by Lon Williams
After two or three minutes of sweaty indecision, Winters crept to that same screechy door and slowly shoved it open. Simultaneously arose that mournful howl he’d heard two nights before.
“Ow-woooooo-woo!”
Winters’ right hand snapped down and his six-gun came up. For seconds he listened, made no further move. That chilling dog howl was repeated; but Winters decided it had no connection with him, even though it had scared him stiff. He wiped his face, stepped inside. Floorboards squeaked under his tread; a rat scurried; disagreeable odors hung like a cloud.
He waited again, listened, closed himself in and struck a match. Light disclosed oppressive scenes—warped table, rickety chairs, bottles with half-bumed candles in their mouths, cobwebs, scraps of food on unwashed plates. Winters lighted candles. Extended search revealed something yet more oppressive—a large coffee sack in a corner. As a sack it was grotesquely formed; it was its shape, and Winters’ certainty of its contents, that made it a gruesome thing.
Candle in hand, Winters lifted an edge of its mouth and peered in. Fetid odors struck his nostrils. Though what he saw was what he had expected to find, he was shocked. “Jake Creekland!” he gasped.
Shortly before, he had seen Jake Creekland’s murderers depart. What they looked like, he could not have guessed. Where they had gone, he did not undertake to surmise. Signs, however, indicated that they would return.
Winters sat down to wait. Waiting through long hours, he considered how he should proceed. He thought of extinguishing lights and waiting in black darkness; that corpse-haunted course he rejected at once as too distasteful. He considered waiting in another cottage, and bursting in upon them when they had returned; that course he dismissed as too risky. There were two of them, and he was not one to go gunning against odds.
His eyes rested upon Jake Creekland’s gunnysack shroud, and he had an idea. “What could be more surprising to those killers,” he thought, “than finding somebody alive where they’d left somebody dead?”
He lugged what remained of Jake Creekland outside, dumped those remains in back and returned with their late shroud. For practice, he got in and hunkered down—concealed himself easily.
He was there in darkness at midnight when voices again sounded, door hinges screeched, and dog howls again rose mournfully.
“What was that?” a strange voice inquired nervously.
“That’s only our dog,” another replied pleasantly.
Another, as agreeably, said, “He’s only our faithful watchdog.”
Footsteps scraped upon boards, a match was struck, candles lighted. “Say! This is no Indian museum. I’ve been tricked.”
“Ah, now, we would not trick him, would we, Brother Narrow?”
“Of course not, Brother Straight.”
“But you said you had Indian things here. I see none. I tell you—”
That indignant voice broke off suddenly. Iron had crashed upon bone; something fell heavily. Winters caught his breath. Here was murder. “Did you hit him hard, Brother Narrow?”
“I hit him quite hard, Brother Straight.”
“Shall we take his money now and divide it?” said Straight.
“I think we should do so,” said Narrow.
“Perhaps you should first put your strangler around his neck,” said Straight.
“Yes, I think that would be a wise precaution,” agreed Narrow.
Through light spaces between threads in his coffee sack, Winters glimpsed two moving forms. Sounds degenerated into search of pockets and later into clinks of coins upon wood. “A right good yield, wouldn’t you say, Brother Narrow?”
“Indeed, yes, Brother Straight. When have we done better?”
There were again sounds of money being handled, and then Straight said, “Brother Narrow, we have yet one body undisposed of.”
“And now we have two bodies to be disposed of,” said Narrow.
“Would it exert you too much, if we disposed of one of them now?”
“Is there room in our old dug-well for one ”
“I think there is room for one more.”
“Then let us proceed.”
As footsteps scraped toward him, Winters, cocked six-gun in hand, threw off his coffee-sack shroud, and rose to his knees. “There’ll be room for two more,” said he, leveling his gun at one of them, “unless you put your hands up pronto.”
Straight and Narrow looked at each other, amazement on their pleasant countenances. “Brother Narrow, one of our corpses has come back to life.”
“Then,” said Narrow, “we shall have to kill him again.”
They were quicker than Winters had anticipated; guns came from underarm holsters in lightning sweeps. Winters put his first slug through Straight’s heart. He got one through his own hair before he could finish Narrow. Even then, he had to shoot twice where once should have been enough.
