The Good, the Bad, and the Dead

by Bruce Campbell

  Becoming the host for a prairie tick is fatal. They suck out as much blood as they possibly can. If that doesn't kill you—and it usually does-the tick has something worse in store. Once it's eaten its fill, it leaves. But it becomes so bloated that it can't get out the way it came in. So it takes the short cut through your guts. I was determined not to die like that.

  There is one known means of getting rid of the insidious little bastards: drink a quart of castor oil. That encourages them to come back up. It's not very tasty, but it beats the alternative. No one but a fool rode the Great Plains without the stuff.

  I made it over to Ginger where I knew there was castor oil in my saddlebag. I fell over and rummaged inside. At last I found it, and withdrew the jar that held the antidote to my predicament. I unscrewed the cap and prepared to drink the vile concoction down.

  Suddenly, the jar exploded in my hand. Its contents splattered all over the prairie grass and me. My last hope was gone. I turned to see Beaseley standing not far away, a still-smoking pistol clutched in his left hand. He holstered it with a smug smile and approached me.

  I collapsed from fear and despair. My last hope was gone. There was a Prairie Tick in my stomach sucking the life out of me, and Bob Beaseley, the mark I had so underestimated, had shot and destroyed my only jar of castor oil. I was dead.

  He bent down with a look of satisfaction on his face. He clicked his tongue at me admonishingly.

  "Poor, poor Sandra," he said. "I gave you so many opportunities to leave me alone. But you persisted in the foolish pursuit of five hundred measly dollars. Ah, well. Such is life."

  "You son of a bitch," I choked. "How could you do this to me? Why couldn't you have just shot me? Why did you have to kill me like this?"

  "Call it a bit of personal flair, Sandy," he said, standing back up and circling me. "A signature, if you will. Besides, you got off easy. That prairie tick is nothing compared to the thing I left growing in Annie Allen's belly. Morg Allen ought to be just thrilled when he sees his grandson. Yes sir. There will come a reckoning. Yes sir, there will indeed.

  "So take heart, Sandy Locke. You're going to die, but at least it will be over soon. Annie Allen will have the blood of the world on her hands."

  So that's my story. I made the fatal mistake of letting my guard down. I went into this job with my eyes closed and it cost me dearly. It cost me my life. Lesson learned a little too late.

  I'm going to die out here on the prairie. Maybe someone from Flatbush will find me, but I doubt it. They're all too busy falling under the sway of Bob Beaseley's spell.

  What really bothers me about all this, though, is what Beaseley said to me just before he walked away. What did he do to Annie Allen? What kind of price will she have to pay for allowing his silver tongue to charm her?

  I'm pretty weak now. I feel dizzy, and I'm sure the tick has gotten a good supply of my blood. As I reflect on it, it really is a lot like that time I got hit in the head with a shovel. Nothing seems entirely right. Hopefully, I'll bleed to death before the tick decides to go look for nourishment somewhere else.

  BONEYARD TRAIN

  By Lisa Smedman

  "I ain't ever apologized to no man, and I ain't gonna start with no smart-mouthed greaser kid!"

  Thomas Potts glared at the half-Mex and spat dust from his mouth. The kid had been vexing him all day; Potts never should have let him join the gang. All Jose did was pick, pick, pick, like an old woman. The questions were endless, like a cloud of buzzing flies: Why hadn't Potts made sure the railway had paid the workers, before the gang held up the camp? Why did they have to shoot every last one of them railway workers dead? Why did Potts treat his horse so bad that it up and died on him? Why was it Jose who had to share his horse with Potts? Why hadn't they gone back for Pete, after the posse shot him? And how come Potts got to hold the thirty silver dollars and fifty-two cents-plus one gold tooth-that was all they got in the robbery?

  Potts fanned himself with his hat and squinted up at the sky. Just past noon, by the look of it, and not a cloud in sight. His shadow was no bigger than his bootprints. It was hot as a fry pan out here; next thing you know, his sweat would start to sizzle. Montana's skies were pretty big and its yellow-grass prairie wide and open. They could make a man feel mighty small when he was runnin' from a posse.

