by Lon Williams
Bogannon had reached up to extinguish his bar light when his batwings swung in.
“Winters!”
Deputy Winters strode forward. “Wine, Doc, and don’t bother about a table; I’ll drink standing up”
Bogie’s eyes spread with sudden and extraordinary curiosity. “Winters, what in all horny is that queer thing you’re lugging under your arm?”
Winters lifted that queer thing and stood it on Bogie’s bar. “It’s a present for you, Doc.”
Doc stared. “Winters, what is it, and where did you get it?”
“It’s a totem post,” said Winters. “But where I got it, I don’t know; you’d better ask Cannon Ball.”
Bogie reached for bottle and glasses. He poured wine.
“Winters,” said Doc nervously, “don’t tell me you’ve had a run-in with ghosts. I don’t believe in ghosts; I don’t believe in ’em, I tell you.”
Winters downed his wine and backhanded his mustache. “Doc,” he said soberly, “there was a time when I didn’t believe in ghosts myself.”
LONG LIVE THE KING
Real Western Stories, April 1955
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters labored over his crude office table, which served as both desk and general work bench. He was reading his mail—one rambling letter in longhand from Marshal Hugo Landers at Brazerville. Dear Winters. That much he easily deciphered, mainly because he was familiar with his own name. Hugo’s descriptions of wanted monkeys were grossly inadequate, frequently impossible. He must have written this particular letter while riding horseback, Winters thought. Y et there was one description, as best Winters could make it out, that for being much in little took first prize. This ape is a grand showoff who calls himself king. Says he is— Here was what puzzled Lee. That king’s name! Kiff-Wiff.
Deputy Winters scratched his head of dark curly hair. In his opinion there couldn’t be any such name as Kiff-Wiff; yet there it was. Hugo’s letter went on. King Kiff-Wiff has one crony. Calls him his mighty man of valor. Name is— Winters scratched his head again. Name is Prince Shakafut. Winters shook his head, but read on. Kiff is worth one thousand smackers, dead or alive. But be careful, or you’ll be dead, and he alive. Good shooting. Hugo Landers, Marshal.
Winters drew his right hand across his mustache. He wanted no truck with kings; from what he’d heard, kings cut men’s heads off. He got up, went out and took quick glances up and down Forlorn Gap’s empty, dusty main street. Thoughts of Kiff-Wiff made him thankful he had an arrest warrant for one Dolphus Dewberry, described as a sallow, sharp-nosed, mild-mannered counterfeiter believed to be hiding at Monte Gaut’s ranch on Cracked Kettle Creek short-cut. Winters mounted his big, rangy horse Cannon Ball and rode east, willing, but not eager, to find his man.
He was ten miles out and two miles off Brazerville Road when, on a steeply ascending trail in a gorge, Cannon Ball snorted, stood on his hind feet and turned half-around.
A voice came screaming down upon them. “Yee-hoo!” It was hard, high-pitched. It echoed, re-echoed. Plunging down through those echoes came an unearthly beast, a “Woof!” exploding from it with every leap, on its back a yelling, strangely-attired rider.
Winters got one good look, but from then on his whole attention was concerned with holding onto his horse, while Cannon Ball, bridle bit clamped in his teeth, headed elsewhere. In all of his riding, Winters had never learned to ride at high speed downhill without having his liver up-anchored and his temper whipped to fury. But this time he was in a mood to go along with his frightened horse, jolts be hanged.
Cannon Ball hove to on Brazerville Road. He snorted and stamped, his sides heaved. Winters wiped sweat. Now he could think coherently enough to define what he had seen; it was some blasted heathen on a nossy-horse.
Already it was mid-afternoon. Another side trip was an alternative on his program. He’d make that trip, then go home and get an early start for Monte Gaut’s next morning. Not that he wanted to get any kind of start toward Gaut’s ranch again, but arrest warrants were mandates. No matter how scared he might be, he’d go after his man. But, he resolved, I don’t have to go today.
He turned east, then headed north toward Big Buffler Creek, hideout of a lonesome polecat wanted for felonious assault on a deputy marshal at Pinhook Biggin’s. He’d be late getting home, but a favorable moment for catching polecats was at dusk, or shortly after.
