The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack Page 4

  Delozier put away his birth certificate and brought forth a bottle of odd and antique shape, filled with a pink liquid and bearing a label, Elixir of Life Eternal. “This,” he declared, “is that secret. But it has a limitation; it is only an elixir. One drop of it, dissolved in a spring, or pool, makes that to which it is added a fountain of youth. Not every spring or well responds to its transforming magic, however, which explains my having been a world traveler. I live only where responsive springs are to be found. Through an Indian medicine-man I met over a hundred years ago, I learned of such a spring near this spot. I found it, of course; hence, my being here tonight is not pure coincidence.”

  Winters stared at Delozier’s bottle and its magic elixir. He thought of his beautiful wife and how wonderful it would be to be forever young with her. “Delozier, what will you take for some of that stuff?”

  “It’s not for sale, Winters, but I recognize in you it man we need—a man of courage, toughness and skill in your profession. It is such men as you who stand, and have ever stood, between peaceful society and its enemies. I could be no greater benefactor to mankind than by presenting you with a long and useful life. I cannot give you this, of course, but if you will come with me, I can show you where there is a fountain of youth. That shall be yours as a gift.”

  Bogannon landed Winters an under-table kick, but Winters paid him no mind. “Winters,” Doc persisted, “you’re tired; of course you wouldn’t think of going on a wild-goose chase tonight.” Winters got up as Delozier rose. “Tonight? Of course I’ll go. There might never be another night like this.”

  “But your horse is tired,” exclaimed Bogie. “You could at least show him a little mercy.”

  “Of course,” said Delozier. “As it happens, a friend of mine is in town and has left a horse in my care. He’s hitched outside, beside my own. A splendid one, too. Winters, you shall ride him.”

  Bogie’s further protest was intercepted by an angry frown from Winters. But he did notice, and with satisfaction, that Winters carried two six-guns. Winters was a good officer, but he took chances no sensible man would have taken; he should have known that Kirk Delozier was a maniac.

  When they’d been gone twenty seconds, Bogie remembered Swan Caplinger—Sleepless Cappy. What had become of him? Bogie hadn’t seen him or heard of him since that night when he’d gone out with Delozier. And they’d been looking at a bottle!

  Bogie ran out, intending to call after them, but Winters and Delozier had disappeared. It was time to close up and go home, but Bogie went back inside and sat down.

  * * * *

  On Alkali Flat, Winters and Delozier rode side by side at an easy lope. A setting moon cast long shadows, which moved with them. There was something unusual about this horse Winters rode. He was a fine palomino, but he was more; some fancier, or showman, had taught him to arch his neck and hold his head gracefully as he loped, and to set his feet down gently. Undoubtedly he was a trained horse, but trained for what?

  Winters soon found out. From their right a tinkle of music burst into a sudden cascade of exciting sounds. Winters’ horse instantly reared. Winters, not unused to rearing horses, clung on at first, but when his palomino began to jump like a kangaroo, that was too much. Winters landed hard, and stars glittered in his eyes.

  Two things he saw, both of which angered him beyond measure He saw Delozier and both horses move swiftly away; he heard a growl. Then he saw Trigg Humbolt’s bear racing toward him, its teeth flashing.

  From that moment on, his reactions were entirely physical. Around him swirled chaos and death—a bear, bullets in its brain, thrashing upon him, gun slugs hissing at him from two directions, Kirk Delozier riding at him, a six-gun blazing, and Winters, crouched behind a kicking bear, firing all that was left in two bucking forty-fives, ducking under hoofs of a leaping horse, at last crawling from under a limp, dead body.

  * * * *

  Doc Bogannon heard gunfire, wiped sweat, and waited.

  Then his batwings squeaked, and Deputy Winters staggered in. Doc sprang up and rushed to help him. “Winters! You’re killed.”

  Winters slumped into a chair. “A drink, Doc. I’m not killed, but I’m plenty scared; first time I ever considered being a lawman, somebody ought to kicked me.”

  Doc brought whiskey, water and towels. “You’re cut up, Winters. Must’ve tangled with a panther.”

  “It was that bear, Doc. I’ve seen and heard of robbers, but those ex-circus monkeys had a new angle.”

  Doc unfastened Winters’ torn shirt and began to dress his lacerations. “What happened, Winters?”

  “Doc, I don’t know what happened. All I know is, there’s a couple of dead men and a dead bear down on Alkali Flat, and I’m still alive. But if you want to know what’s goin’ on around this dang crazy town, you ask somebody who knows. Don’t ask me.”