Winters got to his feet, holstered his smoking gun, stared at his victims. Queer ducks, eh? When did they come any queerer?
* * * *
In his saloon, Doc Bogannon sat alone at a table and suffered aches of conscience. He had not been as helpful to his good friend Winters as he should have been. Jake Creekland had left Bogannon’s saloon with a couple of loonies who called themselves Straight and Narrow Gate. There had been another, also, two nights past. One J. Watt Wooten, too, had gone off with Straight and Narrow, and Wooten had not come back. In that particular, Doc felt thoroughly grateful, even though those loonies were wolves in lambskins. Yet he should have remembered better; he should have warned Winters against them.
Bogie’s spirits lifted when hoof-beats pounded outside, followed soon by an inward swing of his batwings. “Winters!”
Bogie got up and hurried to fetch glasses and wine.
They sat down together, and Bogie filled two glasses.
“It’s past midnight, Doc,” said Winters, lifting his glass with tight, but steady fingers. “How come you don’t go home?”
Bogie wiped his great forehead. “Winters, I figured you might drop by.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, Winters. My conscience was hurting me. After you’d been here early, inquiring about Jake Creekland, I should have remembered in time to tell you. I’m mighty sorry, too. No harm has been done, I’m glad to see, though I’ve been feeling worse than spoiled oysters.”
Winters arched his dark brows. “What’s on your mind, Doc?”
“Winters, do you remember a dude named J. Watt Wooten?”
“Vaguely, yes.”
“Well, two loonies tolled him off, to some rather final sort of place, I suspect. From my viewpoint, it was good riddance. But they also tolled Jake Creekland off, and tonight another. I’m afraid my gratitude for riddance of Wooten crippled my memory; I apologize, and trust you’ll forgive me. But you should be careful of those loonies, Winters. I’m afraid they’re dangerous. They call themselves Straight Gate and Narrow Gate.”
Winters held his glass to be refilled. “Was that Watt Wooten feller an enemy of yours, Doc?”
Bogie nodded. “Don’t hold it against me too much, but he was.” There was a feelingless satisfaction in Bogie’s voice that astonished his friend.
Winters fingered his mustache thoughtfully. Somewhere in his wanderings he’d heard mention of some principle called balance of nature. Maybe there was a place and a use for lawless dogs, after all. At least they ate one another.
MARK OF THE WAMPUS CAT
Real Western Stories, October, 1954
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters reined up in somber, rugged mountain country fifteen miles southeast of Forlorn Gap and considered which of two shadowy, forbidding routes to take on his night ride home. Easier going called for a right-hand cut-back to Cracked Kettle Creek, thence northward to Brazerville Road. A shorter, but more awesome route, lay westward by way of Little Dog Creek, thence through eerie Tallyho Canyon to Alkali Flat.
Out of consideration for his horse, he defied intuitive warning and turned west. Almost immediat
ely he began to hear whisperings and to be tormented by a feeling that he was not traveling alone. Cannon Ball likewise sensed strangeness. When his steel shoes struck hard rocks, they gave out flinty sounds that echoed from cliffs like small bells. His body trembled. It was that kind of fear in him that did not explode into violent action, but gripped him in helpless submission, carried him along in strong arms of cold terror.
Winters had been on a two-day search for a wanted monkey named Jenks Cahern, thought by Marshal Hugo Landers of Brazerville to be hiding in this wild canyon country that d rolled darkly northeastward from Rocky Point. Plutonia it was called by old timers, Winters now remembered; by reputation it was a land of ghosts. Winters had not overtaken his wanted monkey, but he had worn himself out in trying to; now, as darkness drew around him like a black fog, his usual alertness and resistance to fear melted away. Extreme weariness produced increasing physical numbness, mental indifference and spiritual resignation. That same unresisting fear he had recognized in Cannon Ball settled upon him. He moved not of his own volition, but in a strange embrace to whatever destiny his night journey had in store for him.
