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Ghost Breaker, The

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XVI AS IN DAYS OF OLD "Rusty! You lazy coon! Get on that horse of yours and hike along to the castle. See—the moon is helping us!" "Yassir. I was jest finishin' another hunk of po'k-chops dat I forgot an' put in my pocket. Won't you have a bite?" "No. I want to eat up something worse than pork to-night," and Jarvis swung into the saddle with the lithe skill acquired from childhood days on the backs of Blue-Grass thoroughbreds. "What was dat gun-play, Marse Warren?" asked Rusty, after he had calculated that they had ridden a respectful distance for inquiries. Rusty had a certain inherited pride! Jarvis laughed, and the dull glow of his cigarette tip was discernible. "Oh, Rusty, why worry over history? Leave that sort of thing to these 'spigotties'—that's all they have to think about over here. It was just a question of being 'pinked' or 'pinking' a certain gentleman who was working beyond union hours." "Huh!" snorted Rusty. "I'll bet de razor I has in my jeans dat he was moh red dan pink when you-all got finished wid dat cannon o' yourn, Marse Warren. It runs in de fambly ter shoot straight!" "Well, Rusty, let's ride straight for a while. We must go up this road to the turn." They passed dark cottages, and finally reached the fateful angle of the road. Rusty groaned apprehensively. "Say, Marse Warren, I wouldn't mind dis all in de meanest moonshine district in Kaintuck, but I don't like for to ride in dis yere foreign district. W'y didn't you-all pick out some place w'ere dey speaks human talk, instead of dis on-Christian lingo? It don't seem releegious to me, Marse Warren." "Rusty, I'm beginning to think you've got a yellow streak in you, with all this talk about objections. You used to have a name for not even being afraid of your weight in wildcats," said Warren. Rusty nodded, as he clung tightly to the saddle, on the increasingly rough trail. "Marse Warren, dat was right. But wildcats is purty heavy, an' you-all can hit 'em with a shotgun. De trouble wid ghosts is dat dey don't weigh nuffin!" "Lookout, Rusty. Here's a brook," and suddenly Jarvis' horse stumbled to its feet, after sliding down a sharp declivity which had been hidden by the shadows of the big moonlit trees. Rusty was not so fortunate,—he was rolled off despite his efforts, to receive a ducking. Then did his teeth have reason to chatter, as he mounted again to follow his master up the declivity with dripping clothes. "Whaffor dey want a crick like dat just below de doors of a castle, Marse Warren?" he complained. "That's how they got their water supply—I wouldn't be surprised if the old place weren't built right on top of that spring. You know when this place was built they didn't have any faucets or taps in these old places.—Except on the heads!" They mounted higher, ever higher, swinging on their saddlebows the unlighted, antique lanterns. Rusty was unmistakably becoming more and more nervous. The road took a sharp turn to the right now, and they clattered over the wooden bridge of the moat. They faced the great doorway of the old castle now. In the moonlight it was an eerie sight indeed. The castle stood on a broad rocky shelf. A cold wind swept over the mountain top, rattling the naked branches near by the dismal walls. "Ooooh!" "What's that?" grunted Rusty in terror. "Just the wind trying to get out through those barred windows up there, you fool." "Laws-a-massy, I don't blame it fer gittin' out. I wish I wasn't goin' in." A lone cloud took this occasion to cover the moon, and the shadow darkened the outlines of the sinister structure. The castle, so Warren had judged on his trip up the hill, must have been built in the period of the Spanish Moors. Later, perhaps when the Moors had been driven out of the country, two dismal wings, several towers and turrets had been added, reminding one of the castles on the Rhine cliffs. The face of the structure, which Jarvis scanned quickly, was about two hundred feet long and maybe sixty feet high—with two stanch square towers at either end. Thin slits in the walls and two round windows high up appeared to the mind of the Kentuckian (humorous in the face of the unknown danger) as "architectural bungholes." On either side of the great arched door jutted a turret, slit with many smaller openings and possessing castellated tops. As they rumbled over the planking of the open drawbridge Rusty's chattering teeth were audible to the rider close at his side, and Jarvis muttered angrily, drawing up his horse by the gate which led to the inner courtyard. "If you're still too much of a coward to go on, you can ride back, Rusty. This is the first time you've ever failed me in a time of danger." The negro remonstrated nervously. "I'm not skeered—Marse Warren, I'm jes' gittin' straight hair fer de fust time in my life. I'm goin' wid you. I'ze jes' mighty onhappy." A doorway somewhere swung shut with an iron clang. Rusty's