the black back trail, where no

amount of scrutiny showed him anything, and turned in the saddle to peer

ahead--and a yell of surprise and fear burst from him, while chills ran

up and down his spine. An unearthly, piercing shriek suddenly rang out

and filled the canyon with ear-splitting uproar and a glowing, sheeted

half-figure of a man floated and danced twenty feet from him and over

the chasm. He jerked his gun and fired, but only once, for his mount had

its own ideas about some things and this particular one easily headed

the list. The startled rider grabbed reins and pommel, his blood

congealed with fear of the precipice less than a foot from his side, and

he gave all his attention to the horse. But scared as he was he heard,

or thought that he heard, a peculiar sound when he fired, and he would

have sworn that he hit the mark--the striking of the bullet was not

drowned in the uproar and he would never forget the sound of that

impact. He rounded Big Bend as if he were coming up to the judge's

stand, and when he struck the upslant of the emerging trail he had made

a record. Cold sweat beaded his forehead and he was trembling from head

to foot when he again rode into the moonlight on the level plain, where

he tried to break another record.



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