  Jose stared at Potts from under* his wide-brimmed hat with eyes that stank of accusation. The kid was small and greasy looking, with sweat stains under his arms and blue denim pants covered by cowhide chaps. He was just old enough to have a fuzz of black across his lip that he figured made him a ladies' man. Jose was as broke at Potts was, but he'd toed his boots with silver. That was what convinced Potts that he should be allowed to join the gang. The kid had style. It wasn't until later that he told Potts that his name was Jose, not Joe. Potts wouldn't have let him in the gang if he'd known Jose was a half-Mex, right up front.

  "I ain't askin' you to apologize for losin' your horse," Jose said. "I'm just askin' that you face up to facts. My horse is near done in, from both of us ridin' him. We gotta take turns. One ridin' and one walkin'."

  Potts stared at the animal as it slurped water from the stream. Its hair was matted and had white streaks down it where the sweat had dried to salt, and flies buzzed around the spur wounds in its flanks. The horse didn't even bother to whisk them away with its tail. When it was finished drinking it just stood, head drooping.

  Potts took a long swig from his canteen, then mopped his forehead with a bandanna he'd wet in the stream. The cloth was already near dry. He jammed his hat back on his head, then squinted at the horizon, looking for dust clouds.

  "I'm the leader of this gang," Potts said. "I ride-you walk."

  The kid blinked as he realized what Potts' meaning was. "If I don't get to ride at all, it will slow us down too much," he said. "We gotta take turns."

  "I don't see no sign of a posse. They've probably give up by now."

  "They ain't givin' up," the half-Mex said. "The man paying 'em to track us got plenty of money. And we did kill twelve men."

  "They were just Chinamen," Potts said. "They die like flies, workin' on the railways. Ain't nobody cares about them."

  "Boss Kang's gonna care," Jose said. "He ain't gonna like it that we gunned down twelve of his own kind."

  Potts frowned. "What you mean by that-his own kind?"

  Jose's eyes widened slightly. "You mean you didn't know?"

  Potts shook his head.

  "That was an Iron Dragon crew we shot up," Jose said. "I thought you picked the job on account of the fact that the railway's run by a Chinese and he pays his workers better than most. The workers were all Chinamen. Just like Boss Kang. How could you plan a job and not know that?"

  Potts worried a corner of his handlebar mustache with his teeth. If the kid hadn't just joined the gang, Jose would have recognized the danger sign.

  Jose put a foot in the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. "I'm quittin' this gang," he said. "You can keep the money-and the tooth. Adios, Potts."

  "You back-bitin' greaser," Potts gritted. "Nobody quits my gang."

  Even as he spoke, he hauled the Colt out of his holster at his hip. The pistol roared and spat flame. A bright red spot appeared on the back of Jose's denim shirt. The kid slumped forward, grabbing at the pommel, and stared open-mouthed at Potts. He gasped a word or two-something that sounded like "hay-soos"-and then slid right off the horse onto the ground.

  The horse just stood there. Dumb animal. Didn't even care that its rider had just been gut shot and was dying.

  Potts stared at Jose as he lay dying on the hot dry grass. Then he leaned down and pulled the greaser's boots off. He yanked off his own scuff-heeled boots, pulled on the kid's boots, and walked back and forth to try them out while the kid made mewing noises on the grass. The boots were kind of a tight fit, but the silver toe caps looked good. Potts grinned down at Jose, intending to tell him off-but the kid was already dead, and not up to admiring Potts' new footwear.


  Potts swung up onto the horse.

  Something made him glance back over his shoulder. He stiffened in the saddle. Damnation! A group of five riders was coming his way-riding hard, by the look of the dust cloud they were raising. They must have heard his pistol shot.

  Potts jammed his spurs into the horse as hard as he could. The animal lurched forward with a stumble, then found its footing and broke into a dispirited trot.

  Potts spurred it again-harder, this time. "Run, damn you!" he shouted at the animal.

  At last the horse did what it was told.

  After several long minutes of furious riding, Potts glanced back and cursed. The posse was gaining on him.

  When he looked forward, he cursed even louder. God damn! Who put that river in his way? It ran swift and white, too wide and deep for a man to ford on his own two feet.