nerves were stronger now. He breathed hard but said nothing. "They used to hitch their horses here, I suppose," said Jarvis, as he slid from the saddle. The moonlight gave them a better illumination by this time. He hitched his horse, and Rusty followed his example with trembling fingers. "Now, light the lamps. My, but those lamps would sell for a fortune in a Fourth Avenue antique shop!" Rusty obeyed silently. Then followed the most horrible experience of Rusty's life, in what seemed an endless exploration. They trod along weirdly echoing corridors, through spacious chambers, where ancient tapestries hung from the walls, while strange débris lay about amidst the curious carved furniture. Everything was covered by a pall of dust. Squealing and scurrying, the shining eyes and ghastly noises betrayed the presence of myriad rats. "What can they find to live on?" wondered Warren. From the high battlements they peered into the valley, and could see a few faint lights in the distant inn. Warren felt sure that one of those lights was in the room of her Highness. They explored the bedchambers of the lords and ladies of the castle, the little pigeonholes in which the men-at-arms must have slept. Strange subtle odors met them like an actual presence as they peered into dungeons, stone chambers, and horrid vaults. "I don't even see why a ghost would want ter hang around dis misserable place, Marse Warren," ventured Rusty, as for the second time they entered the largest room of all, within the central keep. "We've been here before, Rusty," replied Warren, sitting down for a moment on an old bench. Rusty looked around with rolling eyes. Suddenly Jarvis jumped up and sniffed. "Yes, and someone else has been here before. Do you smell that, Rusty?" "Marse Warren, I'm so skeered dat I can't smell nuthin',—I can' see nuthin', hear nuthin'—except dem moans and yowls in all dose powerful big rooms we was in." "The room's full of smoke and the smell of oil." Jarvis walked about, to make certain. "Somebody's been carrying a smoky lantern. We're getting warmer with that ghost." A dull thud came to their ears, from far within the building. Rusty jumped like a frightened fawn. "Good godelmity! What's dat?" Jarvis quietly walked across the room, to peer into the big stone fireplace. "Oh, Marse Warren, I want to go home!" Rusty had turned about, and his eyes took in two figures of ancient armor at the top of the broad half-flight of stairs, on a balcony daïs. He sank upon his knees and bobbed his head to the floor in obeisance. "What's the matter?" and Jarvis whirled about, with revolver drawn. His own nerves were beginning to get too taut, with the tension exaggerated by the superstition and fright of the negro. "Look! Look! Look at dem big black boogies standin' dere, Marse Warren. See 'em standin' dere?" Jarvis laughed and put his gun into his side pocket. "They're the same black things that scared you before, don't you remember?" "Oh, I'm so skeered, boss, dat I can't remember nuthin' at all." "Get up on your pins—they're nothing but old suits of armor, and you're liable to get some moonlight through you, Rusty, if there's another rear-end collision like that. You've been treading on my heels every step I take, and when I stop you bump into me." "But Marse Warren," pleaded the frightened darky, "I'm powerful 'fraid I might lose you!" "A fine chance," snorted Jarvis, looking about. "Well, Rusty, we've been through this old place pretty thoroughly, and not a sign of a soul—unless they pound or carry a smoky lantern. It's a clew, Rusty, it's a clew. We'll stick right here until we find out. This is the best room of the castle, and the ghost may prefer it." Jarvis crossed to the fireplace again, and striking a match, held it into the opening. Its flicker indicated a good draught. "There, Rusty," he said. "It's a good chance for a fire. The chimney's clear. Now break up that lopsided, rickety table there and make a fire. You won't feel half so scared with a good blaze behind you." He turned toward the half-flight of stairs, with a studious expression as he mentally measured the heights and thickness of the walls and ceiling. "I'll scout around a bit, Rusty." "Don't you do scoutin' outsiden dis room." Rusty crossed to the fireplace, with the pieces of easily-smashed table legs, and began to light the fire. "This was probably the banquet hall, Rusty." "Yes, and say, Marse Warren, when we-all goin' ter eat?" "When we get through with this job." He turned thoughtfully toward the big windows on the south of the room, and mused aloud: "That's the way through the two long rooms to the postern gate. Umm." "That's where that black thing followed me." "Yes, and a black thing followed me, walking on my heels every step I took. I couldn't see where I was stepping." "That goes to the armory." "I seen eyes in dere and a cold grimy, green smell in dere. Ain't dat where dat broad-faced bird flew at me, an' I slipped down de stairs?" "Don't you know an owl, Rusty? That's all it