The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones
with John Talkso, and with the shot from the hills. She had warned me in San Francisco merely on impulse, for she had felt that there was something vaguely but distinctly hostile about that ranch; also, she had been distrustful of me, for she had imagined that I might have been concerned in some conspiracy to beat down the value of the ranch and get it cheap. There is the contradiction of woman for you!
Well, inside of twenty minutes we were on solid footing of friendship. I managed to convince her as to my entire ignorance of the trouble; and I could see that the poor girl had been driven nearly wild by the mystery which had shrouded Balliol’s latter days.
As we drew up the lake, I suggested to Martha Balliol that she might care to stop at the ranch and look over the house.
“There may be books or other personal belongings of your brother’s that you’d like to keep,” I explained. “Really, Miss Balliol, I’d feel much relieved if you’d go through his effects and take everything that you’d like to have. I’ve felt very badly over the deal, because I’ve seemed to take undue advantage of his circumstances; and I feel as though some reparation and expiation were due you.”
Later, I thought, I’d add at least five thousand to the purchase price of the ranch, but of course this was not the moment to broach such a matter. Since it was early in the afternoon, Miss Balliol thanked me and consented to stop in at the ranch, for Dawson’s lay just across the bay and we could run over there in ten minutes.
Accordingly, we ran in to the dock, and on this occasion there was no red flare in the skull-sockets. Nor did I say anything to her about the skulls, for the subject was not a very pleasant one to bring before the girl’s mind. I was careful to steer her up the hill and then around to the side of the house, and as we reached it, I heard a bell buzzing away.
“Hello!” I ejaculated. “I ordered the telephone unplugged this morning—the instrument was in, of course. Someone’s calling to see if the line’s working, maybe. Go right in and make yourself at home, Miss Balliol—I’ll answer the call.”
The telephone was in the kitchen, and a moment later I was at the instrument.
“Yorke Desmond speaking!” I said. “Hello?”
It was my friend the banker at Lakeport speaking; and what he had to say was one little earful—it certainly was! What he wanted from me was the address of John Balliol, for no one in these parts seemed to know that Balliol was dead. I wanted to know why he wanted it.
Being a banker, he was mighty hard to pin down and hold on the mat; but at last I made him cough up the information. It appeared that some time previously Balliol had gone on the note of a friendly rancher to the tune of six thousand dollars. Fire had wiped out the rancher’s property—this was over in High Valley—and the man himself had broken both legs in an accident; and it was up to John Balliol to make good the six thousand, now overdue.
“What date was it due?” I demanded. The banker told me. That note had become due the day after I had bought the Balliol ranch!
“You listen here,” I said, thinking fast. “I’ll come in to Lakeport tomorrow and see you; and I’ll make good that sum. Savvy? Never mind my reasons. I owe Balliol that money, so I’ll explain further tomorrow.”
I rang off and dropped into the nearest chair.
Light on the subject? I should say so! This was the “other deal” to which Balliol had referred; and he sure had been a fool to endorse the other man’s note. He knew it, also, and knew that to make it good would wipe him out. That was why he had given up the fight.
He had sold out his ranch to me at a give-away price, in order to secure the ten thousand to his sister. He had given her the money, then had killed himself. He had left no estate whatever. Whether or not the law could reach that ten thousand, I did not know; at all events, he had, of course, figured that it was safe to Martha. The banker had told me that Balliol had sent back one thousand from Los Angeles—the thousand which I had given him for his car, of course.
This explained Balliol’s haste to get the money. It did not explain the enmity which had existed between Balliol and this John Talkso, but of that I took little heed at the moment. Instead of giving Martha Balliol the extra five thousand, I would pay it over to the bank, clear Balliol’s name, and square myself with the dead man, as I looked at it. Martha Balliol need never know of it.
I had figured this out to my own satisfaction as the best possible course, when from the front of the house I heard a cry, followed by a scream. Then I remembered that cursed pterodactyl, for the first time!
CHAPTER VIII
I Go Hunting
Martha Balliol had fallen against the cobbled chimney of the fireplace, and lay in a crumpled heap, arms outflung. To my horror, I thought her dead—then I saw, upon the floor, the muddy tracks of the flying dragon. She stirred a little, and at the motion, I leaped for the door.
The room was empty save for the girl, but I knew that the creature was somewhere close at hand—and I had left the shotgun in the boat!
I went down the path like a madman, secured the gun, tore open the box of shells, and as I ran back up to the house I loaded both chambers. As I came to the doorway, I saw that Martha Balliol was sitting up, holding one hand to her head. She stared at me.
“What—what was it?” she exclaimed.
“That’s what I want to know.” I turned my back on her, perhaps ungallantly, to seek some sign of movement from the yard. Nothing stirred. If the thing had been here, it had gone quickly; it had vanished among the trees. “I heard you scream—”
“Something—someone—came up behind and pushed me.” Martha Balliol was standing now, and anger was flashing in her blue eyes. “I heard nothing at all; the surprise made me scream, and I must have fallen against the stones, here—”
She suddenly saw the tracks upon the floor, and paused. Her eyes widened with a swift fear as she pointed to them. I nodded carelessly, then left the door and placed a chair for her.
Without exaggeration, but omitting nothing, I told her about the skull-eyes which I had seen only that morning, and also of the pterodactyl. She listened in silence, but her incredulous gaze made me squirm a bit.
“You speak as if you believe it,” she commented at last.
“Look at the tracks for yourself!” I countered. Then, getting her Balliol’s book, I showed her the illustration in question.
That shook her fine scorn of the story. She declared herself quite unhurt and refused to let the matter drop; but sat in thoughtful silence for a little.
“There’s something queer about this house!” she said at last, and rose. “Let’s look at those skulls, Mr. Desmond! I believe Jack said something about them in one of his letters, but I don’t remember the exact words—they were Indian relics, I believe. He did not say that he was building them into the house!”
Together we went outside, and while she inspected the skulls, I scrutinized the trees and shores, but vainly. The devilish thing had hidden itself absolutely, and I could see no particular sense in going to find it.
“I can’t honestly say that I care for this scheme of decoration,” declared Martha Balliol. “Jack was always given to odd notions like this, however. As for your story of the red eyes—well, I’ll pass on it when I see them for myself! Now let’s go up and look at the house; that is, if you still care to have me do so.”
“Do you still want to?” I queried, surprised by her coolness. “You’ve had a shock—”
“I’ve been very silly, you mean,” she corrected me severely, as we walked toward the steps. “About this prehistoric thing, Mr. Desmond—didn’t you say that the steps always came in to the center of the room, then ended? The footprints, I mean. Well, that does not look right to me. Of course, the creature might have come so far, then have flown away—”
“You admit there’s a creature,