  SATAN’S WOOL-MERCHANT

  Real Western Stories, February 1953

  Deputy-Marshal Lee Winters rode wearily out of Wild Cat Gulch onto Pangborn Road, a few minutes before sundown, and headed for Forlorn Gap three miles south. Two circumstances conjoined to make that moment a startling one for his big horse, Cannon Ball, and a near fatal one for Winters. From beyond a jutting cliff a long, grotesque shadow fell upon Pangborn Road. That in itself was unnerving to a horse made skittish already by a running gunfight in Wild Cat Gulch. Reversal of whirling wind had simultaneously brought to Cannon Ball’s sensitive nostrils an alarming scent. In his equine reasoning, it diffused from that grotesque shadow—gave it substance—so that shadow took on reality as a crawling monster.

  Cannon Ball reared and twisted into a corkscrew turn. Winters, tired and relaxed, was caught off-guard; he went out of his saddle and landed in a bed of dust between sharp rocks. His one remaining contact with Cannon Ball was a strip of bridle leather; to that he clung with fierce, angry determination. Then, with snap-beetle abruptness he flipped over, landed on his feet, and in a couple of jumps was back on top.

  “Well, well,” a queer-sounding voice said derisively. “If it ain’t Deputy Marshal Winters hisself, spilled like a shot cougar from a tree-limb.” Winters swung his horse around. What he saw gave him a shiver; it was no wonder, he thought, that sight of its shadow had caused Cannon Ball to throw a fit. Here on horseback before him was a thing that passed as human, yet looked like something out of a collection of horrors. He was a man with long legs, a short, thick torso, and a small, barely-visible head—to all appearances utterly neck-less and half-imbedded between chunky, broad shoulders.

  Winters patted his horse. “Steady, boy, it’s human.” Cannon Ball pranced to left and right, pawed, and snorted. Winters continued to stroke his neck. “Fact is, it’s a man on a horse. Name’s Wheezy Mainrod. Wheezy was a butcher at Forlorn Gap, back in its boom-days.”

  Wheezy Mainrod had stopped his ambling plug. “So you know me, eh?” His voice was as wheezy as ever. To its wheeziness, qualities of derision and malice had attached themselves. “Sure, I was a butcher in Forlorn Gap, and who’s to say I ain’t still carryin’ on a small business thereabouts? A man can have a share of gold without bein’ a deputy-marshal or a gravel-scratcher, can’t he?”

  Cannon Ball rode uneasily at anchor, while Winters kept a tight knee-clamp against his ribs. Winters had a curious eye on two huge canvas bags slung from Mainrod’s saddlehorn, one on each side. “Just what kind of business are you carrying on, Wheezy Mainrod?”

  Between Wheezy’s lumpy shoulders and his hat brim, there was but a small aperture, a recess from which Wheezy’s small eyes blinked. He made Winters think of a Texas terrapin, head retracted, but still visible.

  “Something I’ve always noticed about you, Winters,” said Wheezy. “You’re one to stick your nose in other people’s business; a meddler, that’s what. But I don’t mind tellin’ you—I’m a wool-merchant. See these two bags of wool? I’m takin’ ’em to a weaver what lives ’twixt here and Pedigo Road. He pays me good money for ’em, too. And that’s what talks with m
e—money; purty, shiny gold money. Some men gets it one way, some another.”

  Curiosity had led Winters to another point of inquiry. Each bag at its bottom had assumed a reddish-brown discoloration. “Looks like you’ve had your wool bags settin’ in tubs of blood, Wheezy. You ain’t sanitary.”

  Wheezy Mainrod’s eyes became little chinks of light back in a cave. He wheezed with sinister insinuation, “Ever hear about a cat as was killed by curiosity?”

  Winters made another discovery; Wheezy had a six-gun in his right hand, its dangerous end pointed generally in Winters’ direction. It presented no immediate threat, however, Winters figured— though he knew a drawn gun to have several points of advantage over one shoved down tight in a holster. Warily, he scratched his chin and lowered his eyes. “Looks as if blood might be drippin’ from them wool-bags, too; wouldn’t be packin’ a couple of dead sheep, would you, Wheezy?”

  Wheezy’s momentary silence was attended by a tensing of his gun-hand. He glanced at Winters’ right hip and wheezed, “If I wanted to take my friend a few chops of mutton, that’d be my business, wouldn’t it? Well, wouldn’t it?”

