Savage

by Richard Laymon

  It hadn’t been a bad round, as it had gone off just a while later when I was riding away with the boys, shooting at the sky.

  I’d counted the misfire to be a rare piece of luck.

  I didn’t look at it that way now. It had been the worst kind of luck, leastwise for the gang and the men that came after us in the saloon and the chaps of the posse. All those fellows were dead because of one misfire.

  Well, it wasn’t likely to happen twice.

  And if it should, I had me four more chambers full of bullets in the one gun, five in the other. (Emmet had taught me not to travel about with a round under the hammer, and only to load that chamber for target practice or troubles.) There wasn’t enough luck or magic or whatever in this world to stop them all from doing their job.

  A miracle wouldn’t be saving me this time.

  I judged the misfire had been a miracle, of sorts. Pretty much as if I hadn’t been meant to get killed.

  Pondering over that, I saw how I’d squeaked by and survived dicey situations over and over again ever since the night I set out for Whitechapel.

  There was the ocean, which should’ve either swallowed me up or froze me solid long before I ever reached the shore of America.

  There was Whittle, who’d butchered so many folks but not me.

  Getting chucked off the train by Briggs could’ve been fatal, all by itself.

  Chase had threatened to shoot me. I gave that some thought, though, and allowed it shouldn’t count. He’d likely been joshing, and never actually intended to do such a thing.

  The conductor, though, had certainly had a go at me and failed.

  Not a bullet had touched me during the gunfight at the saloon. Of course, I don’t believe that Prue or the others got off a single shot, so maybe that shouldn’t count, either.

  But the posse men had taken a great many cracks at me, particularly when McSween and I were leading them into the ambush.

  Later on that night, a fellow had creased my side. If he’d been half good with his gun, he would’ve killed me sure.

  All that made for quite a string of close shaves, but then I’d come through the massacre at the campsite without taking a hit. Mighty perplexing, when you consider I only just stood there and didn’t take cover and the bullets flew so thick and everyone but me bit the dust.

  Just call me Ishmael.

  I lowered the Colt onto my lap and gazed at how its black steel gleamed in the firelight.

  “And I only am escaped alone,” I whispered.

  Had to be a reason.

  Had to be a reason I’d survived such a passel of narrow calls.

  The reason had to be Whittle.

  I was meant to live long enough, at least, to put him in the ground.

  That’s how I figured it, anyhow.

  And that’s how come I decided not to shoot myself, that night, after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Strangers on the Trail

  Once I made up my mind to go on living, I still didn’t feel any better about being the cause of so many deaths, but I did all of a sudden find myself hungry.

  General had wandered off, so I had to chase after him. I brought him back to camp and hobbled him. Then I cooked myself up a pot of beans.

  When I got done chowing them down, I set up the tin can and some sticks on the rocks around the fire. Then I stepped back, pulled and fired.

  My first shot knocked the tin flying.

  I holstered and drew and went for the sticks.

  When that gun was empty, I practiced with the other. Left-handed. It came out clumsy for a spell. More often than not, I hit my fire or bounced my bullets off the rocks. But I got better, by and by.

  Blazing away, I remembered a chap the boys used to call Willy. Willy’d considered it a great adventure to ride with desperados, smashing fun to slap leather and fire away at stumps and sticks and cans and such.

  I found myself rather missing Willy.

  He was dead.

  He’d died with McSween and the rest of the gang.

  He’d died young, and never got the chance to return home to his mother or to find his sweetheart, Sarah.

  Tough break, that.

  I don’t rightly know who I missed more, Willy or McSween.

  McSween, I reckon.

  I used up a whole lot of ammunition, taking turns with both hands, and killed me a heap of kindling.

  Then I turned in.

  The next morning, I came upon a wagon trail. It appeared to be leading west. I was tempted to stay clear of it, for I didn’t relish the notion of meeting up with travelers. But the trail would be a sight easier on General than the rough terrain we’d been crossing. We’d make better time on it, and it was bound to take us somewhere.

