The Two Devils

by David B. Riley

  Around midday, I noticed we were being observed from a long way off by a band of Indians. I didn't know much about the local natives, but knew they were few in number as the Nevada landscape provided little in the way of food or water to sustain much of a population. I reasoned we were not much of a threat to anyone and didn't mention them to the women as it would serve no real purpose, except to alarm them.

  That night, as I lay there near the fire, Paul quietly crept up next to me and nudged my head. He kept looking off into the wilderness. “I know, buddy. He's out there. I know."

  The next day proved more of the same. We rode and rode and rode. My posterior was beyond sore. Our water was running lower than I felt comfortable with. And, as if by magic, there was Lathrop Wells right before us. It wasn't much, but I figured we could replenish our water supply. The sisters had enough of their singing money to pay the outrageous fees for topping off our barrels. The alternative of dying in the desert made it well worth paying them, as I saw it.

  Now, I wanted to buy something else, but there I was traveling with a bunch of nuns. The sisters wanted to get back on the road. The place was an obvious brothel and one of the ladies really caught my eye. But, I was traveling with a bunch of nuns. We moved on.

  Again, after supper, I stretched out by the fire. Paul again came over and nudged me. “I guess he doesn't have any money for Lathrop Wells,” I whispered. Paul ventured back to where the two wagon horses were sleeping.

  We missed Las Vegas somehow. It's not much of a place, from what I hear. We made camp outside the town of Boulder. Once again, Paul came and woke me when the nuns were asleep. He kept bugging me, so I ventured off into the sagebrush.

  Glasgow Roberts was stretched out. He had no fire going. As hot as it was, I wasn't all that surprised. He was smoking a cigar. “Tomorrow?” I asked.

  "Tomorrow,” he said. “Wish I'd caught up before you left civilization."

  "Me too."

  He took a really long drag on his cigar. “You smoke, O'Malley?"

  "No."

  "You should,” he said. “Relieves stress."

  I returned to the campsite. “Mr. O'Malley, is something wrong?” Sister Mary Margaret whispered.

  "Just Indians. Go back to sleep,” I said. I doubt that she did.

  The next day brought us to the mighty Colorado River. In late summer, it wasn't all that impressive as most of the snow runoff had long since flooded through on its way to Mexico. We took a ferry across with little fanfare.

  At the other side, two men with badges, Glasgow Roberts, and Nick Mephistopheles and another man were all waiting.

  "Ladies, I said I'd see you through to Arizona. We are now in Arizona Territory, as I understand these matters.” I looked at the two men with badges. “I take it you're the sheriff?"

  "Roscoe Rodgers,” he pointed with his thumb, “my deputy Carl, and you know Captain Roberts. This is Mr. Haddock from Lloyds of London, and Mr. Mephistopheles, a lawyer from Nevada."

  "I am so pleased you apprehended him, sheriff,” Sister Mary Margaret declared.

  "Well, not exactly,” the sheriff said. “Apparently the California authorities never tried to verify your story. I, however, did. There's no mission in Canada. You've been running up and down the coast, stealing payrolls and hiding behind your religious status."

  "You mean they're not nuns?” I asked.

  "They're nuns. From a parish in Tucson.” The sheriff dismounted and approached the wagon.

  "I can assure you, this must be a misunderstanding,” Sister Mary Margaret insisted. She looked at Nick. “Surely?"

  "Ladies, I merely advised you to have someone escort you to Arizona, as I didn't feel it was safe to travel alone. I cannot represent you here, as I am not a member of the Arizona bar,” Nick explained. “You'll have to obtain counsel in Kingman, I am afraid."

  "You can't possibly take the word of this sea urchin,” Sister Bernadette insisted.

  "Thing I can't figure out,” Sheriff Rodgers said, “they must have nearly a hundred thousand dollars, yet they travel so light."

  "That's what I been wondering,” Captain Roberts said. “For a long time."

  Nick approached the wagon. “Gentlemen, this is not the dark ages. This is the nineteenth century. He opened the small suitcase, opened a Bible, then extracted a few sheets of paper. “You don't have to actually carry coins and such anymore.” He handed the papers to the sheriff. “These are bank letters of credit. They need only be presented to a bank in Tucson and the funds can then be drawn on these letters. Then, it's a quick ride to Mexico and a nice retirement out of reach of American law enforcement,” Nick explained.

