by Lon Williams
Where Blithe had formed a crystal pool, there became an emptiness, attended by gurgling sounds that receded away into cavernous darkness.
“Alas, Winters, what you have done is most special, indeed,” moaned Melos. “You have lifted from me fetters imposed by Zeus himself. That, in Olympian eyes, is unforgivable. You must flee for your life. Blithe, I fear, will return—not as a pool of clear water, but as something of unimaginable terror. Flee, I beg you.”
“You could be right about that,” said Winters. “But look there, Melos.”
Melos turned quickly and gave a glad cry. A short distance away stood a white doe, slender and of such animal grace as Winters had never before seen. Melos ran, leaping, and the two met in an exhibition of love and incredible transformation. It was not a doe that Melos embraced, but a young woman of great beauty.
Ina and her two companions had returned with their cups of water.
“Clymente,” Ina sighed.
“Now,” said Leta, “he will not thirst again.” Electa turned her cup and slowly spilled its contents. “We, too, are free. But we must leave this spot hurriedly; so angry will be mighty Zeus that Sheron will turn to boiling mud, and Blithe will become a fountain of scalding water and steam. All of this vast meadow will become a forbidding place, like unto nothing this side of Hades.”
“Another thing,” said Winters. “You’d better get clean out of these mountains; they’re full of spooks.”
“Spooks?” said Leta.
“That’s what I said.”
“I don’t understand.”
Winters turned to Cannon Ball and swung up. “If you don’t understand what a spook is, it’s beyond me to tell you.”
“Wait,” cried Electa. “You must not ride away believing us to be ungrateful. Here. This cup is all I have; I give it to you for remembrance. It is of amethyst. Drink your wine from it and, though your drink will never blind your eyes or disturb your mind, it will taste like nectar from Elysian fields.”
“Now, look here,” Winters protested, “you don’t owe me nothing. If I’ve been any help, I was only too glad to do it.”
“Do not refuse this one last request,” begged Electa.
“Well, if it’s a matter of principle with you, all right,” said Winters. He accepted her gift and made room for it in his saddlebags.
“But wait,” cried Leta. “My cup likewise is yours. It is of silver; so long as you keep it, you will receive good gifts.”
“I’ve quit arguing,” said Winters. He accepted Leta’s present.
“And mine,” said Ina, her emerald eyes bright and entrancing. “This is a golden cup. With this as yours, you will always be generous. With it you will never want; for with every gift that you give will be planted seeds of love, and in return you will be many times blessed.”
“Thanks, all of you.” Winters stored their presents and gathered Cannon Ball’s reins. A great longing to stay was upon him. He looked down at Ina, at Leta, at Electa. He thought how near heaven a man would be if all women were as beautiful as these.
As if they’d read his thoughts, they smiled and nodded gently.
“Farewell,” they said.
From a mountain crag far away, a voice called urgently. They looked, saw Melos, and Clymente beckoning urgently. In a moment Winters was left alone.
He had no idea where he was. But Cannon Ball would know. A horse had more sense about some things than a man had. Winters kneed him gently. “All right, horse, let’s go home.”
What began as an easy lope soon changed. Coming from behind him, Winters heard an unearthly blub-blub. Looking back, he saw a great pond of mud. From it rose tremendous bubbles and yellow vapor. Then where Blithe had been, a thunderous roar set in, soon to be followed by a gush of water and steam that rose hundreds of feet and spread as a seething white cloud.
“Horse, get out of here,” cried Winters.
* * * *
In Forlorn Gap, evening lamps had glowed for a while, then most of them had been darkened. Doc Bogannon’s customers had come and gone. He had reached up to extinguish his bar light, when his batwings swung in.
“Winters!” he exclaimed in pleased surprise. “Come in, Winters.”
Heavy saddlebags in hand, Winters strode to a table and sat down. “Wine, Doc, and two glasses.”
“Two it is, Winters,” responded Bogie. He came around, sat opposite Winters and poured wine. He stared at his guest. “Pardon me, Winters, but you look as if you’ve been through something. That blood on your face—you shot?”