An hour after dark, Winters reached Little Dog and headed upstream. Aside from a prospective starlight ride across Alkali Flat, this route promised to take him through other regions of undesirable reputation, by points believed to be haunted. One of those points lay on Little Dog Creek, where trapper Bob Hunter had lived. Hunter, known in legend as Lost Robert, had been killed, so it was told, by a war party of northern Cheyennes. At any rate, his cabin had been burned, and a scalped, mutilated body had been found in Little Dog.
Winters, though resigned to fate, felt sweaty and wiped his face with his left sleeve. Cannon Ball, too, began to manifest uneasiness, to hesitate while aggravated tremors shook him. Then, at a turn, he half-squatted, and Winters, from long habit rather than design, snapped his gun-hand down.
Where Bob Hunter’s cabin had stood, among its very ruins indeed, a man sat by a campfire. At first Winters thought he’d found his wanted monkey. His approach, accordingly, was cautious. But he’d been mistaken. An unperturbed stranger of small stature sat upon a stone and quietly prepared his evening meal.
He looked up, and his bearded, outdoor face rippled into an expression of pleasure. “Howdy, Winters,” he said.
Cannon Ball stopped again. His body quaked.
Winters was surprised to hear his own name spoken so familiarly. He said, dry-lipped, “Howdy, stranger.”
“No stranger, Winters. I’m plain Bob Hunter, better known hereabouts, I reckon, as Lost Robert.”
Winters grabbed his hat which, inexplicably, had shifted suddenly. He swallowed tightly. “You can’t be Bob Hunter; he was murdered by Injuns, many years ago.”
“Heap of folks thought so,” returned Lost Robert. “But you can’t believe half what you hear, sometimes even less of what you see.”
Lost Robert had meat broiling on a spit, a coffee pot steaming nearby. Thin, browned hoecake lay in cut, crisp-looking pieces on a flat rock.
Winters said fearfully, “Maybe what I see is a ghost. A dead body sure was pulled out of Little Dog Creek, and nobody in this country ever saw you again from that day to this. Where’ve you been hiding?”
“Round here, mostly,” said Lost Robert. “But that’s no odds. I figure you wouldn’t think this coffee is ghost brew, Winters. Light and have a swaller.”
Winters considered that invitation suspiciously. Those old mountain trappers had reputations for craft as well as gun-slinging. Winters eyed this one a long time before he yielded to demands of wilderness hospitality. He swung down. “Can’t ordinarily refuse coffee; I reckon it wouldn’t be exactly polite to refuse this time.”
As if by slight-of-hand, Lost Robert produced two tin cups. “Always carry an extra,” he explained upon seeing Winters’ astonished look. “Feller never knows when he’ll have company.” He filled a cup and passed it up to Winters.
It was hot; its fragrance enchanting. Winters blew on it, was fascinated when its surface quivered and tiny liquid circles gave out vaguely whispered sounds. He blew again, and vapors whirled upward, curled themselves into figures of shifting grace and symmetry. Winters thought he heard music. Then, shrugging off increasing enchantment, he glanced down, a sudden cold dread in his veins.
But Lost Robert had poured for himself and was sipping contentedly. He cast a hurt glance at his guest. “Don’t you like it, Winters?”
Embarrassed by that veiled accusation of ingratitude, Winters drank. “Right tasty,” he said, moved to unnatural enthusiasm. In fact, he liked it so well that he drained his cup. Stimulation raced in his blood, gave him strength and lightness of spirit.
“Sit down, Winters,” Lost Robert urged, queer rings of satisfaction and triumph in his words. “Plenty of grub here for both of us. I was expecting company; premonition, I reckon you’d call it.”
Winters still held a measure of subconscious caution. He cast about to make sure Lost Robert had no gun within reach. He sat down then. “Am right hungry,” he said gratefully. Within seconds he chewed delicious cornbread and tender roast, washed them down from a refilled cup. Rapidly he became a friendly soul; a long-lost neighborly feeling was recreated within him. “Never tasted coffee like this before,” he declared cordially. “You must know some magic, Hunter.”