  "I'm not sure,” the sheriff said, “there's any crime committed in Arizona."

  Nick gazed off into the small case that had held clothing and the Bible. He tossed a single dollar coin to the sheriff. “Look under stolen goods, receiving and possessing,” Nick suggested. “Or, perhaps you might extradite them to California."

  "I think we'll let Judge Gamsby sort this out,” the sheriff decided.

  "An excellent idea,” Nick agreed.

  "Mr. O'Malley, as I understand it, you were simply acting as a Good Samaritan in all this,” the sheriff decided. “You are free to go."

  "Thank you, sheriff,” I said.

  "Where you headed?” Captain Roberts asked me.

  "I been reading about Tombstone,” I said.

  "Boomtown,” Nick said. “You'll like it there. Lots of action."

  That made me almost want to change my plans. But, I didn't. We headed south.

  I never really understood Nick's angle in this case. I know he hates the clergy. Of course, I never did know where or when Nick would turn up. He just did. It seemed odd, though. I guess I would never quite figure Nick out.

  Now, I know some folks would look askance at my near friendship with the devil himself, not to mention my carrying on with angels from hell. Still, my dealing with hell's emissaries had been fairly pleasant and honest occasions. I didn't especially trust Nick, but he'd always treated me a lot better than most folks had. And Janus and Mabel, well they couldn't have been nicer.

  I decided early on to keep my own counsel on this sort of thing. Few folks would understand. Even I didn't really understand. But, few men got invited into hell and fewer still had the pleasure of seeing heaven first on. So, I'd reasoned that Nick would cross paths with me again. Why he seemed to need me in his life, that was something I had yet to figure out, probably never would. So, I didn't really dwell on this sort of thing. To do so, would drive me mad.

  I just figured I'd do what seemed right, and live life as best I could. A bunch of nuns stealing from ships ... well, compared to what I'd seen, it just didn't seem that remarkable.

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  Chapter 8

  DUEL IN THE DESERT

  I quickly found Arizona much too hot for my liking, but decided to try the mining town of Tombstone for a while. We were heading into September and they kept telling me the heat was bound to ease up—eventually. Anything below a hundred degrees was apparently cooler weather. My barbering skills proved once again to gain the favor of an employer.

  Most of our work was done on a wooden porch, with a trellis offering some protection from the brutal sun. Our clientele, for the most part, was split evenly between the miners who lived in town and the ranch hands who worked in the surrounding areas. It was unusual to see both kinds on the same day, as the two factions would have little to do with one another.

  Tombstone itself was a small town, consisting primarily of canvas and lean-to buildings. I'd lucked out and landed a room in a relic from the Spanish days, an adobe building with thick cool walls.

  Most mining towns were near a mine. In Tombstone, the activity was right underneath us. Every now and again, we could feel the vibration from blasting as we shaved our customers at the barbershop. I'd been there all of two weeks when I had my first encounter with Virgil Earp, the town marshal.

&n
bsp; The Earp Brothers ran the town, though they were not necessarily popular. In addition to Virgil, there was also Wyatt and Morgan. I gathered Wyatt had worked as a marshal or sheriff somewhere before. The Earps owned part interest in the Oriental Saloon and Gambling Emporium, a brand new establishment created to part miners from their pay.

  They pretty much ran things to their liking. Marshal Earp got into a tussle with two drunken cowboys one afternoon. He got the better of both of them and knocked one of them out cold. In so doing, his hat got knocked off. I'd simply picked it up and took it over to the jail and gave it to him. Virgil would've thought I'd saved his life, instead of his Stetson. He pulled out a bottle or red eye and insisted I share it with him.

  A few days later, there was Virgil standing on our porch. It was bright and early. We were just opening up for the day. “Need a shave, Marshal?” I asked.

  "No, Miles, not today,” came his reply.

  "Well, then?” I asked.

