by Lon Williams
Suddenly he screamed. “I’m getting out of here.”
But as he fled, Sir Jared Mosely stepped into his path, enclosed him in strong arms. Immediately Spurlock stepped forward with rawhide thongs and bound him, hand and foot. Together they laid him down, strapped him tight, and began to cut away his coat and shirt. They removed a derringer and its holster from under his left arm and they tossed them aside.
“Have no fear,” Spurlock bade him. “You will feel no pain.”
“Wh—what are you going to do?”
“We are going to borrow your nose,” Sir Jared said happily. “You see, I haven’t any. It’s rather embarrassing, too, this having no nose. You have a splendid one—fortunately. My brother has been prospecting daily for a good nose, one like my own—that is, what was once my own.”
Winthrop screamed again, then glared. “You mean you’re going to cu-cut off my nose?”
“It amounts to that,” said Spurlock. “My brother will lie on this table beside you. Very close, indeed; so close you will seem to be kissing each other. His nose scar will be trimmed and freshened with a knife. When he awakes he will have your nose, sewed to his face. When you awake—No, that’s right, you won’t awake.”
Spurlock Mosely moved away, washed his hands, lighted small lamps under a rectangular, silvered boiler. He returned with a bottle and a pad of cotton which he laid over Winthrop’s nose. Winthrop saw and felt a liquid sprinkling down. He screamed, shook his head, tried to break his bonds, but soon he relaxed—into a sleep too deep for dreams, even.
* * * *
Deputy Winters stirred from half-sleep and lay wide-eyed, staring at a starry sky. Beside him lay his beautiful wife, Myra, sleeping soundly. She had been left a widow in Forlorn Gap. In marrying her, Winters had come into a neat story-and-half cottage with this upstairs bedroom; a reasonably-good mining claim, on which he set foot occasionally for possessory reasons; and a companionship that daily grew more enchanting. Someday he was going to give up being a deputy marshal and settle down, work his mining claim or, better still, stake out a ranch in some mountain valley and raise cattle and a family.
But as he gazed out of their bedroom window, he had a premonition that this dream of a peaceful life might not come true. Danger was abroad; he sensed it, as he had sensed danger on other occasions and lived to face it. That voice on Alkali Flat had unnerved him—more so than he had thought possible at first. He could still hear it in fancy, calling plaintively, receiving no answer, calling again—and again. Oooooo-reeeeee! Like a cry from far, mystic shores of eternity.
Next day he rode to Pangborn Gulch. Three days later he was in Brazerville to deliver a prisoner and collect a reward. A week later he was in Elkhorn Pass, where he came upon a crowd of miners congregated around a man on a store platform, a well-dressed man, straight, dignified, eloquent.
“And here, gentlemen, I have your answer. A bit of this wonder-drug dissolved in water in your palm and sniffed up your nostrils will relieve that tightness and dryness that afflicts so many people in these semi-desert regions. You will instantly feel it tingling upward, into your head, soothing, cleansing, adding to your joy of living, lengthening your days. Come right up and for one dollar take with you one of these small cubes of my great discovery…”
Winters rode close and tossed a silver dollar over intervening heads. “There, you great windbag; toss me one of your pieces of hocus-pocus.”
“Ah, sir! But you err when you call Dr. Spurlock Mosely a windbag. I am a benefactor to mankind; what I have to sell is worth many times what I’m asking. But here, you impudent deputy marshal.” Mosely tossed a cube to Winters, who rose in his stirrups to catch it. “Who will be first to follow officer Winters’ sensible example? Ah, there you are! And you— and you—and you—”
Winters pocketed his purchase and rode to Forlorn Gap. Several days passed uneventfully, and then late at night he rode in from a successful but nerve-racking gunfight on Pedigo Road.
Bogie was chatting with his latest new friend when his batwings swung and a wiry, dusty visitor tramped in.
“Winters!” Doc exclaimed joyfully. “Come, join us. We were just getting set for a nightcap.” When Winters had slumped into a chair, Doc introduced his new friend. “Deputy Winters, meet Spurlock Mosely who, I am pleased to have learned, is a famous doctor—world-famous, I should have said.”
Winters used his hands to remove his hat and wipe sweat from his forehead. He never shook hands with Doc’s new friends; he didn’t like to shake with a man he might later have to shoot. “We’ve met already, Doc.”