Winters felt of his chin and discovered that blood had caked on its left side and on his neck. “No, Doc, I’m not shot. My recollection’s sort of foggy, but I think I was struck by something like a whip.”
“Something like, eh?” Bogie sipped his wine, then asked with unusual concern, “Winters, my interest for once is more than casual, but did you overtake Adfield and Hargis?”
“That’s a way of putting it, Doc. What actually happened was, they overtook me; but they’re both dead, if that’s what you wanted to find out.”
Bogie took a folder from inside his coat and removed a portion of its contents. He counted down one hundred dollars. “A token of my appreciation, Winters.” He shoved it across. “Those two gents robbed me of two hundred dollars when they made that early morning call on me.”
Winters shoved his money back. He reached down, opened one side of his saddlebags, lifted a goatskin bag of coins and shoved it to Bogie. “Your two hundred, Doc; those bozos hadn’t been nowhere to spend it.” He reached down again, this time brought up a new six-gun, its buckhorn handles inlaid with gold. “Hargis sent that to you, Doc. A token of his regrets.”
Bogie’s eyes widened. He received his gift and admired it with a layman’s respect for a true craftsman. “Winters, I’m not ordinarily a lover of guns, but this one really takes my eye.”
Winters reached down a third time. This time he gave a start. In his second saddle-pocket he espied three cups—silver, gold and amethyst. He arrayed them before Bogie’s astonished gaze. “What do you think of those, Doc?”
Bogie was subdued with awe. “I can’t believe what I see. Where could Hargis and Adfield have found such priceless things as those ancient libation cups? Winters, only in temples of Olympian Greece were their like ever seen.”
“You guessed wrong, Doc. Adfield and Hargis never saw these. Three lovelies who carried water in them from a spring called Sheron gave them to me. Tokens of their appreciation.”
THE STRANGE PIPER
Real Western Stories, December 1956
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters lingered with his wife longer than usual, debated with himself whether to leave her at all. She had come out of their cottage to say goodbye at their customary parting place, between back door and corral; but instead of her habitual cheerfulness she showed worry and uneasiness, paid more attention to his great horse Cannon Ball than to Winters himself.
“Lee,” she said wistfully, “he could bring you home in a hurry, couldn’t he? That is, if he needed to.”
“He’s a good horse,” Winters replied, puzzled. “Of course I’m not scared,” Myra continued. “It’s just that—well, you know how you feel after bad dreams. Not that I’ve had especially disturbing dreams of late, but last night…”
“What about last night?”
She looked at him queerly. “Last night I heard music.”
“Music? What kind?”
“I don’t know. It was different, somehow, from anything I’d heard before. It wasn’t a flute or fife, but something like both. Didn’t you hear it?”
“No, Myra.”
She smiled then, assumed a cheerfulness patently forced. “I guess it was only something I dreamed. Don’t worry about it; I’ll be all right.”
He kissed her cheek and mounted his horse. “You’ll be careful, won’t you? Keep your gun handy?”
“Yes, Lee. And if it’s night when you get home, I’ll make sure it’s you before I unlock any door
s.” He rode off, as disturbed as she. But they were not alone in being uneasy; this whole semi-ghost town of Forlorn Gap was uneasy.
At Pepper Neal’s store several gold-diggers had congregated.
“Winters, it’s a good thing you’ve come along,” declared big Moss Tyner, who had a claim in Fudge Around Gulch. “There’s been another murder.”
Winters quieted Cannon Ball “Another woman?”
“Another woman,” replied Tyner. “Jim Weitzell’s young wife this time. Jim was late getting back from Elkhorn Pass; found her strangled. You’ve got to do something, Winters.”
“Yeah,” drawled Winters. “You point out this murderer and I’ll shoot him for you. It’s that simple.”
“We don’t know who he is.”
“Any strangers in town?”
“Always strangers drifting through.”
While they talked, one came along—a handsome, tall dude in high hat, black trousers, long-tailed coat, and white shirt with ruffled sleeves. He was clean-shaved and looked to be about forty.
“Morning, gentlemen,” he said gaily.