* * * *
In Forlorn Gap a busy evening at Bogannon’s saloon dwindled toward midnight stillness. Though a semi-ghost town, Forlorn Gap was a crossroads place and had its full quota of travelers. Doc Bogannon, saloon owner and barkeep, watched them come and go, his a friendly, understanding spirit. Wayfarers who stopped overnight at Goodlett Hotel; stagecoach passengers who ran in for whiskey and ran right out again; horse-backers who came and went at leisure—all these and more had paid their legal-tender tributes to Doc and drifted on, some of them men of silence, some quarrelsome, many unmistakably criminal. But they were all of a common breed to Doc Bogannon, who was at heart a philosopher. Except for queer ones who drifted in, they were all alike forgotten when they were gone.
One of those queer characters remained with Doc as midnight drew near. He was a small, coldly-smiling redhead with pointed face who wore two guns in side-holsters and a long knife in his belt. A queer, self-satisfied look in his eye suggested he was a man with a delusion. That suggestion soon materialized into fact. He laid an elbow on Bogie’s bar and smiled a coldly superior smile. “You and me’s about two of a size, ain’t we, Bogannon?”
Doc was big and broad-shouldered, almost twice this stranger’s size. He had dark, thick hair, broad forehead, a fine intellectual face. He surveyed his questioner with cordial feeling tinctured by vague misgivings. “Yes, stranger,” he drawled with mock seriousness, “I’d say that is true. Two of a size, physically.”
Doc’s guest glanced about warily, then fixed Doc with a frigid, haughty stare. “You put heaps of emphasis on that last word, Bogannon; why so?” Doc found glasses to polish. With his answer he arched one eyebrow. “Now, stranger, emphasis is always one key to thought. Physically you and I are about of a size. Mentally? Well, sir, in that respect you are a veritable giant, compared to me. I wonder what your name is?”
Swells of pride had attended receipt of Doc’s compliment; but no friendliness. “You can quit wondering, Bogannon. I am Andrew Barstow. Some call me Red Barstow; others, Two-gun Bart. I’ve been knowed as Ace of Diamonds, too, as well as Dead-shot Andy. So, take your choice.” Barstow lifted his chin arrogantly.
This lunatic’s delusion, thought Doc, related to more than physique. It was general. Barstow regarded himself as a superior being in every way.
Bogie glanced under his bar at a loaded six-gun, something he had never had to use. His feeling now, however, was one of sharp uneasiness; consequently sight of that thunder-gun was comforting. But being slow to anger had so far been his best defense. He studied Barstow cautiously. “An array of powerful names,” he declared, his voice vigorous with admiration. “But Ace of Diamonds, I’d say, fits you best, Mr. Barstow.”
Barstow nodded unsmiling agreement. “I wonder why you say that, Bogannon?”
Doc puckered his lips, frowned. “Well, sir, Ace of Diamonds suggests clean-cut thought. Hard. Keen. It suggests red blood, too, shrewdness, strong character.”
Barstow was tight with vanity. Yet he swelled a bit more. “Interesting, Bogannon; you’re a man of sense.”
Bogie had an inspiration, not an uncommon one, though. He said offhandedly, “You don’t happen to be a Boston Barstow, do you, Mr. Barstow?”
Ace of Diamonds leaned closer to Bogie. “It happens I ain’t; I’m from California.”
Bogannon shook his head deprecatingly. “That’s bad.”
“Is, eh?”
“Yes,” Bogie said profoundly. “Doesn’t speak well at all. Men just don’t leave California, unless they have to.”
Barstow’s face showed menace. “Men don’t talk disrespectful
to me, Bogannon. Why did you insinuate I might be from Boston?”
Bogie turned to put up a glass. His fingers trembled, but his poise was in good shape when he faced his disagreeable guest again. “Boston?” he mused. “Well, there’s something about Boston that gives character to men. Distinction. Culture. Self-confidence. Courage. You have all of that, Barstow.”
Barstow’s anger receded. He stood four-square and nodded his approval. For one swift moment, he looked sane. “You know, Bogannon, I’ve suddenly took a liking to you. Maybe I won’t shoot you, after all. For some time there, I meant to do just that. You see, I’m looking for some place to go into business, one where there won’t be too much competition. This looks like my camping ground; want to sell out?”
Bogie glanced again at his six-gun, but did so as part of his train of thought. “We-ell,” he said slowly, “I’d consider it, since you choose that manner of putting me out of business, in preference to murdering me. What do you offer?”
“Fifty dollars.”
Bogie was shocked. “For my building, stock of goods, goodwill?”
“Everything, sir.”
“Why, I’ve got five thousand dollars of stock alone.”