“Ah,” said Bogie. “I didn’t know that.” Winters fumbled in his pockets, found an object and flipped it to Bogie. “I bought that off your friend Mosely in Elkhorn Pass. Take a look.”
Bogie took off its wrapping of oiled paper and smelled. “Well,” he exclaimed good-humoredly, “if you’ll pardon my saying so, it looks like soap.”
“Yeah,” drawled Winters. “Looks like a chip of old Granny Hannah Hibbett’s hard lye soap.”
Spurlock Mosely spun a silver dollar and snatched his article of sale from Bogannon. “I refuse to be regarded as a cheat. Any time I sell something, I stand behind it; there’s your dollar, Winters.”
“Now, now, no hard feelings,” Bogannon said placatingly. He went for another glass and poured wine all around.
Winters sipped lightly. With a mild shudder he noted that Mosely was staring at his head, particularly its upper half. He turned quickly to Bogie. “Anything of interest happened lately?”
Bogie Shook his head, then reversed himself. “Why, yes, I almost forgot. Early this evening Mrs. Hodge stepped into my saloon. An unprecedented thing, having a woman come in, a good looking one at that. ‘Has anybody here seen Orand Hodge?’ she asked, staring around like a person abstracted. Nobody answered, except that I answered for everybody, including myself. ‘What do you mean, Mrs. Hodge?’ I asked. She stared at me. ‘Why, didn’t you know? Orand has disappeared.’ Who hasn’t, I thought, though I didn’t say so.”
“As a matter of fact, who has disappeared?” asked Winters icily.
“I imagine people come and go quite regularly,” observed Spurlock Mosely. “They do,” said Bogie.
Winters glanced about. No one else was present. “What became of that gloomy-faced monkey, Doc? Name was Rat’s-vein Crowhop, or something like.” Doc reflected. “Oh, you mean Thackery Baine Winthrop. Why, he’s been gone ages. Left one evening with you, Mosely, didn’t he?”
“Winthrop?” said Mosely. “Yes, I recall that he did. Wanted to buy some of my great medicine. I gave him some—a generous supply. Have heard no more from him.”
“Medicine?” said Winters. “Not some more of Hibbett’s soap, I hope?”
Mosely had taken out a bottle. After a bit of search he found some cotton, sprinkled onto it a few drops of liquid, pretended to smell. He passed his cotton to Winters. “Nothing deceptive or fraudulent about that, Winters. Take a whiff.”
Winters pretended to smell, but didn’t. Nevertheless he caught a peculiar, sweet odor. “What is it?”
“Chloroform.”
“What’s it for?”
“It is used in surgery; makes an operation absolutely painless.”
Winters again observed that Mosely stared at his head. “Why do you look at me like that, Mosely?”
“I was merely admiring your beautiful hair. My only brother, Sir Jared Mosely, had hair like that, thick and sort of crinkly.” He slid back his chair. “Well, gentlemen, I’ve had a pleasant evening, but all good things must end. Goodnight.” He started out, stopped abruptly and came back. “Who was that you were speaking of a moment ago?”
“Winthrop,” said Bogie.
“No, there was another.”
“Hodge,” said Bogie. “Orand Hodge.” Mosely squeezed his chin. “I just happened to remember something. I believe I know where he’s hiding. If either of you would care to take a short ride, I’d show you where to find him.”
> Winters slapped his hat on. Having his beautiful, crinkly hair stared at was getting to be uncomfortable. “I’ll ride with you.” He got up and tramped out, nodding to Mosely to come along. Mosely, exalted by what Bogie analyzed as a feeling of anticipated conquest, strode grandly after him.
Then it was that Doc Bogannon had a premonition. He recalled that a glib-tongued traveling salesman had departed with Spurlock Mosely. He recalled that Orand Hodge had departed with this same Spurlock Mosely. He recalled, also, that Thackery Baine Winthrop—
He sprang up. “Winters!”
He rushed out and looked in every direction. “Winters!”
But they were gone.