  Seemed a better way to find Tombstone than if I just kept to the trackless wilds and hoped for the best.

  So we took it.

  Soon enough, some travelers came along. I spotted a couple of horsemen riding toward me. While they were still a good piece in the distance, I gave some thought to steering General off the trail so as to avoid them. But then I judged it might rouse their curiosity. Better just to act natural and pass them by.

  Funny thing was, much as I wanted to be clear of these two strangers, I didn’t feel any fear of them. Not even when they were close enough for me to see how ornery they looked. One had a pinched, pointy face that put me in mind of Snooker. The other had a droopy eyelid. Both had the same sort of lazy, smirky ways in how they stared at me.

  “Howdy,” I said, and touched the brim of my hat.

  “Howdy back,” said the bloke with the droopy lid. I nudged General to go around him, but he raised a hand. “Hold her up there.”

  I did as he asked. Then I dropped the reins over the saddle horn to free my hands. “Yes sir?” I asked.

  The one with the pointy face laughed. “Yes sir. Ain’t he got manners?”

  “He’s pretty, too. Just as pretty as a girl.”

  “I betcha he is a girl!”

  They appeared to enjoy the bit of wit.

  “You got titties in there?” The one winked his bad eye in the direction of my shirt, and grinned. “Give us a peek.”

  “Ride on, fellows.”

  “Why, she’s shy.”

  “I’m shy on patience,” I said.

  “Now you be nice. Angus and me, we haven’t had us a girl in near a month.”

  “And she was ugly.”

  “Ugly but willing.”

  They both laughed.

  “I’m not a girl,” I said.

  Well, they glanced at each other and laughed all the more.

  “That don’t make no difference,” Angus of the half-mast lid finally said to me. “Know what I mean? Now, you just climb down off your horse, there, and get shed of them duds.”

  I didn’t move.

  “You do what Angus says!” snapped the other.

  “If you’d like me to oblige,” I said, “you’d best fill your hands.”

  All of a sudden, they turned uncommon serious.

  They glanced at each other, silent and smirkless, then turned their faces toward me.

  “Have a crack, chaps,” I said. “Or ride on.”

  They both spent some time studying me out. I saw their eyes flick about, taking in my holstered Colts, the torn and blood-stained side of my shirt, my hands resting atop my thighs, and my face. They took quite a spell on my face.

  Then Angus said, “We didn’t mean nothing, mister. Only just having us some fun.”

  The other bobbed his head. “We’ll just be moving along. Adios, now.”

  They split apart and rode past me.

  I turned General around, as I didn’t aim to get back-shot.

  Angus and the other rode off slow at first, neither one of them glancing back. Then Angus, he put the spurs to his horse. His friend did the same, and they both hightailed.

  I rode on, puzzling over matters. It seemed odd the way they’d backed down. What seemed odder, though
, was that I didn’t feel much of anything. They’d had it in mind to use me like a woman, I reckon. But I hadn’t been scared, the whole time. Nor had I felt any relief when they’d given up the notion and gone away.

  Comes right down to it, I’d just as soon have shot them both.

  I didn’t wish I’d shot them, though.

  I just didn’t care, either way.

  Late in the afternoon, a covered wagon turned up. It was heading west, same as me, but going so slow that I was bound to overtake it.

  A blanket draped the rear opening, so I couldn’t see how many or what manner of folks the wagon had in it.

  Whoever they might be, I wanted no truck with them.

  I figured to ride by quick, and urged General to a trot.

  But when we came alongside the wagon, I saw how its canvas side was painted up with pictures of red bottles floating this way and that among words that said:

  DR. JETHRO LAZARUS

  PURVEYOR OF THE WORLD RENOWNED

  GLORY ELIXIR

  “Good for what ails you.”

  There was plenty more to read, so I slowed General down to an easy walk.

