Pulp Fiction | The Ghost Riders Affair (July 1966) Page 2

  THREE

  Napoleon Solo stood in the United Network Command Room and stared at the blank screen of the instant-bulletin set.

  A kind of creeping helplessness immobilized him.

  Other men, of every age and nationality, moved around him, each wearing the same electronic identification badge that he wore, all of them vitally concerned in this latest unnerving disorder that left the world-wide organization impotent and disabled.

  Though the others acted, trying to find ways around the crippled machinery, Solo remained staring at that silent screen, as if paralyzed by its sudden failure.

  Slender, of medium height, Solo was a warmly handsome young man who might have been a doctor, lawyer, advertising executive, accountant—anything except what he was: a highly-rated precision-trained enforcement agent for what had become the most important secret service agency in the world, the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

  Solo pulled his gaze from the lifeless screen, forcing his mind away from the moment when every sound from the Chieftain ceased.

  "They reached the water stop," Waverly was saying, reconstructing the final moments of communication. "We lost contact. However, the bleep-signal remained clear for—for how long, Mr. Solo?"

  Solo looked up, his face drawn. "The bleep stopped three minutes after the train slowed for the water stop, sir."

  "Have they been able to pick it up again?" Waverly asked.

  Solo shook his head. "Negative, sir. We have agents on the spot. They report no trace of the train. It did not stop for water, by the way."

  Waverly shifted papers on his desk. He scowled, studying the men ringed before him. Slowly, the machines and computers came to life on the walls around him. New coded messages were place before him.

  He said, "There must be no panic. We have had a moment of complete breakdown here. But it is only momentary. There is some logical explanation for this, for all of this. Our communications cannot fail like this, not without some detectable cause. Two fifteen-car streamliner trains cannot vanish off their rails without logical explanation."

  Waverly pushed his graying hair back from his lined forehead. No one in United Command knew Waverly's exact age. Solo wondered wryly if even the computers could give such information. Contrary to popular belief, the computers were not infallible. Lord help anybody programming Alexander Waverly's age into any United Command machinery!

  Waverly's brilliant record in military and intelligence dated back to the first world war. He was one of the five men—of different nations—heading the far-flung operations of United Command. Age was his enemy—and so far Alexander Waverly had been able to walk on its face.

  Solo said, "I'm ready to fly out immediately, sir."

  Waverly's gaze fixed on him from beneath bushy brows. "Fly out, Mr. Solo? Where?"

  Solo glanced at the silent screen of the instant-bulletin. It was his last contact with Illya Kuryakin, somehow seemed his final hope for finding him. "I imagined you'd want me to go out to the place where the second train disappeared, sir."

  Waverly shook his head. "Negative."

  Solo scowled. "But, sir. Illya was on that train—" He saw the older man's face and stopped.

  Waverly nodded. "I assure you, Mr. Solo, we will make every effort to locate Mr. Kuryakin, as well as the two trains which somehow seem to have dissolved into thin air."

  "Isn't the place where the train disappeared the place to start looking for Illya?"

  "It might seem to be—"

  "Before something happens to him."

  Waverly's head jerked up. "Just a moment, Mr. Solo. We cannot let emotionalism enter into this, no matter how we might feel about Mr. Kuryakin. Surely I don't have to remind a professional such as you that there are larger issues at jeopardy here."

  Solo exhaled heavily. "I'm sorry, sir."

  Waverly's voice was flat. "As you yourself stated a few moments ago, we have U.N.C.L.E. agents on the scene where the train was last heard from. None has reported any trace of the lost streamliner. I am aware of the great personal peril Mr. Kuryakin faces at this moment, but these are risks we take—that all of us must be prepared to take.

  I'm sorry, but perhaps the scene of the calamity might not be the best place to begin our search—for either Illya Kuryakin, or the missing trains."

  Solo frowned, waiting. He could no longer oppose anything Waverly ordered. He had the same pride and faith in Waverly that he had in the United Command itself.

  He waited, knowing that Waverly would send him out of this chrome, steel and glass office—that no matter what the command, he would try to execute it.

  Waverly tapped his unlighted pipe.

  "I don't have to spell it out for you, Mr. Solo," he said. "I'm sure the same thought has occurred to both of us."

  Solo nodded.