* * * *
Winters and Mosely rode southwestward across Alkali Flat. Mountains lay in that direction, and canyon walls that closed about them, towered darkly above them. By starlight Mosely and his horse loomed as shadows, more ghostly than substantial, but soft thuds on Alkali Flat had changed to clatter of iron-shod hoofs where canyon rocks replaced desert alkali and sand. Echoes from curving walls broke every sound into fragments, and Winters’ nerves jangled with every crackle.
“Well, here we are,” said Mosely, halting before an arched cliff-opening. He dismounted. “Here, I am confident, you will find Orand Hodge, or what is left of him.”
Winters felt sweat pop out. “What is left of him?”
“Oh,” said Mosely casually—much too casually—“after such a long absence from his natural habitat, you would expect some change in him, would you not? Get down, Winters; methinks I see a light back there.”
Winters glanced warily about but saw nothing to be scared of. He swung down, held onto Cannon Ball’s reins until he noticed that Mosely had ground-hitched, when he let go and followed his escort.
“You seem familiar with this place, Mosely.”
“Many places have known my presence—and felt my touch,” said Mosely.
What kind of touch, Winters wondered? He did not advance with as brisk confidence as marked Mosely’s progress, though their way was over a smooth, hard floor, illuminated dimly by light diffused from beyond a bend. He kept both an ear and an eye to rear and a gunhand alert.
“You wouldn’t be holding Orand Hodge a prisoner here, would you, Mosely?”
“Prisoner? Far from it. Dark portals, Winters, are not always pathways to prison; sometimes they lead to freedom. A new, strange kind of freedom, perhaps, yet freedom. And here we are again.” They stopped. A brilliantly lighted and oddly furnished cavern opened before them. “My laboratory, Winters. My hospital, my operating room.” He turned, looked intently at Winters and added, “And my patient.”
“Oh, that is quite right,” said a new voice.
Winters had heard or seen no one else. He had been cautious, too; at least he’d thought so. But Spurlock Mosely had seemed so carefree, so incautious, that Winters realized too late how extremely careless he himself had in fact been. Somewhere somebody had stepped behind him and now had a gun in his back.
“My, best advice, Winters,” said Mosely, “is that you lift your hands. We do not intend to kill you; that would defeat our purposes, but you could easily force us to immediate desperation.”
“And do take off your hat,” said that new, spooky voice. “I am so anxious to see your lovely hair. No, no, my friend; I shall remove it for you.”
“It is my brother, Sir Jared Mosely, who speaks to you,” said Spurlock Mosely. “Like myself, he is a famous surgeon. Don’t look just yet, because if you make a wrong move—”
Winters did not lift his hands. He felt a jab in his back, heard a sixgun click to full cock. He saw Spurlock’s right hand move gracefully and swiftly to an under-arm holster.
“And your reason for being here,” said Sir Jared, “is your ownership of a lovely head of hair, which of course, you shall give to me. Your predecessors have made their donations. New lips from dear Hodge; new ears from dear Mr. Fuller; a new nose from poor, sorrowful Mr. Winthrop. And now, from you, Mr. Winters—”
Sweat had streamed on his face. But now Winters was angry, his sweat abated. In a pinch like this, he trusted nothing except his sixguns. These lunatics belonged to a profession which had schooled them in other arts than gunplay, even though he realized but little art was required in pulling a trigger—and but a fraction of time.
Sir Jared had not yet removed Winters’ hat. Possibly he had sensed danger and hesitated. Winters waited. If curiosity impelled Sir Jared to remove that hat, Winters would have his chance.
It came, stealthily, cautiously.
“I can wait no longer,” Sir Jared said.
Winters discerned a slight change of pressure against his back, a touch on his hat brim, a tug. In that fraction of a second, there was division of attention, of alertness. Winters whirled, came up blazing. Spurlock Mosely had made a complete turn, and his gun divined Winters’ move; his gun, too, was roaring.
* * * *
In his saloon, Doc Bogannon waited. Lee Winters had been a fine officer, he reflected grievously. Bogie had seen men come and go. He’d learned to look upon death philosophically— generally as no loss to him—and, if mankind’s dream of immortality had merit, a distinct gain to some unfortunates who had prematurely lost their lives. But Winters—Ah, here was a man whose passing would leave an empty place. In a few short, swift years he had become a mighty fortress of law and order; without him, Forlorn Gap would long since have become a mere hideout for cutthroats, lunatics and thieves. Wherever he hit, he made a dent; he’d been a man’s man, his cold sarcasm notwithstanding, and his deadliness.