  Toward the rear was a notice that said you could buy one bottle of the Glory Elixir for a “mere dollar.” Toward the front, it said:

  GLORY ELIXIR

  GUARANTEED TO VANQUISH

  whooping cough

  palsy

  sour stomach

  boils

  feminine complaints

  arthritis

  runny bowels

  gangrene

  rattlesnake bite

  gaseous embarrassments

  dropsy

  dizziness

  DEATH

  The Glory Elixir’s list of cures rather amused me till I saw that final one. Death. That one took me by surprise and took the fun out.

  I put my spurs to General, figuring to get shut of such nonsense.

  As we hurried by, I took a gander sideways at the driver. He was all alone at the front.

  “Say there, young fellow!”

  “Good day,” I said, and left him behind.

  “Cowards die many times,” he called after me.

  Well, I didn’t rightly know what he meant by that. And I judged he could call me a coward if he pleased. What got me to rein in General was that I recognized the words.

  As the wagon rattled closer, I met the old man’s eyes and said, “The valiant never taste of death but once.”

  He smiled real cheerful. “A man of learning. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Dr. Jethro Lazarus, here.”

  “Trevor Bentley.”

  “Who hails, no doubt, from the land of the Bard.”

  “Quite true,” I said.

  “Would you care to join me at the helm?” He patted the seat beside him.

  Well, he looked peculiar but harmless, a heavy chap with a red nose and white beard, his head topped with a bowler hat that had two white feathers swooping up from its band, one at each side. Golden hoops hung from his ears. He wore a leather shirt that shivered all over with fringe. It was cinched in around his huge belly by a beaded belt. He didn’t wear a pistol, but a rather large knife was sheathed at his hip. His trouser legs were tucked into high moccasins that nearly beat his shirt for all their fringe.

  I judged the sensible thing might be to stay out of his reach.

  Besides, a blanket draped the opening behind him, so I couldn’t see into the wagon. No telling who might be back there, laying low.

  “I’ll keep to my mount, but thank you for the offer.”

  “I’m on my way to Tucson, myself,” he said. “What about you?”

  It didn’t seem wise to tell him my plans. “Just touring about, I reckon.”

  “Beware the heathen, barren place of lawless men and savage race.”

  “Not Shakespeare, is it?”

  “Lazarus.”

  “You’re a poet, then?”

  “Poet and purveyor of the Glory Elixir.”

  I wanted no truck with his Glory Elixir, so I asked, “Did you encounter a pair of rascals, earlier?”

  He let out a soft chuckle.

  “I do hope they did you no mischief.”

  “They beat a quick retreat at the sight of my friend, Buster.” He reached down by his feet and hoisted a shotgun. Its barrels were cut off short, just in front of the forestock. “Buster.”

  I half expected him to point it at me, but he stowed it away.

  “Buster’s sent many a miscreant to glory,” he said. “When he gets done with them, they’re well beyond the aid of my Elixir.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at that. “Doesn’t it vanquish death, then, after all?”

  “Why, it most surely does, Trevor. However, the vital revivification of the deceased is greatly impeded by the destruction of his anatomy. That is to say, it don’t work worth spit if I’ve blown off the bastard’s head.”

  Now that I’d been hauled into this talk of death and the merits of Lazarus’s flimflam Elixir, it all didn’t seem so grim. “If a bloke’s anatomy wasn’t destroyed some,” I allowed, “he wouldn’t likely be dead in the first place.”

  “All depends, my friend. Depends on how much is intact and how much is demolished.”

  “If a chap’s dead, he’s dead. This Glory Elixir of yours won’t change that.”

  “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…”

  “I might look like a fool, Dr. Lazarus, but I don’t regularly think like one.”

  Well, he pulled back on the reins and halted his team.

  “I tell you what, Trevor. Just suppose I give you proof, right before your very eyes, that my Glory Elixir has the power to raise the dead?”

