The Lon Williams Weird Western Megapack

by Lon Williams

  Winters shoved around to an opposite chair. “I’ll take you up on that.” He glanced up. “How much did you suckers donate to this poor, humble beggar?”

  “Twenty apiece, by gonnies!” one of them answered. “And do you think we’d of give that much out of our boundin’ goodness? No, by gonnies! He had a gun on us.”

  “Never mind that,” snapped Winters.

  Doc Bogannon shoved in behind Winters. This game was not new to him; he’d seen it going on for a week.

  “Winters!”

  “Don’t bother me, Doc. Stand back. Everybody stand back; I need room.” Winters had his chair well back. He leaned forward, chin on his right hand. Holly Dew was on his right, hand raised, ready to snap his finger. Winters had put down his twenty.

  Men held their breaths, and Holly snapped. Winters’ hand smacked quick and hard, but it hit bare table. It was Moxley’s hand that took away two crumpled bills.

  A miner shouted, “He blowed ’em. Dew blowed ’em. I seed ’em shift.”

  “Never mind!” clipped Winters. “We’ll try again, this time with gold money. He laid down a double-eagle. “Match it, Moxley.”

  “That wasn’t my proposition,” said Moxley. He slid his chair back.

  “Then he did blow,” said Winters. Hollywell Dew eased his chair back. “That, of course, is a lie.”

  “Of course,” said Moxley.

  Winters sprang sideways, his sixgun roared twice. Dew and Moxley sat rigid for half a second, then they slumped, each with a bullet hole in his head. Their guns, unfired, slid from their hands.

  Winters stood erect and holstered his hot gun. He sleeved sweat from his face. “There’s your night-riders. Two-head Moxley and No-head Hollyhawk”

  Doc Bogannon took out a bandanna and wiped his damp face. “What do you mean, Winters?”

  “Hold everything and I’ll show you.” Winters went out and returned at once with a big suitcase. “I got this from their room at Goodlett Hotel.” He opened it before their popping eyes.

  What they saw was as queer an assortment of articles as they’d ever laid eyes on. It began with a big wolf’s head, mounted on a short stick. Inside was a short candle, its wick black. Next were two black robes that enclosed shoulder-shaped boxes, one square on top, one with two wax heads. There were false faces, too, a couple of Indian scalps, an assortment of beards, mustaches and bottles. There was a pair of iron claws, hinged to fit a man’s hand. There was even a hairy headgear with a pair of short horns.

  “Old Scratch himself,” said a gold-digger. He looked at his buddy.

  His buddy looked at him. “That charm merchant!”

  “Yeah. Wonder if he’s still around?” Winters was busy with repacking his suitcase. He appeared not to notice as two bearded gold-diggers eased out through Bogie’s batwings.

  Bogie went for glasses and a bottle of wine. “Winters, it’s time for our usual night cap. In a mood for one?”

  Winters moved to another table. “Never was more so, Doc.”

  Bogie returned with two glasses and a bottle. He poured, then sat down. As he drank he thought of something. It was such a startling thought that it almost strangled him.

  He coughed and gagged. At length he put down his glass and blew his nose.

  “Winters! They’ll hang that charm merchant!”

  “Yeah?” Winters drank leisurely, his face impassive.

  “Well, Winters, aren’t you going to do anything about it?”

  Winters set his glass down hard. “Now, you look here, Doc. You ought to know me better than that. You ought to know I don’t go around stickin’ my nose in other people’s business.”

  Bogie took up his glass again. “That’s right, Winters; you never bothered anybody in your life.”

  Winters passed his glass. “Besides, if a charm merchant can’t take care of hisself, what could he expect of me? I ain’t got no charms to pass around. Go head, Doc; fill ’er up.”

  PHANTOM CARGO

  Real Western Stories, December, 1953

  Deputy Marshal Lee Winters, caught at sundown ten miles northeast of Cow Creek, decided upon a shortcut for home across Alkali Flat. His big horse, Cannon Ball, sensed his master’s purpose and swung through shadow-dappled canyons at a spirited gait until, by ten o’clock, his hoofs were thudding dully upon that wide expanse of desolation which spread northeastward to Forlorn Gap. Winters exercised no restraining hand, for a winter wind moaned through canyons and out across Alkali Flat’s dreary waste, its bone-chilling intensity by contrast lending enchantment to thoughts of home, wife and fireside.

