The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack. Lon Williams

Nor could he determine what song, or songs, they sang. For awhile, driving winds mourned a dirge. It was followed by a paean of victory that flung itself fiercely around his tingling ears. Transcending strained, high-pitched measures, a discordant cry came shrieking. It was a man’s scream, a death scream. It gave Winters’ throat a tight feeling; sweat popped in profusion, proof positive that he was scared stiff.

      Winters wanted no truck with ghosts. He lifted bridle leather and gigged deep. His horse, also eager to put miles behind, set its hoofs down hard and fast. Forlorn Gap’s distant, dim lights grew brighter.

      * * * *

      Lamps in Doc Bogannon’s saloon burned clean. Guests from Goodlett Hotel had dropped in, had their drinks, chatted awhile, and departed.

      One customer remained, Spicewood Lilloughby, a runty, mouse-faced miser who sat, dry and wretched, torn between thirst for wine and affection for a silver coin clutched in skinny fingers.

      Doc Bogannon dried and polished glasses. He was tall, black-haired and heavy, statesman rather than barkeep in appearance and bearing. He possessed philosophical eyes, too, hence regarded his miserly guest not with merited distaste, but as a human creature entitled to his principles.

      “Spicewood,” said Bogie, “your luck has run thin tonight; nobody’s been generous.”

      Lilloughby stiffened. “Sir, I’ll have you know I’m no beggar; I’ve money, and I’ll drink when I’m ready.”

      Bogannon’s batwings swung inward, and lean, middle-aged Deputy Lee Winters strode in, dusty, spirit-drained. “A drink, Doc, and make it stiff.”

      Bogie set up a glass and filled it. “Seen another ghost, eh?”

      Winters downed his liquor. “You guessed it, Doc; where’s that vinegar dish for alkali sufferers?”

      Bogie brought up bowl and cloth. “This means you’ve come across Alkali Flat.”

      Winters swabbed his burning face and felt better. “Why I done it, Doc, I wouldn’t know; too spooky out there for me.”

      Bogie leaned against a back shelf and folded his arms. “Spooks,” he declared, “are creatures of over-stimulated minds. I’d say you’d hit a squall before you hit Alkali Flat, that a quick-draw artist nearly got you, and that you emerged as sole survivor only by some quirk of luck.”

      Winters measured Bogie with approval. “Doc, you know me like a book. I oughtn’t pretend to be a lawman; every time I see a gun-toter I’ve an urge to run and hide. It’s a good thing these wandering toughies don’t know what a coward I am.” Suddenly Winters had a crawly feeling. He whirled and stared, and a mouse-faced varmint stared back. “Spice Lilloughby, as I live. Waitin’ for some free-hearted sucker to buy you a drink, eh? Well, Spicey, I’m your man; Doc, a full glass for a world’s champion tightwad.”

      Lilloughby got up and ambled forward. “Now, you look here, Winters—you can’t make me out a beggar. If I wanted a drink, I could buy one; I’ve got money, and I’ve got pride.”

      “That you have, Lilly,” said Winters. “Here; this is my token of respect.” He slid a wine glass toward Lilloughby, whose eager fingers closed around it.

      “You needn’t think you’re being generous with me, Winters. I take this as a favor to you. Anybody’d know you’re just trying to make Doc think you’re big-hearted.”

      Winters grinned, paid, and watched a stagecoach dust by from Pangborn Gulch. “Reckon I’ll drift along, Doc. Want to see who’s dropping off. Never know when some wanted monkey’ll show up.”

      * * * *

      Winters left. Lilloughby finished his drink and put down his glass. “No, sir, Doc, I accept no charity. As for Lee Winters, I could buy him out and have money left; I took his offering to please him—that’s all.”

      Bogie leisurely dried a glass. “Spicewood, you are, indeed, a born-and-bred man of quality. I’d say, too, that when you’ve become a fossil on time’s whitening shore, men will look at you and say, Here was a gentleman.”

      “You needn’t try to be funny, Doc Bogannon. Someday, when I’ve left this dried-up stink of a town, you’ll be proud you knowed me.”

      Doc’s comeback was interrupted. His saloon’s batwing doors squeaked, and a customer entered. And here was a character, if ever was, thought Bogie. He’d been in before. Piper Crane, he’d said his name was—a man in shiny black boots, ivory colored trousers, dirty white vest, cutaway blue coat and cocked hat, of medium height, slender, erect.

      Piper Crane removed his hat, swept it low, and restored it to his long-haired, noble head. “Greetings, gentlemen.” He advanced, paused, and bowed toward Spicewood Lilloughby. “Distinguished friend, join me in a drink, as a favor to your humble servant.”

      Lilloughby squared his thin shoulders. “I’m proud to do you a favor, since you put it nice.”

      Piper Crane banged down a coin. “Two glasses, Bogannon, and a bottle of wine; we’ll repair to a corner of your Elysian palace and drink at leisure.”

      At a table, Piper filled their glasses. When they had drunk generously, he leaned toward Lilloughby. He had a small tube, in shape like an astronomer’s telescope.

      “Sir Lilloughby, I had a reason for removing ourselves a distance; I would reveal a secret. Hold this toward a light and look into its wondrous depths.”

      Fingers a-tremble, Lilloughby seized what was only a toy spectroscope. But what he saw within it was a wonderland of entrancing, dream-inspiring colors.

      “Never was nothing like this,” he murmured, enchanted. “Never! Never!”

      “Right, Sir Lilloughby. Never in your world, but in mine—yes. Through this magic glass, you have a glimpse of your golden future.”

      “Never was nothing like this—never!”

      “Ah, Lilloughby, you are a kindred spirit. I have two horses, saddled and waiting. Come; I’ll show you my kingdom of jewels and gold.”

      Gently he removed Lilloughby’s fingers and pocketed his magic glass.

      Lilloughby ambled after him, murmuring, “Never was nothing like this.”

      Outside, Piper Crane did not stop. Back of Bogie’s they found two horses, mounted promptly, and rode south to Alkali Flat, then southwestward.

      “You,” said Piper, “are destined for great things; your hour draws near.”

      After a few miles he began to play a flute, and a voice called ghostily, “Ahoy, there! Who goes?”

      “Friends of mighty King Solomon, O Mysterious One.”

      Out of starlit gloom a stranger came riding.

      “Ah, so you have found another messenger for King Solomon!”

      This stranger was bareheaded, stocky, a horseman of excellence, wearing a dark cloak that fluttered back as he rode. He swung alongside Lilloughby. “Piper Crane, who is this?”

      “He is Spicewood Lilloughby, great miser of Forlorn Gap, who never allows his wealth out of his sight. Lilloughby, meet Bugler Horn, servant of our mighty king.”

      Lilloughby tried to swallow. His throat, dry, had a lump in it.

      “I’m going back; you fellers is crazy,” he managed to say.

      Bugler Horn thrust a six-gun into Lilloughby’s ribs.

      “You can’t go back,” he said. “No man departs until he has seen King Solomon—Solomon on his throne.”

      Piper put another gun against Lilloughby’s other side.

      “King Solomon has need of you. He’s sending messengers to all of history’s mighty conquerors; like Moses before him, he sends them two and two. One messenger is ready to depart; you