Lost Robert tossed twinkling glances at Winters. “Magic? Well, no. I reckon it’s just that we all put on our best when expecting company.” When bread, roast and coffee had disappeared, Lost Robert took on a worried expression. In unexplained haste, he collected his few belongings. “Sorry to rush you off, Winters, but I’ve got to push along. Just stopped here for old-time’s sake.”
Winters got up, grateful for rest and food. “I thank-ee for invitin’ me to share with you. Do as much for you sometime.” With amazing quickness and efficiency, Lost Robert finished his work, slung his pack upon his small shoulders and started off. “Good luck, Winters. Remember old Bob Hunter to any of his friends you see.”
* * * *
Winters swung aboard Cannon Ball. In doing so, he lost sight of his departing host. Seconds later, he turned in his rocking saddle and looked back.
Lost Robert had disappeared. Where he had been, a fire still burned. Suddenly that fire was caught by wind into leaping flames. From surrounding darkness, Indians emerged into its light, naked, painted savages who circled, danced, contorted themselves, and yelled. Echoes, flung back from mountain walls, produced an illusion of limitless ghosts.
Winters again tightened his hat. It was no wonder, he thought, that Lost Robert had been in such hurry to depart. Cannon Ball moved on gingerly, his body trembling anew. Winters thought of turning back, for subtle warning crept into his consciousness, but Lost Robert’s campfire and howling Indians had become a barrier against retreat. He pressed on, and Cannon Ball, hours before balky and mean, moved with a steadfastness and obedience not at all characteristic of him in weird surroundings.
Theirs was a winding trail, hemmed by ponderous cliffs and jagged patterns of sky and stars. Disquietude in Winters’ blood merged into loneliness. Never before had his nocturnal journeyings carried him into such overpowering immensity and solitude. Now that Indians and campfire were far behind, oppressive stillness hovered with a closeness that a man could almost touch.
Out of that stillness came a voice, unfamiliar, startling and clear. “Howdy, there, Winters.” A man came riding toward him from a dark cove. “If you don’t mind, Winters, we shall ride together.”
Cannon Ball had quivered and slowed to a walk. Winters’ hand did not snap to his sixgun, for there’d been such disarming friendliness in that unexpected voice that he felt no alarm, but only an enlivened dread.
“Howdy, stranger,” he said in a voice that sounded unlike his own.
“No stranger, Winters. I’m quite an old stick in these parts. You ought to know Colyer Gunstock. Collie Gunstock, to my close friends.”
A man of excellent proportio
ns, superbly mounted, drew alongside Cannon Ball.
“Gunstock?” said Winters, darkly puzzled.
“Of course,” said his companion. “I’m quite a legend in your country. Colyer Gunstock, English hunter. Any man who chased buffalo on your Western plains could tell you much about me.”
Winters made a quarter-turn in his saddle. “Colyer Gunstock? No, no. You can’t be Gunstock; he was tramped to rags long since by stampeding buffalo.”
Gunstock nodded. “In a manner of speaking, yes. But we shall not haggle over technicalities. You’ve chosen an excellent time to be passing this way, Winters. This is carnival night.”
“Carnival night?”
“That’s what I said.”
* * * *
Winters knew about carnivals. He’d seen them when he was a button on Trinity River, down in Texas. Tents, shows, monkeys, rope-walkers, gyp-joints, lemonade, fancy clothes, freaks, monstrosities. But a carnival here?
Not in these desolate mountains!
Another thing puzzled Winters. Lost Robert and Collie Gunstock had called him by name, though he’d never before seen either of them. He sleeved his face. He pinched himself to make certain his body still reacted as live, human flesh.
Gunstock was a talkative fellow. He entertained Winters with accounts of buffalo hunts in Dakota and Kansas, riding to hounds in England, lion-shooting in Africa, skirmishes with savages in various jungles.
They came to a fork in their trail, one that led north, one west. Winters held back, hoping Gunstock would make a choice and ride on. But Gunstock held back, too. He waited for Winters to choose, and when Winters, frustrated and sweaty, headed west, Gunstock drifted easily along at his side.
Almost immediately a voice rang clear from atop a great cliff and clanged away into infinity.
“Tallyho-o!” Echoes or answering voices carried on so distantly that stars themselves seemed to be crying “tallyho-o”.