by Lon Williams
“Oh, no,” said Myra. “It’s not even so much as hinted at. Besides, I don’t believe these myths. I don’t believe any Paunus or Pan ever existed.
We’re just scared. Everybody’s scared.”
Next morning, Forlorn Gap had additional cause for being afraid. Five women came knocking at Winters’ door; Lee and Myra rushed out to learn what was wrong.
Those women, some of them young and pretty, were scared and bewildered.
Winters hid his alarm by show of impatience. “Now what’s up?” he demanded.
“Our men,” replied a middle-aged woman, Mack Argyle’s wife. “Our men are gone.”
“Gone where, Esmerelda?” Myra asked sympathetically.
All five visitors started to talk at once.
“One at a time,” snapped Lee.
“Esmerelda, you tell us,” said Myra.
Esmerelda drew a deep breath. “Well, it’s just hard to believe. But sometime after midnight, my husband sat up in bed right suddenly. Then before you could say Jack Robinson he was out and putting on his clothes. He told me to get up and fix him a sack of grub. He’d had a vision. There was gold. He’d had a vision of gold, and he was going to get it.”
“Where was this gold?” Winters inquired sharply.
“Some place never heard of before,” Esmerelda answered. “Arcadia Gulch, Mack said. Though he’d never before heard of such place, he saw it in his vision and knowed right where to find it. North of Elkhorn Road, he said. You’d take a right-hand trail this side of Gallitena Gulch, and you’d come to a little creek where there’d be great pine trees. That was Arcadia Gulch, and once you’d staked a claim there, you’d never want for gold anymore.” Myra looked aghast at Winters. “Arcadia,” she whispered in awe. “Lee, I’m scared.”
Winters himself had what he called dry swallows. Pan! Deity from Arcadia! He looked at Esmerelda’s companions. “Is that why your husbands left?”
They nodded.
A young one said fearfully, “My Harold had that same vision. I just couldn’t stop him.”
Winters squeezed his forehead, tried to shake his mind free. “All right,” he said gruffly. “Go on home; I’ll see what can be done.”
They thanked him and reluctantly departed. Winters and Myra waited outside their cottage until they were alone.
Myra shuddered. “Lee, I’m scared.”
“They are, too,” Winters said dryly. “But it’s no time for panic.”
Myra gasped. “Panic! That’s it, Lee.”
He urged her inside and buckled on his six-gun. “I oughtn’t to used that word.” He examined his gun, saw that it was loaded and that his cartridge belt was full of ammunition. “But it’s not like you to be scared, Myra. While I’m gone, however, I want you to keep your doors and windows locked. Also, keep your gun within reach every minute. Promise?”
“Y-yes, Lee.”
He kissed her goodbye indoors, and rode to Doc Bogannon’s saloon. This time Bogie was not alone. He had his wife with him.
“Winters!” he shouted nervously. “Come in, Winters.”
Lee took off his hat, strode to a table and dropped into a chair. “Doc, I want to talk to you.” He nodded at Bogie’s Shoshone. “You, too, Singing Thrush.”
She came hesitantly, slender and entrancing in beaded dress, golden headband and red feather. She nodded gracefully to Winters and accepted a chair beside her husband. “What do you wish of Singing Thrush?”
“I want to know something,” Winters replied. “Your people have been around these mountains much longer than us palefaces. Ever hear of a man-goat, or goat-man?”
Singing Thrush looked startled, but her Shoshone blood asserted itself; she quickly concealed her surprise and glanced at Bogie. “What shall I tell him, my husband?”
Bogie said soberly, “Tell him he’s crazy.”
“You are crazy, Officer Winters,” she said obediently.
“Yeah,” said Winters. “Wouldn’t be surprised.” He glanced at Bogie. “Why did she come here with you, Doc? First time I recollect this ever happened.”
“A mere precaution, Winters,” Bogie replied. “There’s a killer at large, you know. Has an especial taste for women.”
Winters, studying his scholarly friend, said coldly, “Look here, Doc, I asked your wife a sensible question. I want to know what she’s got to say about it.”
Bogie nodded at Singing Thrush. “Tell him, my love.”
“Yes, Officer Winters,” she said in her sweet, musical voice. “There is a man-goat in our mountains. Very, very few have seen him, but many have heard his music. Even my beloved husband has recently heard his piping.”
Winters swallowed with difficulty. “Yeah, I know.”
“You hadn’t wished to hear that, had you, Winters?” said Bogie, smiling oddly. “You’d hoped this was only my imagination.”
“No,” replied Winters. “I’m glad to hear it. I’d begun to think I’d gone cuckoo.”
“You know, of course, what happened last night?” Bogie asked.
“What happened?”
“Every gold-digger in town left shortly after midnight.”