Bogie waited an hour. A stagecoach pulled in from Elkhorn Pass, stopped briefly at Goodlett’s and went on its way eastward. Bogie swabbed his face, walked around and around until his head swam, reversed direction and walked again. He looked at his watch. Two hours had passed.
His batwings swung inward.
“Winters!”
Winters advanced slowly, a pallor on his face. “Get me a sip of wine, Doc.”
Doc hurried. They sat down together. “What happened, Winters?”
Winters drank, thought a moment and shook his head free of some of its haziness. “They meant to take my scalp, Doc, peel it off my head and sew it on Sir Jared’s head. I had to kill them.” He lifted his vest and pulled his shirttail out, exposing a fresh bandage around his body with a bloody spot above his left hip-bone. “I got it through there, Doc—luckily only a flesh wound—and that Doctor Jared Mosely dressed it—dressed it as he was dying. Cleaned it with an iodine swab, like you’d clean a gun barrel. Wanted to do it. Insisted. Said he wanted his last act on earth to be one of healing. Sort of gets me, Doc.”
“What you’re saying sort of gets me,” said Bogie.
“Sir Jared Mosely, Doc. Brother to that loony who was here. Spurlock died right off, but Sir Jared lived over an hour. Told some creepy things, too, about Comanches, operations, drugs. Wanted me to breathe that chloroform so I wouldn’t feel any pain while he fixed me up. I didn’t do it, though I almost wished I had there for a while. And do you know something, Doc? After those loonies were dead, I felt I’d set progress back a hundred years. That is, for a while I felt that way. But, riding back across Alkali Flat, I heard that voice again—that woman’s voice. That got me all mixed up.” Winters squeezed his forehead and shook his head.
Bogie poured more wine. “Drink, Winters. You’re not yourself yet.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Winters drank slowly, then got up, feeling better. “Well, Doc, let’s call it a day. Tomorrow there’ll be something else.”
THE HAUNTED TOWN
Real Western Stories, October, 1953
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters emerged from Enloe Pass on Walden Ridge and glimpsed a few dim lights in Forlorn Gap, three miles away. From Brazerville had been a long, wearisome ride, but lights of home enlivened his spirit, if not his flesh and bones. Cannon Ball must have seen them, too, for he lifted his head and quickened his step.
Cannon Ball was a good, stea
dy horse; big, rangy and tough, yet this had been a hard journey for him. It was mainly because a southeast wind had blown behind him, whipping gusts about his ears, sending dust-devils whirling over dry hills all afternoon, and after dark moaning through pines and crags as something animate and mysterious. Moonlight was intermittent, also, for clouds swept along darkly, and this alternation of light and shadow transformed trees into marching ogres and rocks into ghosts. Several times Cannon Ball had stopped abruptly, head high, body a-tremble, when things stirred in shadow, diffused strange scents dislodged small stones from banks or mountainsides.
Winters, too, was skittish. Duty of office had made him a gunfighter. In discharge of duty, or in obedience to primal law, he’d killed cutthroats, robbers, murderers. Every deadly combat had impressed itself indelibly upon his memory. His conscience was untroubled, yet a man who had killed never thereafter rode or walked alone. Ghosts of dead men kept him company. He saw their last violent actions, heard their defiant shouts, their smoking guns, their surprised groans and death sighs.
He was in a sweaty mood when he entered Forlorn Gap, once a town of five thousand, now composed chiefly of deserted houses. On its outskirts he was passing a tumbledown shack where one Bill Avis had lived, a gloomy gold-digger who was murdered in his own house. Winters observed a faint glow in its one small window. He thought it strange, of course, but then an apparition appeared, window-framed and terrible. It was a huge wolf’s head, eyes and mouth aglow with fire. Its appearance had been instantaneous. Out of it had poured a menacing, fierce growl.
Cannon Ball leaped aside and forward. His forward leaps continued. Winters hung grimly on. He’d grown tense upon seeing that mysterious glow in Bill Avis’ glassless window, otherwise he’d have landed on his head. As it was, he had a rough ride, almost lost his hat, and he brought Cannon Ball under control only by standing him on his hind feet.