  "I know, sir. The pattern has suddenly changed."

  He looked out the window, summoning up his thoughts.

  "Yes," he said, "Before this it at least was one at a time. Isolated, mysterious disappearances. Buddy Evans, a second-string Red Sox catcher, vanished on his way to spring training. Never seen again. Just went off the face of the earth—and on his way to collect a fat bonus for signing."

  Waverly said, "The Jeanne Lynch case. A premiere danseuse with the Sadler Wells ballet. Never showed up for a sold-out performance of Swan Lake. Never seen again."

  "There was quite a few of them," Solo said.

  "Eleven hundred and thirty-six," Waverly said grimly. "Plus three unconfirmed. Most of them were not celebrities, so the cases got no great national notice, Mr. Solo."

  Napoleon said, "I see what you mean, sir. It was as though they—whoever they are—had been trying out some devilish abduction plan, testing it on individuals until they were sure it would work. Now they're sure. Now—entire train."

  Solo sighed. "And tomorrow—God knows."

  Alexander Waverly said gravely, "You said 'They—whoever they are.' I think we—er—have a pretty good idea, Mr. Solo. Only one organization in the world would have the audacity, the powerful scope, the sheer tenacity of evil to dare this monstrous thing."

  THRUSH!

  Neither of them had to say it. The thought hung over them like a deadly, unseen nimbus of doom.

  Solo drew a deep breath. "What are my orders, sir?"

  Waverly allowed a faint smile, "I'm sending you to the Maynard Ranch in the Sawtooth ranges of Wyoming—"

  "The place where the cattle disappeared?"

  Waverly nodded. "Without a trace, without a hoof-print, or any other sign."

  Solo frowned. "But you said we had no proof these two incidents were in any way related."

  "I want you to get that proof."

  Solo nodded. "You have some reason to believe there is a link, sir?"

  Waverly thumbed through taped reports before him. "We have our computers' estimates that the incidents of missing train and vanished cattle are related." Waverly shrugged. "It's up to you, Mr. Solo, because I confess to you that's all we have to go on—the computers and my instinct."

  Solo frowned because he'd never heard Waverly make just such a remark before. Waverly eschewed anything unscientific. "Instinct, sir?"

  Waverly nodded. "That's how helpless we are, Mr. Solo. I'm placing my hopes on instinct now. My instinct tells me that the missing cattle and disappearing trains are all part of the same plan. How? I don't know. Nor does any one, except—THRUSH."

  FOUR

  Napoleon Solo stepped out of the station wagon that transported him from the Union Pacific station at Cripple Bend to the Maynard Bar-M Ranch.

  A sense of unnatural silence was oppressive in the Wyoming afternoon. The ranch house looked to be at least seventy years old, built of fieldstones and mountain spruce, reconditioned with central heating and every luxury for dude ranchers.

  It was a working ranch, too, deep in the rocky foothills of the inaccessible Sawtooth mountains.

  Carlos Maynard prowled his littered office like a ho
bbled mustang. He stared at Solo, sitting in a straight chair tilted against the wall.

  "It isn't that you aren't welcome here, Solo. You are! A very distinguished visitor, and I'm glad to know somebody is doing something! You're not a cop, are you?"

  Solo shrugged. "You have somebody you want arrested, Mr. Maynard?"

  The harried rancher grinned despite himself. "No. But maybe I'd feel better if you could make an arrest if we need one."

  "First, we better find out what really happened," Solo suggested mildly.

  Maynard shrugged. "I'll buy that. You can count on me for all the help I can give you. Only I can tell you, I feel pretty helpless about now."

  "We all do."

  "I just want you to understand. I'll do anything I can to help you people, but my first interest has got to be getting my cattle back."

  Solo watched him. "If we can solve why they disappeared, Mr. Maynard, we should be able to find them."

  Maynard nodded. "I hope so. Frankly, I stand to be ruined. No sense trying to hide that from you. People are scared. Scared to come here. Scared to stay after they do get here. We got some pretty wild rumors going around, I can tell you. Ghost riders. No matter how much I warn the men who work for me to knock off that kind of talk, it persists. And who are we to say? Maybe ghost riders did just drive my cattle out into the sky. They sure didn't leave any tracks behind them."

  "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 s
parkling 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."