Winters eyed him sharply, stirred by his natural suspicion of dudes. “Morning, stranger.”
“Stranger? Ah, I suppose I am a stranger here to most of you. My name is Fothergill—Dennison Fothergill. My business, mining investments. Presently I’m putting up at Goodlett Hotel.”
Winters said without friendliness, “I’m Lee Winters, deputy marshal hereabouts. I judge you’re not traveling far, seeing as you’re afoot.”
“Merely out for my morning constitutional. Good-day to you, Officer.”
He strode on, straight and elegant, a cane swinging right and left in graceful arcs.
“Wouldn’t be him,” said a gold-digger.
Winters was still suspicious. There’d been queer flickers in Fothergill’s eyes, a peculiar outward slant to his big teeth. He looked at Moss Tyner. “Anybody else been taking morning constitutionals?”
Tyner shook his head. “None that I’ve seen.”
A small gold-digger with eye wrinkles and beard blinked at Winters. “I seed one yesterday about sundown. He was a humped sort of bozo, dressed in shabby britches, ragged shirt that showed his hairy chest, an old round hat with black hair stringing down past his ears. Looked more ape than human.”
“Going toward or away from Goodlett’s?” asked Winters.
“Away from. But not toward Jim Weitzell’s. More like he might’ve been leaving town.”
Winters rode on and dropped in at Doc Bogannon’s saloon.
“Winters!” Bogie exclaimed. “Come in and welcome.”
Bogannon was himself a man of mystery. He was big, dark, handsome, with head and face that evidenced great intellect, a man obviously meant for better things than owning and operating Forlorn Gap’s only saloon. Yet apparently he was content with his trade and with living with an amorous half-breed Shoshone for wife.
Winters put down his usual coin. “Wine, Doc.” As he poured, Bogie cast an inquiring glance. “You look worried, Winters. Something wrong?” Winters downed his drink and looked at his glass. “Another woman’s been murdered, Doc.”
It was Bogie’s turn to be disturbed. “That’s bad, Winters. Could’ve been my beautiful Shoshone.”
“Or my beautiful Myra,” said Lee. “Seen any off-trail characters lately?”
Bogie scratched an area on his high forehead which he called his thinking spot. “Winters, I seldom see any except off-trail characters. But something’s been bothering me these past few days. I hesitate to mention it, but there’s an ominous feeling in Forlorn Gap. Got it myself. Of course I don’t believe in ghosts, but—”
“But what?”
“You’ll likely scoff, Winters,” Doc said worriedly, “but last night I heard music.”
Winters caught his breath. “No!”
“Just as I anticipated, you do scoff.”
“But I don’t, Doc. My wife heard it, too.”
“No! A kind of piping, was it?”
“Exactly. But otherwise not like anything she’d ever heard before.”
“Then I did hear it. I’d hoped I only dreamed it.” Bogie poured himself a small drink, swallowed it and put down his glass. “Winters, I don’t go for ghosts, being as I am a practical man, but I don’t mind telling you I’m worried.”
Winters started to leave but turned back. “Doc, do you know a dude named Dennison Fothergill?” Bogie scratched his thinking spot again. “A tall, handsome gent with queer eyes and right prominent teeth?”
“That’s him.”
“Ummm,” mused Bogie. “Men usually interest me, without otherwise affecting me. But this Fothergill…Winters, he gives me creeps, as if he might be some sort of beast.”
“Me, too,” said Lee. “I figure he ain’t exactly what he seems.”
“Indeed?” said Bogie. “But I get you. He could be one of those dual personality fellows, a genus schizophrenia, perhaps.”
Winters was slightly peeved. “Yeah. Only I didn’t want to get over your head by putting it so bookishly.”
He strode out, determined to have a talk with Dennison Fothergill. When his ride about town had proved fruitless, he called at Goodlett Hotel and was shown to Fothergill’s room. That room, presently untenanted, was like any other hotel room occupied by a respectable man of means. It was clean, orderly and otherwise above suspicion.
He rode to Gallitena Gulch in search of a wanted monkey, reported to have holed up there as a gold-digger. Time fled, and night found him homeward bound by intermittent cloud and moonlight.