  “Reckon I’d purchase a bottle,” I said, shaking my head. He couldn’t prove any such thing, and I knew it. Still and all, as he climbed down and I followed him toward the rear of the wagon, I found myself wondering whether I could backtrack to the place I’d buried McSween and the boys. And I wondered if they were shot up too much for the Elixir to work on them. Then I wondered if I should buy enough to raise the other eleven. That’d be the proper thing to do, but I judged they might try to shoot us all over again, and then I took a mind to kick myself for allowing such thickheaded notions. No amount of Glory Elixir could fix any one of those fellows.

  Be that as it was, I’d worked up a powerful curiosity to see the old fellow’s proof.

  He let down the gate at the back of his wagon, then crawled in under the blanket. The wagon shook some as he scurried about inside. Then came a scrapy, dragging sound.

  “Lend me a hand,” he called from inside.

  I dismounted. By the time I got done tying General to a bolt at the back of the wagon, the blanket was abulge with Lazarus. He jumped to the ground, hauling at the end of a wooden box. A pint bottle of Elixir was standing atop the box, its red fluid sloshing about.

  He stopped pulling, grabbed the bottle, and tossed it to me. Then he went on dragging. More and more of the box slid into sight.

  “What have you there?” I asked, though I could sure see what it looked like.

  “A casket. Be a good lad and take the other end.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Lazarus and the Dead Man

  My curiosity shrank some. I didn’t hanker to see what might be inside the casket. But I slipped the bottle into my pocket and did as he asked. When I got close, I had to hold my breath so as to avoid the sickening aroma in the air.

  My end of the box was so heavy I near dropped it, but I managed to hang on until we got it lowered into the dust behind the wagon. Then I stepped back a few paces to get clear of the odor.

  The hard work must’ve tuckered out Lazarus, for he sat down on the casket. He plucked a kerchief out of his trouser pocket and mopped his brow.

  “You have a corpse in there, do you?” I asked.

  He answered with a wink.

  “Be a good lad and pass me the Elixir,” he said.

  I handed
over the bottle. He uncorked it, took a swig, and sighed. “Good for what ails you. Have a drop yourself,” he said, and held it toward me.

  I shook my head. “I reckon I’ll move on. I’ve seen my share of dead folks.”

  “Nothing to fret yourself over. He’s in passable shape. He don’t even stink much, long as you stand upwind. It was only two days ago I cut him down.”

  “Cut him down?”

  “He’s a fellow who threw a long rope and wound up at the end of a short one.”

  “Threw a long rope?”

  “A rustler. Cattle. Only his luck ran dry, and he was strung up by the ranch hands that nabbed him. I arrived upon the scene purely by happenstance, in the very nick of time to watch him swing. It was a stroke of wonderful good fortune. Very difficult, you see, to find a healthy subject for revivification.”

  He took a few more swallows of the Elixir. “A lynching’s just the thing. If a fellow’s hanged proper from a gallows, you see, his neck gets itself snapped. Stretched considerable, too. That’s if he don’t drop too far and get his head popped off altogether. Either way, the fellow ain’t fit. I’ve brought back a few that had their necks busted, and they pretty much put off my customers, how they stumbled about with their heads all wobbly. But you take a feller that’s gotten lynched, he’s generally been choked to death so his neck’s in fine shape. That’s how it went with this one. Choked. Strangulated.” He rapped his bottle against the top of the casket. “Right off, I knew I had to have him. The ranch boys didn’t want me to take him, as they preferred to let him dangle as a lesson for others of his ilk. But I paid them a dollar, and they allowed me to cut him down.”

  Lazarus raised the bottle again, took one more sip, then corked it. Smiling at me, he said, “This fellow here, he’ll be dandy once he gets a taste of the Glory Elixir.”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Shall we give it a try?” Lazarus stood up. He handed the bottle to me.

  The lid was only just laid across the top of the casket, not nailed down. The old man bent over it and took hold of the edges. I figured if I aimed to skedaddle, now was the time. I just stood there, though. He had me hooked. I knew he couldn’t bring a corpse back to life, but I sure wanted to see how he played out his bluff.