was." Jarvis was walking across the room to another door. Rusty was close behind him, following by habit now. "I wonder if that door is...." He did not finish the sentence! His foot had touched a swiveled rock, so delicately balanced that he had noiselessly fallen half through the large opening in the rock floor when Rusty caught him by the collar and under the arm. <ANTIMG src="images/009.jpg" alt="Rusty caught him by the arm" width-obs="500" height-obs="381"> Rusty caught him by the arm "Here, I'm holding on now better, Rusty. Give me your hand." They both tugged, and he was soon safe, peering into the black opening together. "That was a close call. Give me that lantern, Rusty!" He dropped an old pewter cup, left on a side table, down the opening. There was a delayed, faint splash. "Lord!—water and a long drop. No wonder people disappear in this castle. Great Scott! What if her brother fell in there? Rusty, whatever happens, keep clear of this. Get me a burned stick, and I'll mark a cross on it, so we can tell—it makes me nervous to see that open mouth of death gaping for us. If you step on this you'll never see Kentucky again, for sure." Rusty obeyed. "Did you hear that groan, Marse Warren?" "Groan—that's the wind!... There it is again—it does sound like a moan." "Ough!" and Rusty's teeth chattered in perfect rhythm with his shaking knees. "Ough!" "Shut up! Listen ... I guess it's the wind, at that. But this place is getting on our nerves all right." Rusty controlled his teeth enough to talk now. "Marse Warren, dat warn't no wind. Ah hope to die if dat warn't a shore 'nuff human groan." He turned and looked toward the big oil portrait of an ancient Spanish hidalgo over the fireplace. "An' I wants to tell you somepin else. Has you ever been in church or somew'ere an' all of a suddent a feelin' comes over you dat dere's someone's eyes a-starin' at de back of your haid ... you jest knowed it—until you couldn't stand it no longer, an' jest had to turn 'round an' see who it was?" "Yes, Rusty, I've had that. Why?" "Dat's jest de way I feel now. Like dem eyes in dat picture was a-lookin right through me. Like he'd like to step right outen de frame. Or dem two boogie battleship men would like to jump right down on me," and he pointed toward the two suits of armor on the landing above. "It's been a good many hundred years since those boys jumped. But listen—there's someone running as sure as you're alive, Rusty." It was unmistakable. The steps came nearer and nearer, and then came a repetition of that dull thud in a distant room. "I want to go home," moaned Rusty. Jarvis had drawn his revolver again, and he was standing close to the stairs. "Great Scott, Rusty! The man with the smoky lantern has been up these stairs. There are oil drippings, still fresh." "You-all ain't going up, is you?" pleaded Rusty. "Not at all. Because this Mr. Ghost or some of his spooky friends are probably waiting at the top of the stairs with a long gun, and I'm no book hero." "Suppose it might be dat dere Mrs. Princess'es brother?" "Well, he might blow my head off because he doesn't know what I came here for, and if it's someone else they'd blow it off because they do know why I'm here. There's somebody trying to scare us, Rusty. They're probably watching every move we make.... That's where that pounding comes from—why don't they shoot?... They're trying to scare us as they did the poor boobs down in the village." Rusty crossed toward the fireplace. He picked up an old mallet and chisel from the mantel, which was brighter now from the fire. He cried out in surprise: "Look yere, Marse Warren. Look yere!" He handed the tools over to the astounded Jarvis. "I found 'em on dat mantelpiece!" Jarvis ran to the mantelpiece and clambered up on a chair, holding the lantern close to the wall. "Good boy, Rusty! These are the Ghost's tools, all right. Someone was working in this room—but we've beaten him to it.... Mortar on the floor ... mortar on the mantle!... Look here at these stones. That's where he was working, Rusty, and we've beaten him to it." He stopped, and both of them turned simultaneously to look at the big picture of the historical Spaniard. Rusty had drawn his own revolver, with Jarvis doing the same by a curious instinct. "Did you feel dat, too, Marse Warren?" asked the frightened negro. Jarvis said nothing. He went to the picture and, lighting a match, passed it all around the frame, examining it, without the discovery of a suspicious thing. He turned away, then faced it once more as he backed toward the low balustrade of the steps over which stood one of the suits of armor. "By George, that's weird. You could feel that just as plain...." Rusty was still looking with fascination at the picture. "It sure is, Marse Warren, it sure is...." He turned slowly, facing Warren Jarvis. He had just time for one piercing howl—a veritable high-pitched scream: "My Gawd, look out!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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