  "My brothers and me, we're all going to a convention in Phoenix.” He started fiddling with his hat. “Well, I was wondering, if you'd look after things. We'll only be gone two days."

  "What happened to that sickly dentist you're always talking to?” I asked. I couldn't remember his name.

  "Doc Holliday's going with us,” Virgil said. “So you'll do it, then?"

  "I've got my work here,” I protested as I leaned against an empty chair.

  "We don't need ‘im,” my boss grunted from inside.

  "You got a gun. You got a horse. That's all you really need. Heck, even the horse ain't real necessary. Tombstone ain't really all that big. I left a few instructions across the street in the Marshal's Office."

  "I don't know,” I protested.

  "Great, then it's settled.” Virgil fished around in his pocket and handed me a silver star that said deputy marshal on it. He had me raise my right hand and swore me in. I really don't understand how I keep getting talked into things like this.

  The Earps and Doc Holliday all left on the two o'clock stage. Nothing much happened that day. I strutted around town, checked on my horse at the livery stable then I turned in at the usual time.

  I heard some shooting around midnight, but nobody ever came looking for me, so I didn't get too concerned about it. Somebody was always shooting, even with a no firearms ordinance in the town.

  Next morning, I set myself out on the porch in front of the marshal's office. I had a nice cup of coffee and a copy of the Epitaph. Some kid came and said I was needed at the saloon. Reluctantly, I followed him on over. The proprietor, Big-nosed Kate, motioned me over to the bar. She made a subtle glance toward the back table. The problem was obvious.

  Even I could figure it out. Four local miners were playing five-card stud with a gussied-up stranger. I placed my hand on the gentleman's left shoulder.

  "Suh, whea ah come from, we'd have to be a might better acquainted,” the stranger said without looking up from his cards. “Unless you ah trying to pick my pocket."

  "Miles O'Malley,” I said as forcefully as possible.

  The stranger took his last card, then folded his hand without looking at it. “Ah've heard of you.” That surprised me. No one's heard of me. He looked at my badge. “Jonathan T. Livingston, New Orleans, Louisiana."

  I released my grip on the man's shoulder. It was an easy way to telegraph if a man was moving for a gun, I'd been told. This guy appeared unarmed. “Outside,” I commanded.

  He protested “But suh, ah'm involved in this game right now."

  "Not anymore you ain't. Outside,” I repeated. I turned and went to the boardwalk that ran in front of the saloon.

  Jonathan T. Livingston arrived a minute later, trying to stow his winnings in his abundant selection of pockets.

  "Sheriff, ah can assure you I play an honest game."

  "Marshal. I'm acting town marshal. Wednesday the stage comes through. Be on it.” I started back for the Marshal's Office. “And don't go back in that saloon again."

  "But suh, ah've broken no laws,” he insisted.

  "I don't like to repeat myself, Riverboat,” I warned without looking back. I was very pleased with how I'd handled that. And my coffee was still hot and waiting for me when I got back.

  The newspaper had the usual local nonsense and a few surprises. I had just finished reading an article that implied our county sheriff, John Behan, was a horse thief, when I heard steps running in my direction.

  "Virgil! Virgil” somebody was screaming. “We got trouble out at the Gantry Place."

  "He ain't here,” I replied. I lowered my paper a little and realized Sheriff John Behan was standing over me.

  Behan and the Earps were bitter enemies. Behan was allied with the ranchers and rural folk in the county. The Earps worked for a town dominated by mining interests and a few merchants. Neither faction seemed to appreciate the other. Wyatt had run unsuccessfully for Behan's county job in the last election. But there he stood, right in front of me looking filthy with sweat pouring down his face.

  "Where's Virgil?” Behan demanded.

  "Went to some convention in Phoenix,” I explained. I took a sip of coffee. “He'll be back tomorrow."

  "What about Morgan or Wyatt?” he asked.

  "Phoenix."

  "Who in dickens are you?” Behan asked.

  I showed him my badge. “Miles O'Malley. I'm just filling in. Virgil said if folks need anything serious handled, go see Big-nosed Kate Elder over at the saloon."

  He shook his head. “That won't do. I need help now, dang it. I need an experienced lawman."