  But this was a ghostland, as well as a wasteland. Winters contemplated its crossing with dread, for many strange things happened there at night. Mysterious and ghostly objects moved there, too. Men of sober habits had seen wagon trains moving silently across it by starlight; men with only mild-alcoholic tendencies reported having seen hordes of buffalo-headed men marching there, coming in endless procession out of moonlit haze and moving on to lose themselves in haze again. Winters himself had heard unearthly sounds in its ceaseless winds— lone, disconsolate wolf howls; distressful cries of human; plaintive, ringing calls of owls; inexplicable songs of unknown origin; lonely whispers and moans related to nothing in his knowledge of kindred nature.

  He was within three miles of Forlorn Gap when his dread materialized into something definite. At first glance he mistook it for an apparition, but soon it became recognizable as a team of plodding horses, drawing what appeared to be a commonplace covered wagon.

  A bright southerly moon spread its light gently over team and canvas and a lone man who sat mid-seat as driver. Winters raised a gloved hand and drew his hat down tight. That same hand lowered to his sixgun and made a slight, reassuring adjustment there. He would have turned aside, had he yielded to natural impulse, for popping sweat had already chilled his face; but fear of cowardice outweighed his fear of a lone stranger, and he rode straight on until Cannon Ball and team were side by side.

  “Hello, there!” Winters shouted, the neighborliness in his voice bearing a strained quality.

  Horses, mistaking his greeting to mean “whoa,” stopped abruptly. Immediately Winters perceived that here was a wagon-driver unlike any he had ever seen before. His feet were spread wide, one being bound by rawhide thongs at each forward wagon-corner. His hands, though clutched around driving lines, were extended, motionless. His eyes were open, but they cast an unchanging reflection of moonlight. Head and face were rigid. Lips remained closed.

  “Queer time to be traveling,” said Winters, scared, but professionally curious.

  Still there was no response. Nor was there any perceptible movement, any sound except that of wind sweeping between wagon spokes and over lifting and falling canvas. Whether scent or silent movement, something caused Cannon Ban to rear and leap away. In those few seconds required for Winters to regain a secure saddle-position, Cannon Ball reached his top speed and pounded like a horse running wild toward Forlorn Gap.

  Winters looked back, but if there was a covered wagon anywhere it had become invisible, merged perhaps into that great white barrenness of flat earth that swept south and west, itself to blend with that tumbling, rugged wall of dark, western hills. Shuddering, Winters faced homeward. And never before had those fast-brightening lights ahead presented such a welcome sight.

  * * * *

  Night was still young in Forlorn Gap’s streets and public houses. Doc Bogannon’s saloon, only institution of its kind at this crossroads place of mystery and odd mingling of order and lawlessness, had more than its customary crowd of travelers, card-players, yarn-spinners, and all-around queers and freaks. Bogannon had been rushed for an hour, but now he had a spell in which to wash and polish glasses. This was also a time when he could look over his guests and garner his usual measure of philosopher’s pleasure, peculiar to a big man with a big heart and a sympathetic, understanding mind.

  But unexpectedly his front door swung open and a smiling stranger came stealth
ily in. This newcomer was small and thin, bareheaded, and ashen in complexion. He approached unsteadily and laid his arms on Bogie’s bar. “Hee-hee,” he laughed crazily, and his body shook with nervous mirth.

  Bogannon himself was tall and massive, with a splendid head and face, black-haired, clean-shaved, bearing despite his clean white apron a statesman’s dignity and stature. To him, his thriving business notwithstanding, there was nothing more interesting than human beings. This newcomer in particular interested him, even touched a spot of commiseration in his generous depths.

  “Heard a funny story?” asked Bogie, gazing at his visitor solemnly.

  Another crazy giggle rippled out. “Hee-hee. I tricks ’em, I did.”

  “Would you mind telling your name?” asked Doc.

  “Me? Why, don’t you know? I’m Gatewood Lavin. People sometimes call me Gate. Sometimes they call me Laffin Gate. But one way or t’other, that’s me all right.”

  “And you tricked them, did you?”

  “Hee-hee. Sure, I tricks ’em.” He made an encircling gesture around his head. “Like that,” he said, leering comically. “They think they got me smothered dead, but I tricks ’em.” Gate Lavin shook again with silent laughter.