  Mainrod’s six-gun lifted to a more convincing position. Winters suddenly appreciated his danger and began to perspire; that dripping blood could have been from something besides sheep meat. Contrary suspicion was inspired and accentuated by Wheezy Mainrod’s belligerent coldness.

  Winters put an urgent friendliness into his manner. “Yes, sir, Wheezy, your business; you bet your life. Chops of mutton or chops of whatnot, it’s sure no affair of mine. So, if you’ll excuse this fool horse I’m ridin’, I’ll get him past you and be on my way.

  Mainrod pulled over and Winters gigged his horse’s flanks. Cannon Ball went by in a sideways, rearing walk. When past, he snorted, whirled, and leaped into a run. Winters held on and let him tear. For once he was of one mind with his horse; he wanted no truck with a wool-merchant.

  * * * *

  Lamps of evening appeared one by one in Forlorn Gap. A stagecoach arrived from Elkhorn Pass; dropped a couple of passengers at Goodlett Hotel; changed horses; and drifted on eastward. Horsebackers dusted in, origins and destinations alike unknown. Some put up at Goodlett’s; some hitched temporarily at Doc Bogannon’s saloon.

  Business was good at Bogannon’s for several hours: drinkers and card players had their recreation, their good luck and bad, and moved on. Bogie was too busy to take particular note of any customer until they had simmered down to a mere handful. One then stood out with black-sheep distinction—a small man in a small, round hat, with bushy burnsides, critical eyes, and a pointed chin.

  He strode back and forth in front of Bogie’s bar and cast disapproving glances hither and yon.

  Doc Bogannon had settled down to washing and polishing glasses for a spell, but this promenader roused his interest. “You working off a soreness of some sort, my friend?”

  His guest paused and faced Bogannon. “Sir!” Bogie wasn’t sure whether that sir was a rebuke or a question. “No impertinence was intended, Mr. —. Well, now, I don’t really believe I’ve heard your name. I’m Doc Bogannon, if condescension permits you to take note of one so insignificant as I.”

  “Circumstances of a wretched existence have taught me to endure every sort of discord, imperfection and nuisance—including persons who are bent on being sociable. My name, since you are determined to be a quidnunc, is Aloysius McGuffy”

  Bogie put down glass and polishing cloth. He placed his big hands, palms down, on his bar and stared in wonder. “Ah, indeed!” He shook his head in mock amazement. “Now, if you’ll indulge my further inquisitiveness, would you, by any chance, be a Boston McGuffy?”

  Aloysius McGuffy lifted bushy eyebrows and lowered, expressive mouth-corners. “Boston, eh? How did you know?”

  Doc Bogannon leaned back and folded his arms contentedly. He was a tall man—broadly built— with a fine head, luxuriant black hair, and mild, sympathetic eyes. In appearance, he would have graced any position of honor or power; yet, for reasons best known to himself, he was satisfied with life as owner of a saloon and companion of a half-breed Shoshone wife—in a semi-ghost town of gold-diggers and assorted wayfarers.

  He looked upon Aloysius McGuffy not with merited distaste, but with heartfelt affection. “I did not exactly know, McGuffy, that you’re from Boston, but I’ll say this: Boston does put a mark of distinction upon a man.”

  “Fa!” popped McGuffy. He resumed his half-angry promenade. “Boston has been my undoing, my curse. Until I saw Boston, I derived some measure of satisfaction from things about me. A clouded sunset, for example, gave me a modest thrill by its evanescent glory. Sweeping clouds inspired vague suggestion of vast, unharnessed power. I saw a measure of beauty in a rosebud, sensed a faint touch of divinity in its fragrance. At night a wind-whisper was not unknown to initiate poetic thoughts, though I confess that it set no ethereal bells to ringing in my soul.” McGuffy swung his arms in a gesture of hopeless frustration. “Then, in Boston, I studied art.”

  “Ah,” said Bogie. “So you’re an artist!” McGuffy stopped and stared at him. “I was an artist. I gave it up to escape madness. As an artist I began to see things as they are—not perfect and beautiful, but deformed and ugly. In one deluging rush, I realized that nothing was perfect. I was overcome by that appalling truth; I fled from it as from a pestilence. Yet, wherever I go, it haunts and depresses me.” He swung his arms wide. “It’s everywhere. Just look! That mirror behind you—it is a mass of flaw and blemish. At one spot your image looks like an ogre; at another, a deformed ape. And those dented, lopsided lamps, with their smoke-darkened chimneys. And those—”

  Bogannon’s batwings squeaked, and a lean, middle-aged man with a badge and a strapped-down six-gun strode in.

