The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack. Lon Williams

      “Meet my efficient friend, Wheezy Mainrod,” said Pettigrew. “Mainrod is a true artist; his specialty is carving. Many a carcass has yielded to his manipulating, slicing touch. You complain, McGuffy, of universal imperfection. Well, here is an artist who is perfect; ordinarily he makes his operations painless by a quick throat-slice, but at my request he will proceed contrarily in your case. You will suffer, naturally, but ample compensation will be yours in observing a flawless artist at his work. Proceed, Mainrod.”

      Wheezy Mainrod moved around to McGuffy’s feet. He caught a toe between thumb and index finger of his left hand. In his right he held a long knife, its blade a-glitter with sharpness. “Now, me,” he wheezed, “I likes to start with little pieces, and work from there.”

      “Your pleasure is mine,” responded Professor Pettigrew. He pulled a bloody canvas bag from a wall hook and tossed it at Mainrod’s feet. “Put that by your workbench; it will avoid double work.” McGuffy felt sick, felt himself drifting away into a mixed state of dream and fantasy. Mercy’s gentle hand thus soothed his brow, closed his eyes against another horror that was about to pass by night in Forlorn Gap. Darkness drew its benign veil…

      * * * *

      Deputy-Marshal Lee Winters had gone to bed, but he was not asleep. Beside him lay his beautiful wife Myra, her gentle face kissed by moonbeams. Her breathing was even, slow, untroubled. When on long, lonely rides he’d taken to count his blessings, he’d thought first of her. Visions of a peaceful life lured him then—a quiet spot in some un-preempted valley, where he could raise cattle, horses, food, and a family. But somewhere he’d heard, or read, a doleful, fatalistic declaration: There is a destiny that shapes our end. Despite that lure of a peaceful life, he would go on, he knew, until a destiny greater than his own volition had shaped his end. It made his skin damp to think of what that end might be.

      After his encounter with Wheezy Mainrod on Pangborn Road, Lee hadn’t ridden directly home. He’d spent several hours in his office, going through reward posters—scrutinizing pictures of wanted monkeys; giving long study to occasional baboons whom creation had designed for great things but in whose assembly a few screws had been omitted. Run-of-mine gunmen he knew how to meet; it was primarily a matter of being first to draw and trigger. But these geniuses scared him. They lived in two worlds, one of which he was not privileged to enter. Into that exclusive realm, they retired for inspiration, to conceive dark deeds, to emerge with cunningly-wrought schemes which they concealed underneath a cloak of apparent sanity. More than likely, Winters feared, it was one of those two-world apes who’d eventually shape his end. Thinking of it made him weak and angry.

      Mail from Brazerville next morning sent him on a two-day, grim chase of a grizzled varmint who’d shot up and robbed a merchant at Rocky Point. Tense and stubborn, tormented by a bullet scratch along his left side, Winters rode back at night across Alkali Flat. He almost wished some ghost would tackle him; he was that thoroughly in a killing mood. Possibly his mood diffused itself across Alkali. At any rate, nothing more than eerie sounds molested him.

      “Winters!” exclaimed Doc Bogannon, as his batwings squeaked and Deputy Winters strode in. “You’re just in time for a nightcap. My friend and I were just about to indulge; join us, by all means.” Winters approached their table as Bogie got up. He stared at Bogie’s new friend, an irregular mass of flabby skin and loose-jointed bones.

      “Deputy Winters,” said Bogie proudly, “my good friend Professor Whitson Pettigrew. We’ve been having a most charming visit with each other.”

      Winters did not offer to shake hands, nor did Pettigrew undertake to rise.

      “A pleasure, Officer Winters. Any friend of Bogannon is a friend of Whitson Pettigrew; sit down.”

      Winters took Bogie’s chair, faced Pettigrew. “I suppose you and Doc have been discussing philosophy?”

      Professor Pettigrew smiled indulgently. “You could call it that.”

      Bogie returned with a glass for Winters. He filled it with wine. “Have a good trip, Winters?” Winters displayed a currency holder full of money and passed a dollar to Bogie. “A mean trip, Doc. A longhaired mongrel refused to surrender; I had to shoot him.”

      “You came off lucky, as usual,” observed Bogannon, pocketing his dollar bill.

      Winters thought of his bullet-scratch, felt its persistent sting. “Luck explains it, Doc; and I’ve got a feelin’ my luck’s likely to play out someday, along about when I’m ready to quit chasin’ these gun-totin’ polecats. I’d quit right now, but I never seem to come to a good quittin’ place.”

      Professor Pettigrew leaned forward slightly. “That reminds me, Winters; there’s a matter I’d like to call to your attention as a law officer.”

      “Name it.”

      “But let’s enjoy our wine,” said Bogannon. “Winters has had enough excitement for a while.”

      “Very well,” agreed Pettigrew. “Let us drink first.”

      * * * *

      Winters sipped wine and, through narrowed eyelids, studied Whit Pettigrew. Pettigrew’s face reminded him vaguely of one he’d seen among his pictures of wanted monkeys. Anyhow—here was a genius, he thought. Pettigrew had a fine big head, wavy, thick black hair. Some ways he reminded Winters of Doc Bogannon, too. He’d been born for great things; undoubtedly he was possessed of an intellect of marked superiority.

      But then Winters’ eyelids froze. He’d seen a strange light in Pettigrew’s eyes, a gleam of carnivorous ferocity. He felt a chill suddenly, and then alkali dust, dissolving in fresh cold sweat, began to burn his skin.

      “Doc, where’s that vinegar bowl you used to keep around?”

      Bogie stared at him, surprised. “Oh, sure, Winters; I’ll get it.”

      Lee followed him. No words passed between them while Winters washed his face in vinegar, but the deputy had time to think. When they were seated again, Winters glanced casually at Bogie.

      “Doc, what’s become of your hard-to-please friend McGuffy?”

      Doc scratched a corner of his spacious forehead. “McGuffy? Oh, yes…McGuffy. Why, I haven’t seen McGuffy lately.”

      Professor Pettigrew leaned forward, smiled brightly. “McGuffy? Was it McGuffy who could not see life’s charm because of life’s imperfections?”

      “No less,” said Bogie. “Ah, I remember now; he went out with you a few evenings ago. Hasn’t been back since.”

      Pettigrew sank back. “McGuffy,” he mused. “What a charming person McGuffy turned out to be. Yes, we left here together; we had a most delightful stroll by moonlight. Talked of many things. As a result McGuffy, I’m sure, found himself. You’ll hear no more complaints from him, I venture. Life, as he now sees it, is not something imperfect and repulsive, but an experience of transcendent beauty. McGuffy, I happen to know, has left Forlorn Gap—returned to where he came from. And from all indications, I am confident he won’t be back.”

      Winters shoved back his chair. “All I’ve got to say is, Forlorn Gap has lost a first-class bellyacher.” He got up and shifted his belt to give his six-gun a proper feel at his hip. “Enjoyed our nightcap, Doc; goodnight.” He turned to leave. This was one time he couldn’t get away fast enough.

      “But wait, Winters!” Professor Pettigrew shoved back his chair and wobbled up. “You forget, Winters; I had to see you on official business.”

      Winters caught a quick breath; his face was wet. Pettigrew came flapping after him, preceded him out, beckoned Winters to follow.

      Doc Bogannon shook his head, as if awaking from sleep. He gathered up bottle and empty glasses, glanced at his watch, observed that it was midnight. His mind cleared. That man Pettigrew, he realized now, had almost put him under a spell. Now, also, he remembered more vividly about Aloysius McGuffy—remembered his departure with Professor Pettigrew and under what strange fascination