The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack. Lon Williams

reason for being here,” said Sir Jared, “is your ownership of a lovely head of hair, which of course, you shall give to me. Your predecessors have made their donations. New lips from dear Hodge; new ears from dear Mr. Fuller; a new nose from poor, sorrowful Mr. Winthrop. And now, from you, Mr. Winters—”

      Sweat had streamed on his face. But now Winters was angry, his sweat abated. In a pinch like this, he trusted nothing except his sixguns. These lunatics belonged to a profession which had schooled them in other arts than gunplay, even though he realized but little art was required in pulling a trigger—and but a fraction of time.

      Sir Jared had not yet removed Winters’ hat. Possibly he had sensed danger and hesitated. Winters waited. If curiosity impelled Sir Jared to remove that hat, Winters would have his chance.

      It came, stealthily, cautiously.

      “I can wait no longer,” Sir Jared said.

      Winters discerned a slight change of pressure against his back, a touch on his hat brim, a tug. In that fraction of a second, there was division of attention, of alertness. Winters whirled, came up blazing. Spurlock Mosely had made a complete turn, and his gun divined Winters’ move; his gun, too, was roaring.

      * * * *

      In his saloon, Doc Bogannon waited. Lee Winters had been a fine officer, he reflected grievously. Bogie had seen men come and go. He’d learned to look upon death philosophically— generally as no loss to him—and, if mankind’s dream of immortality had merit, a distinct gain to some unfortunates who had prematurely lost their lives. But Winters—Ah, here was a man whose passing would leave an empty place. In a few short, swift years he had become a mighty fortress of law and order; without him, Forlorn Gap would long since have become a mere hideout for cutthroats, lunatics and thieves. Wherever he hit, he made a dent; he’d been a man’s man, his cold sarcasm notwithstanding, and his deadliness.

      Bogie waited an hour. A stagecoach pulled in from Elkhorn Pass, stopped briefly at Goodlett’s and went on its way eastward. Bogie swabbed his face, walked around and around until his head swam, reversed direction and walked again. He looked at his watch. Two hours had passed.

      His batwings swung inward.

      “Winters!”

      Winters advanced slowly, a pallor on his face. “Get me a sip of wine, Doc.”

      Doc hurried. They sat down together. “What happened, Winters?”

      Winters drank, thought a moment and shook his head free of some of its haziness. “They meant to take my scalp, Doc, peel it off my head and sew it on Sir Jared’s head. I had to kill them.” He lifted his vest and pulled his shirttail out, exposing a fresh bandage around his body with a bloody spot above his left hip-bone. “I got it through there, Doc—luckily only a flesh wound—and that Doctor Jared Mosely dressed it—dressed it as he was dying. Cleaned it with an iodine swab, like you’d clean a gun barrel. Wanted to do it. Insisted. Said he wanted his last act on earth to be one of healing. Sort of gets me, Doc.”

      “What you’re saying sort of gets me,” said Bogie.

      “Sir Jared Mosely, Doc. Brother to that loony who was here. Spurlock died right off, but Sir Jared lived over an hour. Told some creepy things, too, about Comanches, operations, drugs. Wanted me to breathe that chloroform so I wouldn’t feel any pain while he fixed me up. I didn’t do it, though I almost wished I had there for a while. And do you know something, Doc? After those loonies were dead, I felt I’d set progress back a hundred years. That is, for a while I felt that way. But, riding back across Alkali Flat, I heard that voice again—that woman’s voice. That got me all mixed up.” Winters squeezed his forehead and shook his head.

      Bogie poured more wine. “Drink, Winters. You’re not yourself yet.”

      “Thanks, Doc.” Winters drank slowly, then got up, feeling better. “Well, Doc, let’s call it a day. Tomorrow there’ll be something else.”

      THE HAUNTED TOWN

      Real Western Stories, October, 1953

      Deputy Marshal Lee Winters emerged from Enloe Pass on Walden Ridge and glimpsed a few dim lights in Forlorn Gap, three miles away. From Brazerville had been a long, wearisome ride, but lights of home enlivened his spirit, if not his flesh and bones. Cannon Ball must have seen them, too, for he lifted his head and quickened his step.

      Cannon Ball was a good, steady horse; big, rangy and tough, yet this had been a hard journey for him. It was mainly because a southeast wind had blown behind him, whipping gusts about his ears, sending dust-devils whirling over dry hills all afternoon, and after dark moaning through pines and crags as something animate and mysterious. Moonlight was intermittent, also, for clouds swept along darkly, and this alternation of light and shadow transformed trees into marching ogres and rocks into ghosts. Several times Cannon Ball had stopped abruptly, head high, body a-tremble, when things stirred in shadow, diffused strange scents dislodged small stones from banks or mountainsides.

      Winters, too, was skittish. Duty of office had made him a gunfighter. In discharge of duty, or in obedience to primal law, he’d killed cutthroats, robbers, murderers. Every deadly combat had impressed itself indelibly upon his memory. His conscience was untroubled, yet a man who had killed never thereafter rode or walked alone. Ghosts of dead men kept him company. He saw their last violent actions, heard their defiant shouts, their smoking guns, their surprised groans and death sighs.

      He was in a sweaty mood when he entered Forlorn Gap, once a town of five thousand, now composed chiefly of deserted houses. On its outskirts he was passing a tumbledown shack where one Bill Avis had lived, a gloomy gold-digger who was murdered in his own house. Winters observed a faint glow in its one small window. He thought it strange, of course, but then an apparition appeared, window-framed and terrible. It was a huge wolf’s head, eyes and mouth aglow with fire. Its appearance had been instantaneous. Out of it had poured a menacing, fierce growl.

      Cannon Ball leaped aside and forward. His forward leaps continued. Winters hung grimly on. He’d grown tense upon seeing that mysterious glow in Bill Avis’ glassless window, otherwise he’d have landed on his head. As it was, he had a rough ride, almost lost his hat, and he brought Cannon Ball under control only by standing him on his hind feet.

      But he was blocks away by then. Moreover, he was no farther away than he wanted to be. Thoughts of going back to investigate never once entered his mind. Indeed, every urge within him made him want not only to keep away from there, but to get farther away. He made sure his sixgun was in its holster. Thereafter he pulled his hat on tight and let Cannon Ball have free rein.

      * * * *

      One spot in Forlorn Gap where lights burned brightly was Doc Bogannon’s saloon. It was almost midnight, yet a few customers hung on; a drunk who nodded sorrowfully over a bottle; a couple of bearded miners who played cards for small stakes; and a well-dressed, alert, middle-aged, mean-looking stranger who sat by himself at an up-front table and watched them casually.

      Doc polished a glass and set it back. He looked down at this neat, tigerish gent. “Don’t recall having made your acquaintance, my friend?”

      “Now, isn’t that a coincidence!” No smile attended that remark. “But I’m not one to be stand-offish. My name is Moxley— Christopher Moxley.”

      “Not a Boston Moxley, by chance?” Christopher Moxley eased his flattop hat back slightly and surveyed Bogie with a cold, critical eye. “A general sort of Moxley, if you please, sir.”

      “From here, there, and everywhere, so to speak,” Bogie observed placidly. Doc Bogannon was tall and broad, with black hair and broad forehead. Though nature had intended him for greater things than being a barkeep, his philosophy of life included no higher aim than owning a saloon and living quietly with a half-breed Shoshone wife. Yet he looked neither up to nor down upon any man. Likewise he neither approved nor disapproved of his fellow-man, but regarded every wayfarer, good or bad, as being human and entitled to his principles, so long as he left other people alone. Here, certainly, was a character with a marked tendency toward insolence, yet Bogie entertained