  He was still laughing when a heavy foot pounded an outside board. Gatewood stared in horror at an opening door. Suddenly he darted around a corner of Bogie’s bar and peered warily over its top.

  No wonder, thought Bogie. I’m scared myself.

  A huge man who bore positive resemblance to an ape shoved himself in and advanced with a heavy, undulating, humping stride toward Bogannon. He laid down a silver coin. “Whiskey,” he said hoarsely.

  Doc poured a drink and caught himself staring in indefinable and awesome curiosity. Doc was over six feet tall, powerful of build and possessed of impressive poise of a cultivated sort. Here was a strange character, bigger and more powerful than he. The newcomer was easily six-feet-six, his ponderous shoulders lumpy with muscle. His poise was superior to that of Bogannon, being unstudied, like that of a powerful horse. His hat was black, small, and pulled into a beak in front. His face was shaved, except for a mustache that was tufted like a wad of black wool under his nose. About him there was a cadaverous smell, and his clothes were filthy with grime.

  “I hear it’s right chilly outside,” said Doc nervously.

  For response he received a prolonged grunt that jarred at its end.

  “I don’t happen to recall your name,” said Doc, in exercise of professional friendliness.

  “Quimby Large, I be, sir.” Large leaned toward Doc and blinked his small, beady eyes. “But you thinks you knows me, huh?”

  “No,” Bogie replied quickly. “Never had seen you before this moment.”

  “Dot’s good,” said Large. He picked up his glass and moved directly to a vacant table in a far corner.

  And while Large’s back was turned, Gatewood Lavin emerged from hiding and made a tip-toeing, hasty exit.

  * * * *

  Doc Bogannon drew a deep breath, took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. He tried to swallow, but in order to succeed comfortably found it necessary to wet his goozle with wine.

  He was polishing a glass when a man of medium sorts rose from a table and came forward, grinning. Doc had noticed him before, his conspicuousness due to an eyetooth which had been crowned with gold.

  “I’m Harrison Abendroth, Doc.”

  “Glad to know you,” said Bogie. He glanced unwittingly at Abendroth’s shiny, gold tooth, exposed by an habitual half-grin.

  Abendroth leaned toward Doc, amusement beaming on his round, unattractive mug. “Say, did you see that scared monkey skitter out of here!”

  Bogie arched an eyebrow. It was always amusing to hear a chimpanzee call his brother a monkey. “Do you refer to my friend Gatewood Lavin?”

  “Yeah, him,” said Abendroth.

  “Yes, I saw him leave,” said Bogie. “Right interesting fellow, this Gate Lavin. Does he happen to be a friend of yours?”

  “What! Me a friend of him? Never saw him before. Kind of cuckoo, wasn’t he?” was the quick reply.

  Bogie’s eyes narrowed from mild suspicion. He wasn’t sure whether Harrison Abendroth was acting a part, or was just plain stupid. At any rate, Bogie was inwardly warned to be careful. “I say, now, you don’t happen to be a Boston Abendroth, do you?”

  Abendroth squared himself and looked important. “Naw. But I been to Boston, though.” He shoved his upper lip upward with a dirty finger. “See that gold tooth?”

  “I had noticed it,” said Bogie. “What about it?”

  “I had that done in Boston.”

  Comment forming on Bogie’s tongue was arrested. A tall, lean newcomer had barged in and was striding toward them. “Winters!” exclaimed Bogie. “Your presence is both welcome and comforting. What will it be?”

  Winters leaned heavily against Bogie’s polished bar and half-turned for a quick survey of his guests. “Wine, Doc.”

  Bogie filled a glass with sparkling red liquid. “Winters, you wear a worried look; must have come across Alkali Flat?”

  Winters swung around and picked up his drink. “Doc, how can you always tell?”

  “You are a man who sees ghosts, and there’s no place hereabouts reputedly so haunted as Alkali Flat.”

  “Why I ever venture across it, is beyond me. Must be I’ve got a short memory. I never come that way, but what I run into something spooky.” Winters drained his glass and eyed, meanwhile, a dumb bumpkin who stared at him with owlish eyes and kept his upper lip lifted on one side of his nose. Winters glanced at Bogie, then at Owl-eyes. “What is his significance, Doc?”