  The horse tried to shy back from the river, but Potts jammed his spurs into its sides, deeper even than before. The horse stepped into the water and began to shudder. When the river topped Potts' boots and filled them with ice water, he saw why. The cold numbed his knees, his thighs—and then the horse gave a lurch and began swimming. Suddenly it was moving more sideways than across. Downriver-and fast. Potts clung onto the pommel with both hands, still kicking the horse forward.

  Something that flashed in the sun like a leaping fish skipped off the water next to Potts' right leg. It looked like the wheel of a spur, all sharp and round.

  Potts glanced back at the shore and saw a Chinaman in red robes, wearing a funny hat and standing beside his horse. The man's hand flicked forward-and another of the silvery disks thudded into the high back of Potts' saddle and stuck there like a burr. For once, Potts wasn't going to complain about the high, Mex-style saddle. Not after it saved his posterior from a nasty sting.

  There were four others on the river bank-white men. All were still astride their horses and had rifles raised to their shoulders. Bullets churned up water all around Potts with angry splashes. He ducked as a bullet tore open the neck of the horse, just in front of him-and in that same moment the horse sank under the river, just like that.

  Water closed over Potts' head. He let go of the pommel and fought for the surface, but one of his boots was stuck in the stirrup. And the boot was too tight for Potts to get his foot out of it. God damn that greaser kid and his narrow feet!

  ***

  Potts' lungs were aching now. The water around him had gone kind of sparkly and was filled with black spots. Something bubbled past his eyes. Then everything went muffled and quiet. He gave one last feeble kick-

  Suddenly his head was above the surface again and the roaring of the river returned, filling his ears with thunder.

  Gasping, Potts struggled for the shore. The river was bobbing him like a cork, spinning him silly. He wasn't sure which bank of the river he should be aiming for. The Hell with it, he decided. He'd go for the closest one. He was probably a good mile or three downstream now and the posse would have a hard time finding him.

  With his last ounce of strength, he splashed his way into the shallows and then stood and staggered out of the river. Water draining from his clothes and boots, hat gone, he knelt on the shore.

  A long shadow fell across him. Potts looked up, instinctively reaching for the Colt at his hip. He yanked the revolver out-only to find that its barrel was choked with mud and weeds.

  It wasn't a posse staring down at Potts, but a single man. The fellow was dressed like a dandy, in a black bowler hat, white shirt, black jacket and vest, white kidskin gloves, black tie, black pants pinstriped with white, black dress boots glossed to a high shine, and white button spats. He leaned on an ivory-handled cane with a peculiar double point at the other end, calm as anything, without so much as a pistol or Bowie knife visible on his person. He was clean-shaven but for a neatly trimmed beard that covered just his chin. He stared down at Potts with a look that made him feel as if he'd been expected to wash up on this particular shore, at the feet of this gentleman dandy.

  The look made Potts uncomfortable. "Who're you?" he asked, rising to his feet. "And why are you starin' at me that way?" He surreptitiously brushed a hand against his pocket, and was relieved to feel the comfortable weight of the coins and gold tooth tied tight in a bandanna. The five-dollar bill was probably soaked through, but Potts didn't dare check it right now. He didn't trust the stranger any further than his pearly white smile.

  "My name is Stan," the gentleman said in a midnight-smooth voice. "And I'm looking for gentlemen such as yourself to join my gang. Are you interested?"

  "What gang?" Potts asked.

  Stan raised a gloved hand above his shoulder and flicked a finger. Potts heard the slow thud of horse's hooves. He slapped the Colt against his thigh, trying to dislodge the mud from its barrel as riders swung into view from behind a bend in the riverbank. He nearly backed into the water as he realized there were four of them, with a fifth, riderless horse. But they weren't the posse members he'd seen earlier. As the riders pulled their horses to a halt, Stan introduced them.

  "Mr. Potts, I'd like you to meet Long Neck Luke, Captain Matthews, Skinny John, and T. Mary O'Rourke."

  Potts ranged his eyes over the gang. They were as sorry looking a bunch as anyone could ever hope to dig up. Long Neck Luke was a big feller with a neck twice as long and skinny as any man's should be, and a long grizzled beard that he'd obviously grown to cover his deformity. When he took off his hat and nodded howdy to Potts, his big head bobbed around on that scrawny neck like it was about to roll off his shoulders. But the shotgun on his back looked new and clean, even if his denim pants and flannel shirt were full of holes.