  “Winters!” exclaimed Bogie. “Come in and meet a new friend of mine.”

  Winters approached, stopped, lifted hands to hips and stared at Aloysius McGuffy. “There’s usually a jinx on your new friends, Doc. What’s wrong with this one?”

  Bogie leaned on his bar and smiled broadly. “Deputy Winters, this is Aloysius McGuffy. If I should undertake to characterize him—which I don’t, of course—I’d say he is a most excellent man who is hard to please.”

  Winters moved up and planked down a coin. “Maybe a glass of wine would help his disposition. Fill ’em up, Doc; both on me.”

  Bogie filled two glasses with sparkling red wine. He slid one to Winters, one toward McGuffy. “Step right up, McGuffy. When Deputy Winters indulges in generosity, it’s big-heartedness at its best, indeed—without a flaw or blemish.”

  McGuffy stepped forward with alacrity and lifted his glass. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that; basically, all human behavior is selfish.”

  Winters sipped leisurely. “Good wine, though.” McGuffy held his glass toward a light and stuck out his lips in contempt. “Far from pure vintage, I’d say; nothing to compare with madeira. Burgundy is far superior. Champagne, port, hock, sherry—all are much better. This, I would surmise, is merely a cheap grade of claret. Of course Winters is generous—as that term is vulgarly used—but generous with what?” He drank and put down his empty glass. “Generous with what, in ordinary circumstances, I would disdain to touch.”

  Winters drained his glass and set it aside. “You know, Doc, when I was a button down in Texas, there was a neighbor boy just like this here McGuffy. At table, when there was fried chicken, he always grabbed for best pieces. Even so, he wasn’t satisfied. There’s just something in McGuffy makes me think of that wishbone-breast-gizzard-grabber.”

  Aloysius McGuffy, unused to reminder of imperfection on his own part, backed away in sudden wrath. “I will not be criticized by a bottom-strata, dust-ridden, desert varmint—here or elsewhere. Especially will I not be criticized by an arrogant, overlording deputy-marshal. I dislike deputy-marshals instinctively.

  “It is a peculiar thing I have consistently observed about them. They are products of an amazing transformation. Yo
u can take a fellow of most ordinary makeup and ability, put a deputy-marshal badge on his chest, a few legal papers in his pocket, a six-gun on his hip, and he is no longer an ordinary mortal. Suddenly he is a giant who moves astride this narrow world like a Colossus. Imperfection it is—imperfection magnified a thousand fold. A magnitudinous manifestation of that inherent arrogance and evil—”

  “Enough,” snapped Winters. “I know when I’m beat; goodnight, Doc.” Winters swung on his heels and made a hurried retreat.

  Bogie leaned back again and folded his arms. This Aloysius McGuffy intrigued him, as had so many queer ducks before him. To many of them, Forlorn Gap had been a crossroads of destiny. Some here had departed from accustomed ways, to become earthly saints or unmitigated sinners. Not a few here had their natural or acquired evil tendencies brought to their natural and logical conclusions. Bogie wished—in vain, of course— for a prophetic eye: he would have liked to foresee McGuffy’s future, and McGuffy’s end.

  But a stranger rose from a back table and flapped forward like a blanket in a stiff wind. Now, here was a character, thought Doc, if ever one there was. He was big—bigger than Doc himself—dark, wearing a big black hat whose stiffness had long since departed. Most noticeable, however, of all of his qualities was his overall flabbiness, evident in face, mouth, skin, and joints. Inseparable from that looseness of texture, too, was a flabby imitation of genial spirit.

  He moved straight to Aloysius McGuffy and put a big arm about his shoulders, deceptive friendliness wrapping itself around McGuffy as something warm and protective against a frigid world. “Brother to my heart,” said a voice, full of richness and melody. “I am Professor Whitson Pettigrew, lecturer, philosopher and philanthropist. I overheard your learned, observant remarks, McGuffy; they touched me deeply. I, too, have been to Boston, city of industry, commerce and culture. I, too, became a skeptic; for a time I lost contact with all things that lent joy to living. Yet, after a bitter struggle—and as all true artists should do—I found again that which was lost.” Pettigrew glanced at Bogie. “Two glasses of wine, Bogannon. As I was befriended in my darkest hour, so must I befriend this wise, good man. McGuffy is an unhappy captive of fate; I have been designated by a higher destiny as McGuffy’s angel of deliverance.”