Red Barstow backed two steps and let his hands hang close to his guns. His eyes resumed their odd stare. “People usually accept my offer, and no questions asked. Them as ask questions—”
He didn’t finish. Bogie’s batwings swung inward, and a lean, tall, unsmiling officer wearing a deputy marshal’s badge strode in.
“Winters!” exclaimed Bogannon. “Come in, Winters.” Under his breath he said, Am I glad to see you!
Winters strode forward and snapped down a coin. “Wine, Doc.”
“Wine it is,” said Doc, excited. “Been having any trouble, Winters?”
“Nothing unusual,” said Winters. He watched his glass fill, picked it up, took one swig. He jerked his head toward Ace of Diamonds. “Who’s he, Doc?”
“My apology,” said Bogie. He set his wine bottle back. “Winters, meet my estimable friend, Andrew Barstow, also known as Ace of Diamonds, Red Barstow, Dead-eye Andy, and Two-gun Bart.” Mentally Winters reviewed every redhead reward poster he had ever seen; none bore resemblance to Barstow. He said casually, “You never was called king of anything, I reckon?”
Scare leaped into Barstow’s countenance. Then he said in a slow monotone, “No, mister, I never was called king of anything.” His feet were distanced solidly; his sneering lips disclosed sound, white teeth.
Bogannon said nervously, “Winters is our deputy marshal. Fine officer, too.”
“Yeah,” said Two-gun Bart. “I likes deputy marshals.”
“Fine!” exclaimed Bogie.
“Yeah,” said Two-gun. “I likes ’em so well, I eats ’em for breakfast.”
Winters drained his glass, put it down and turned his back to Bogannon. “That reminds me of a feller who lived down on Trinity River, when I was a button in Texas. Name was Willie Spingler. Awful big eater, Willie was. Proud of it, too. Made a bet he could eat more boiled eggs than any man in Texas. To prove it, he et three dozen at one setting-down.”
“Naw!” drawled Bogie. He drew his mouth corners down and lifted his eyebrows at Barstow. “Think of that!”
“Only drawback was,” Winters said sorrowfully, “Willie ain’t seen a well minute from that day to this.”
“It’s no surprise,” solemnly declared Bogie. “Moral of that is,” said Winters, tossing Barstow an indifferent glance, “a man ought to watch what he eats.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” said Bogie. “More wine, Winters?”
Winters put down another coin. “No, Doc, but you can pour one for your man-eating friend. Goodnight.”
“But, Winters—”
“Be seeing you, Doc,” Winters flung back as he left.
Bogie’s spirits drooped. With Winters present he’d felt safe. Now he was alone with Two-gun Bart again.
He eyed Two-gun with hopeful inspiration. “Since getting a look at our deputy marshal, maybe you don’t want to set up in Forlorn Gap?”
Barstow inflated himself with renewed arrogance. “If you think I’m scared of your frost-bit, sun-shriveled—”
Barstow stopped suddenly. Bogie’s batwings had swung inward again. Just inside stood a slender, kingly-looking stranger in purple, gold-braided jacket, blue trousers, sharp-toed shoes, and a red head-gear that could have been inspired only from an ancient-history book. It was a tight-fitting cap with a tail that rose behind, curled up and forward and ended with a golden plume.
For seconds this haughty newcomer stood with searching, glittering eyes, then, “Bow down!” he shouted imperiously.
Those fierce eyes moved observantly, accompanied by approving nods as an imaginary multitude of people prostrated themselves.
Doc Bogannon did obeisance by bowing his head and keeping still and quiet.
“Ah,” breathed this royal visitor. “My obedient subjects. My obsequious slaves? My—” Then his gaze rested upon Dead-eye Andy Barstow, who stood frozen with terror. His voice bore intimations of doom. “Churl! Bondman! Peasant! Why dost thou not bow down before King Kiff-Wiff?”
Barstow was pale, but rebellious. “I bow down to no man.”
His majesty, King Kiff-Wiff, eyed Barstow with limitless scorn. “So thou wilt not bow down to mighty King Kiff-Wiff?”
Barstow trembled. He did not speak.
Kiff-Wiff s ferocity transposed itself into feigned pleasure. “Ah, then thou must be a king thyself at last.”
Kiff-Wiff advanced, walked around Barstow, sized him up, faced him and lifted his royal hand in salute. “A king, indeed; be my liege man and I shall give thee a kingdom.”
Barstow only stared, motionless.
Kiff-Wiff faced Bogannon.