  "You ever killed a man?" Luke asked.

  Potts raised his mud-fouled Colt. "I shoot straight enough," he warned him. Then he rapidly added, "or I will soon enough, once my weapon is clean. Lately, I ain't been killin' nothing but fish-

  Captain Matthews, seated astride a horse next to Luke, laughed at Potts' joke. He looked normal enough, except for the one eye socket that was so scarred up you couldn't see the eye no more. He wore the riding boots and yellow-striped pants of a cavalry soldier, topped with a fringed buckskin shirt. His hat was pulled down low over one side of his forehead, probably to keep the sun out of his injured eye. An Army revolver and a saber hung at his waist from a belt with a big brass buckle. His greeting to Potts was a lazy salute.

  Skinny John fit his nickname like a snake in a hole. His trousers hung loose on his legs, and his chest was as hollow as a bowl under his threadbare cotton shirt. When he smiled, he looked like a skull grinning. Funny that his belly was so big. His gun belt was done up on the last hole.

  "Howdy," he drawled at Potts. "Y'all got any vittles? I ain't et in a spell."

  Potts' eyes watered as the smell of Skinny John's breath hit him. Whew! The feller had a mouth that smelled like a mouse had curled up and died in it.

  The fourth member of the gang was a woman—although only by her name did Potts recognize her as such. T. Mary just sat on her horse, coughing into her hand and occasionally spitting a wad of something to the ground She looked as tough as any man, with a face as weathered and sun-browned as old leather. And she wore a man's hat, shirt and trousers, fastened with a heavy gun belt.

  "Well, well," she wheezed to Stan. "Ain't he a healthy lookin' gent-

  There was one more horse, saddled up and ready to ride. But no fifth gang member. The horse didn't look nearly fancy enough to be Stan's - it reminded Potts of the horse he'd lost in the river, kind of worn out looking and lifeless, without any spirit in its eyes. In fact all of the horses looked about as bad. Potts decided this wasn't much of a gang. And yet Stan looked pretty flush, judging by the gold chain that hung from the watch in his vest pocket.

  With his horse sunk to the bottom of the river, Potts was plumb out of options.

  "What kind of gang are you?" Potts asked. "Bank robbers? Stage coach robbers? Stick-up men?" he asked.

  T. Mary coughed and spat at Pot
ts' feet.

  Potts' glance flickered over to her. He stepped back a step. Damned if he was going to give someone so ugly the courtesy of being called a woman.

  Stan smiled. "Actually, we are a rather specialized gang," he said. "We rob churches. Rich churches, with plenty of gold icons and a collection plate heaping with silver dollars. Would you have any problem with that, Mr. Potts?"

  Potts gave the gentleman a thin smile. "What would my cut be?"

  "One fifth."

  Potts did a quick head count. "You don't get no cut?" he asked Stan suspiciously.

  Gentleman Stan's eyes narrowed like a smiling cat's. "No need," he said. "I'm a gentleman of independent means. I find it satisfying enough to merely plan the robberies, and see them carried out."

  The gentleman was peculiar. But it sounded good to Potts.

  "Sure I'll join your gang," he told Stan.

  The gentleman reached out and shook Potts' hand. "I'm delighted." He smiled. "You won't regret our pact. I guarantee it."

  ***

  The first robbery went as smooth as clockwork-smoother, Potts reluctantly admitted, than any stick-up he'd ever planned. The target was in Virginia City, in the southeastern corner of Montana Territory Although the town had only been founded in 1863, when gold was struck, several thousand miners had poured through it in the fourteen years since then. Now Virginia City boasted the territory's first newspaper, a Wells Fargo office, nearly fifty saloons and an opera house with velvet curtains and gilded ceiling. It also had a Roman Catholic church, which was the gang's target.

  Potts stood outside the church, listening to the congregation sing a hymn. A light rain pattered down on his hat and shoulders. From further down the muddy street came the sounds of the other form of Sunday entertainment — the strains of a player piano in one of the saloons, accompanied by laughter and the odd gunshot as an inebriated miner let loose with his pistol. Skinny stood beside the rail where the horses were tied up, watching for trouble, and T. Mary and Captain Matthews were circling around to the rear door of the church.