  “A thousand pardons,” said Bogie. “Deputy Winters, meet my newest friend, Harrison Abendroth.”

  To avoid a handshake, Winters turned to Bogie. “Doc, I’ll bet you two drinks against one that back where your new friend came from, he was called Gold-tooth Harry.”

  Bogie leaned back against a shelf and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not a gambling man, Winters.”

  Harrison abendroth slapped his hand flat in front of Winters. “I’ll take that bet, and my word will have to decide it. I’ve never been called Gold-tooth Harry, here, there, or anywhere.”

  “My curiosity tortures me,” said Winters; “what do folks call you?”

  Abendroth drew back his shoulders. “Where I came from, sir, I was called Harry Albatross.”

  Bogie’s face looked like that of a horrified woman. “Dear me! An albatross is a bird of ill omen. Please, don’t advertise that name around here.”

  “And don’t venture onto Alkali Flat,” said Winters. He planked down a coin. “Pay off my debt, Doc, but excuse me from drinking with an albatross. Goodnight.”

  Abendroth, gold tooth shining, stared after Winters. “Smart deputy marshal! I guess that will teach him a lesson.”

  Bogie set up a glass. “Whiskey or wine?”

  “Which is most expensive?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “Then make it whiskey, by ganders!” Bogie brimmed a glass. “You know, Abendroth, Winters made it two against one.”

  Abendroth drained his glass. “Then, by ganders, fill her up again.”

  While Bogie poured a second time, he saw a huge dark form rise and come toward them in a bouncing, swinging stride.

  Abendroth was downing his second drink when Quimby Large, stinking and repulsive, put a long, vile finger on his shoulder. “Be your name Abendroth?” he rumbled hoarsely.

  Abendroth took his last swallow and put down his glass. “That it is, sir.” Again he squared his shoulders, and his face, gold tooth shining, cloaked itself in impassive dignity.

  “Then you is he,” said Quimby Large. “A man I sees outside is asking about you. He says to me, ‘Sir, if you sees a man name of Abendroth,’ says he, ‘why, now, you tell him I wants to see him.’ Them’s his words, as I live.”

  Abendroth’s eyes assumed alert and pleased eagerness. “Did he say anything ab
out being my uncle?”

  “Ay,” said Large, “I believe he did, for a fact.”

  “Uncle Blaine, was it?” Quimby Large reflected laboriously. “Why, say now, I does believe that was his name, for a fact.”

  “Uncle Blaine,” mused Abendroth, smiling broadly. “I didn’t expect to find him this side of Pangborn Gulch. I bet he’s got wind of me and come to meet me; where’s he at?”

  Quimby Large swung his arm in a gigantic gesture. “Come right with me, and I show you him in no time.”

  Bogie watched them leave, but his somber curiosity was dispelled by a call for whiskey from a group of poker-players, and a new, vigorous rush of business caused them to pass from his mind.

  * * * *

  Outside, Fate took hold of events with unexpected and terrifying swiftness. Harrison Abendroth, intoxicated, yet eager to find his Uncle Blaine, stepped ahead, peering to right and left. Quimby Large, unseen by Abendroth, drew a net from underneath his coat and with wild-animal quickness slipped it over Abendroth’s head, shoulders and body. A drawstring pull tightened it around him so securely he could hardly move a finger. Before he could cry out, Large, still working from behind, drew a gag into his mouth and tied it tight.

  “Ah,” said Large, “now we goes to find your Uncle Blaine.”

  Harry tried to scream, but only groaned softly. Without delay, Large caught him by a shoulder and his trousers and lifted him onto a horse at Bogannon’s hitchrail. Large mounted a second horse and, leading Abendroth’s, galloped southward onto Alkali Flat.

  * * * *

  An hour later, Abendroth lay by a small fire in one of those awesome caverns that were to be found along Alkali’s southwestern rim. Quimby Large and a third man kept him company, and this third man and Large studied a sheet of paper that had writing on it.

  “What it say, Shadrack Ruppel?” asked Large.

  Ruppel was a much shorter man than Large; but broad and beefy, and as unsavory and queer of eye as Quimby Large. Ruppel ran a finger along as he endeavored to read. “It is about one as was smothered to death; it wants one as was smothered.”