Bogie bowed low. “Your majesty.”
Kiff-Wiff was delighted. From his fine raiment he produced a shining old medallion. He said to Bogie, “By what designation art thou known, my obedient servant?”
“May it please your majesty,” said Bogie with appropriate gravity, “your humble and obedient servant is known as Doc Bogannon.”
Kiff-Wiff drew himself up regally. “Sirrah Bogannon, as a token of thy loyalty and obedience, I shall pin this medal of gold upon myself. When hereafter thou art privileged to look upon it, thou canst say to thyself, His majesty, King Kiff-Wiff, weareth that golden medallion by reason of my great fidelity. Let it be a reminder to my descendants forever. ”
Kiff-Wiff pinned on his medal and strode grandly back and forth. “I have an incredible history,” he said musingly. “My first appearance upon earth was as Cheops, pyramid-builder of Egypt. As Cheops I am familiarly known. But that was not my true name. I was Hwfw, erroneously called Khufu. Properly, I am Kiff-Wiff.” He turned suddenly upon Bogannon. Dost thou believe what I am saying?”
“Verily, I believe,” said Bogannon.
Kiff-Wiff stared at Barstow. “Being king yourself now, thou dost believe, of course?”
Two-gun merely stared; it was certain that he didn’t know what he believed.
Kiff-Wiff resumed his promenade. Many times and under many names have I reappeared upon earth. I was Tamerlane, who built pyramids not of stone, but of human heads; I was Nero, who fed children to lions and burned Rome; I was Jenghiz, conqueror of Asia and slayer of millions. Ah, what glorious seas of blood hath risen where I trod!”
Bogannon listened, scared witless, until a squeak interrupted his trance. His doors swung and a huge creature who resembled a man walked slowly in. This one was clothed in tight-fitting scarlet. A broadsword hung at his side. He bowed toward Kiff-Wiff. “My exalted and renowned master, what is thy will?”
“Come forward,” Kiff-Wiff commanded. “This,” he explained, facing Bogannon, “is Prince Shakafut, my mighty man of valor.”
Bogie felt his eyes bugging. Shakafut was a giant, as muscular as a lion. “Pleasure to meet you,” Bogie managed to squeak out.
“And here,
” said Kiff-Wiff, facing Dead-eye Andy, “standeth King Nobow. His royalty is made manifest by his refusal to bow down before mighty King Kiff-Wiff.”
Shakafut nodded, his ugly face a deadpan. He walked slowly to one side of Andy Barstow, who turned and stared like a cornered rodent about to be swallowed by a snake. Shakafut continued, slowly circling. Barstow as slowly turned.
Suddenly Kiff-Wiff shouted, “To arms!” Barstow whirled in panic, hands slapping at guns; but Shakafut had him from behind, had his arms pinned to his sides. Kiff-Wiff disarmed him, back-roped his hands.
Kiff-Wiff then squared himself before Bogannon. “Sirrah, let this be known abroad, from Pontus to Ethiopia, from Nile to Indus. Those who do not bow down before great Kiff-Wiff shall die.” He turned and prodded Barstow with Two-gun’s own knife. “Out, varlet!”
Barstow marched. He glanced, terrified, at Doc. “Call that deputy marshal. Please! Please!”
Kiff-Wiff prodded deeper. “Avast, thou churl!” Bogie’s hand went to his six-gun. He could have shot Kiff-Wiff and Shakafut and rescued Barstow; but he remembered that dirty deal Barstow meant to hand him. Bogie stayed his charitable impulse.
But he did venture outside and look. Shakafut lifted Barstow onto a horse, then mounted another.
From a nearby alley emerged Kiff-Wiff. He was riding an enormous black hog, as big a boar as Bogie had ever seen. Its tusks glistened by moonlight. Sighting Shakafut and Barstow’s horses, it stopped, bowed its back, grunted, then leaped forward.
“Woof!” it said. With every leap, “Woof!”
Those horses sensed peril. One whinnied and reared. Both then ran for their lives. Their alternative was having their bellies ripped open.
Bogie went back inside, poured himself a stiff drink and wiped his face. He wasn’t sure whether he’d witnessed an event, or had gone to sleep and experienced a nightmare, or had gone stark crazy. It was a nightmare, he concluded with charity to himself. Nothing like that could be real.
He closed up and started home. He dreamed now of more pleasant things, in particular of his amorous half-breed Shoshone wife, who’d be waiting with hot stew, bread, coffee, and gentle, hungry arms.