  For John Behan to come looking for an Earp for help, that was akin to Robert E. Lee running to General Grant for assistance. This seemed mighty strange. “Don't you have deputies?” I asked.

  He hesitated a second, then uttered, “Phoenix."

  "Oh ... Well, Marshal Earp said not to do anything outside the town limits. Old Man Gantry is way out of town, as I recall.” I picked my paper back up, even though I'd already read everything in it.

  "Please Miles,” Behan begged. “I need help. Something bad's happening out there. Something really bad."

  I threw my paper down, stood up, and let out an exaggerated sigh. Truth was, I was plenty curious by that point about what was going on. “No rest for the weary. Let me get my horse.” I headed over to the livery and found Paul already saddled up. Behan was waiting for me in front of the courthouse. “Lead on."

  Behan started his horse in the direction out of town. I hurried after him. Behan drove his horse like a madman. We raced along for seven miles, then finally turned off onto the rutted trail that led up to Old Man Gantry's place. Suddenly the horses stopped. Behan tried to get his horse to advance into a mesquite grove, but the horse would not budge. Mine was equally obstinate. We dismounted. “Left Old Man Gantry watching it. It's the darndest thing. Just over this rise."

  We found Gantry hunched down behind a rock. His trademark ceramic jug was lying empty on its side. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard us approach behind him. “You boys scared the begeebers out of me."

  "Still there?” Behan asked.

  "Ain't moved nary an inch since ya left. He all you could get?” Gantry asked, apparently disappointed with me.

  "Afraid so."

  I followed their line of sight to a glowing sphere halfway up the hill. It made no noise and was hovering about fifty feet off the ground. “What in hell is that?” I asked.

  "It flies,” Behan said.

  "Don't make no sound, neither,” Gantry added. “Not a peep."

  "What you reckon we ought to do?” Behan asked.

  "You tried talkin’ to it?” I asked.

  "Talk to it?” Gantry asked. “What in heavens would we tell it?"

  "I ain't sure, exactly.” I moved out into the open and found myself leading the other two toward the mysterious object. The need to stop seemed strongest at about thirty yards. I waved at the sphere, which had to be forty feet thick at the center. “Hello!” Nothing
happened.

  "Maybe it don't understand English. Maybe it knows Spanish, like the Mexicans,” Behan suggested from a safe distance behind me.

  "Buenos Dias,” I yelled. A hatch opened on the side of the object and the entire vehicle gently set down on the ground. “You're right, it does know Spanish,” I agreed.

  "I'll be.” Behan scratched his head and tried to peer inside.

  "Somethin's in there. It's coming out.” Sure enough, something waddled out.

  It looked like a little green man—and didn't. It had two antennae sticking out of its head, stood only around three feet tall, and had the overall greenish color of mildew. Its large eyes were black as coal and appeared to have no eyelids.

  "Buenos Dias. Mi casa es su casa,” I recited. And that was nearly the extent of my Spanish vocabulary.

  "What's that mean?” Gantry asked.

  "Don't know. Heard it over at the cantina a few times.” I waved at the odd creature.

  It took a step closer and waved back.

  "It's the devil himself, I say!” Old Man Gantry took a step toward it.

  "It's even got horns on it."

  "Those ain't horns,” I argued. “Donde es you casa?” I asked it.

  "Gantry get back here,” Behan warned.

  Gantry drew his Civil War six-shooter from his baggy overalls. Before he could aim it, the creature extended its tiny arm and a metal disk appeared in its three-fingered hand. There was a brilliant blue flash and Old Man Gantry suddenly had a six-inch hole bored all the way through his chest.

  Before Gantry hit the ground, I smiled an exaggerated grin and waved. “We friendly. What's Spanish for friend, Behan?"

  "How in hell should I know? Don't move. You may tick it off,” Behan warned.

  The green guy fiddled with a small device on his belt that hadn't been there before. “Equi oc Toquit. You are non-hostile?” He pointed at Gantry.

  "He was hostile."

  "Sure, we're non-hostile, whatever that means,” I agreed. “We friendly."

  "I am from planet Kalos, far away."

  "Like Mars or something?” Behan asked.