What he had not told Myra and Doc Bogannon was that he, too, had heard strange piping; that he, too, had an ominous feeling, as if death stalked his travels.
Cannon Ball was cantering along a cliff-lined trail when suddenly he shrank back into a half-rearing stop, his body a-quiver with fright.
Once more, Winters heard music, its source some instrument whose identity he did not recognize. Bogannon had described what he’d heard as a kind of piping; that described this music. But its enchanting sweetness was beyond description, inviting complete forgetfulness and surrender to its charm. Winters looked as he listened, but no musician met his eye.
Abruptly that ethereal music stopped at its source, though its echoes winged over chasms and cliffs so long as to enliven strings of perpetual memory. Search as he might, Winters saw only a solitary four-legged animal perched high on a great rock, its outline against background of cloud and stars identifying it at last as a goat of exceptionally large and graceful proportions.
A voice came to him then. “Winters, did you like my music?”
“Huh!” exclaimed Winters. He had a frightening sensation of having been addressed by a goat. “Yeah,” he said, gulping. “Sure, I liked it. Prettiest music I ever heard. But who are you? And where are you?”
“You are looking at me,” that unnerving voice replied. “My name is Pan. By some I am called Paunus Major, or Paunus. It is observed by me that you often ride alone at night. Fortunately, for you, I am your friend.”
Winters wiped sweat from his face. His wife had read something to him about a Greek god called Pan. Myths, those stories were called. There were many of them—unbelievable, fascinating yarns born, he had supposed, from ignorance and superstitious fears. He had felt no cause for considering himself insane or asleep, but now he perspired from doubt. Unnerving terror, too, for certainly that goat had looked down at him and talked.
Nor was it all goat. Though it had horns and upright, pointed ears, a bright wash of moonlight disclosed a youthful—even beautiful—human face.
Winters swallowed desperately. “Glad to know you’re my friend. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
He kneed his horse into motion. Cannon Ball’s walk quickly evolved into a lope, with Winters casting fearful backward looks. Pan, or Paunus Major, had disappeared after a moment behind intervening cliffs; and Winters, rubbing his forehead, told himself he’d merely had a brief scare, coupled wi
th what Doc Bogannon would have described as a highly fanciful illusion.
* * * *
But after supper, when he and Myra sat by their evening fire, he said as casually as he could manage, “Myra, I’ve been trying to recall that story you once read to me about a Greek god or something called Paunus, or Pan. Remember?”
“Of course, Lee.” Myra studied him curiously. “Why were you thinking of him?”
Winters kept his eyes upon changing embers. “I’ve often wondered myself what it is that sets a man to thinking. But what about this Pan?”
Myra reflected briefly. “Pan? Oh, yes, I remember. But let me get one of those wonderful books you bought for me.” She went to a shelf, presently returned with an old volume of myths and legends. She found what she sought in it and read. Pan, according to her book, was one of those numerous deities believed in by ancient Greeks. This one was an Arcadian—one who had arms, legs, ears, and horns of a goat. Like every mythical deity, he had his own special interests, namely, flocks, herds and crowds of people. From his name was derived a famous word, panic. When herds or people stampeded, it was because Pan had terrorized them.
And Pan was a piper; his music was enchanting. He could cause people to have visions and dreams. His haunts were those of wild-country shepherds. Woe unto any who offended him! Blessed were they whom he regarded with affection!
When she had read at length, Myra suddenly closed her book. “That music!” she whispered. “Lee!”
He glanced up without telltale expression. “Yeah?”
“That music I heard last night—do you suppose—”
“I don’t suppose anything,” he cut in brusquely. “That’s what’s wrong with such books, they fill people’s heads with scares and imagined things.” Myra sat in deep study. “Visions. Dreams. Pipes.” She sighed. “But having dreams is nothing new. I suppose those murders have got us all frightened. Yet certainly there’s nothing in this story about Pan being a murderer.”
Winters remembered Dennison Fothergill, his queer eyes and those outward-slanting teeth. “Is there anything in that book about Pan changing himself into human form?”