The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack. Lon Williams

went into his office. Once more he scrutinized a picture of one Pitser, alias Vic, alias Thrasher Murdock. Wells-Fargo was offering one thousand dollars for him, dead or alive, delivered at Brazerville. Winters knew where he was hiding.

      Four days later, a little before midnight, Winters returned from Brazerville and stopped for a taste of wine at Bogannon’s. “Anything new, Doc?”

      “Nothing new; nothing old,” Bogie replied. “I was just about to close up. Have a seat, and I’ll join you in a nightcap.”

      “You can count me in, if you’ll be so kind,” said Kirk Delozier, entering abruptly and striding confidently toward them.

      “Ah!” Bogie exclaimed. “I’m sure Winters will be as delighted as I.”

      If Delozier noted any sarcasm in Bogie’s voice, he ignored it. He joined them at a table. “Winters, you’ve been away for a while, haven’t you?”

      “I have,” said Winters dryly.

      “Any luck at Brazerville?” asked Bogie.

      Winters patted his middle where he wore a concealed money belt. “If you call a thousand smackers luck, I was lucky.”

      “Indeed!” exclaimed Delozier. “A handsome sum.”

      “A long, hard ride,” said Bogie. “Make it all today?”

      “Right, and worn ragged. Must be gettin’ old.” Delozier, twinkling, put down his wine glass. “Old? Winters, you’re a mere boy.”

      “Rot! I ought to be wearn’ long, white whiskers, I’m so old.”

      “How old are you, Winters?” Bogie asked. “Thirty-four. Mighty old for a knockabout like me.”

      Delozier leaned forward. “Winters, how old would you say I am?”

      Winters glanced at Delozier and, oddly, thought of skunks. “I’d say forty or thereabouts.”

      Delozier glanced from Winters to Bogannon. He smiled blandly. “Brace yourselves, gentlemen. I’m three hundred and eighty-seven.”

      Bogannon strangled and coughed. When he could speak, he said squeakily, “Preposterous!” Winters showed eager surprise. “Remarkable!” Delozier brought from an inside coat pocket a leather packet, from which he meticulously removed and unfolded a worn, faded parchment. “My birth certificate, gentlemen, written, as you see, in old English. The handwriting is that of Richard Kilburn, Abbot of Shrewsbury, Shropshire, England. I was christened Kirkwell Gildershaft Delozier. I was a clergyman under Henry the Eighth, a court clerical under Queen Elizabeth, a member of parliament under Charles the First. Unfortunately, I joined Oliver Cromwell’s crowd, and when Charles the Second became king, I, along with many others, was branded a regicide and had to flee England. I’ve been a world traveler since, but fortunately I learned a great secret in my boyhood. Possibly I stole it, if technicalities must be observed, for I filched it from a secret cabinet of Richard Kilburn.”

      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