“Yeah,” said Winters, “I’d heard something about that. They had visions.” He got up and pulled on his hat. “And just think how many women are left defenseless. That murderer can now take his pick of them.”
Bogie glanced at his lovely Shoshone. “This one excepted,” he said. “She’s not leaving my side until that killer’s killed.”
“Nobody knows when that’ll be,” said Winters. “But them crazy gold-diggers are coming back today. I’m going after ’em.”
He could at least credit himself with good intentions, he thought, as he rode briskly along Elkhorn Road, afterwards northward toward Gallitena.
Gold-rushers had left their tracks. He followed them from where they’d turned off Gallitena Road. After many turns and cutbacks he came upon them at last, about thirty men, young and middle-aged. There was, indeed, a small creek. There were, also, many magnificent pines. Here was more than a gulch; it was a hidden valley, quiet, grand, possessed of dreamlike beauty.
Arcadia!
Men were digging, as if enchanted. When Winters rode into their midst, they merely glanced at him and went on with their feverish work.
“Listen, you men,” Winters shouted indignantly. A few paused. When he had shouted again, this time angrily, they all quit and looked at him.
“Winters, what do you want?” one asked.
“I want every man of you to get back to your families.”
“And leave all this gold?”
“What gold? I don’t see no gold.”
“But it’s here, Winters.”
“You’re all crazy,” declared Winters. “A spell has been put on you. It was a trick to get you out of town, so your women could be murdered. Get your stuff and head back.”
They looked at one another as if they’d never heard of murder. Even big Moss Tyner stared at him, puzzled and unbelieving. “Winters, you’re a good officer. We all know that. But right now you ain’t talking sense. There’s gold here, more than you ever dreamed of. We aim to find it. Why don’t you get down and look? It might be you that found it. Think what that’d mean. More gold than you could spend in a thousand years.”
“It wouldn’t mean anything to me, if it cost me my wife,” declared Winters.
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt if you’d look around a bit, seein’ as you’re here anyhow.”
Winters swung down not to look for gold, but if possible to convince these bewildered men that they should go home. How long it took him to realize his efforts were useless, he didn’t know; he’d kept no track of it. But sundown was near when he at last remounted and turned homeward. “You can’t say I didn’t try,” he told them. “That’s all right, Winters,” a few called after him. “We ain’t blaming you for anything.”
He blamed himself, however, for staying with them so long. Worse, he’d gone only a short distance when Cann
on Ball threw a shoe. That was surprising, for Lee always prided himself on keeping his horse well shod.
“Be-confound!” he muttered, as he swung down.
It took him until almost dark to retrieve and nail on this unlucky shoe again. His fingers had never before been so clumsy, nails so prone to turn in and reach quick, instead of turning outward, as they were supposed to do.
Fortunately there was bright moonlight to ride by. Since Cannon Ball had to throw a shoe, Winters was thankful it had been done before night. There was further reason for gratitude. Cannon Ball was restless; if he got into one of his running spells, well-clinched shoes would save him from going lame and unseating his rider.
This trail out of Arcadia Gulch seemed longer now. Twice he thought he was lost, only to pass remembered landmarks and feel relieved.
But shortly after he had come again into Gallitena Road and headed south, he had a chill; cold sweat popped out on his face. Cannon Ball had stopped. His reason for doing so was no mystery either. Once more there was music, that weird, enchantingly sweet piping. Once more Winters sought its origin, once more saw a goat outlined against moonlit sky. This time it drew from its lips some object and let it hang suspended from its neck.
“Pan!” gasped Winters.
This odd creature looked down at him, and now Winters had no doubt that this was Pan, also that Pan was speaking to him.
“Winters,” said Paunus, “do you love your beautiful wife?”
Fear shot through Winters. “Of course I do. Why do you ask?”
“Because she is in danger. If you would save her, you must ride as you have never ridden before.”
“Thanks for telling me,” said Winters. He lifted his horse’s reins and lashed his flank with their ends. “Go home, Cannon Ball,” he cried.
No further urging was required. Cannon Ball leaped as a panther. Clatter of hoofs and resounding echoes became continuous and crashing. Around curves and along precipices he swept, with Winters leaning on his neck and shouting into his ears.
Then, to his amazement, Winters beheld a sight that taxed belief to its limit. Traveling with him, leaping from cliff to cliff and across gorges, was Pan. No ordinary goat could have kept pace with Cannon Ball on this terrible run.
But Pan was no ordinary goat. He paid no attention to curves and turns, but leaped straight on. At times he even paused to wait for Winters. That he meant to accompany Winters became certain when they reached Elkhorn Road and Winters turned toward Forlorn Gap.
But then Lee’s heart sank. Minutes after he had turned eastward, a stagecoach, also going eastward, loomed ahead. Its four horses were moving at an easy lope, and on a road so narrow that Winters could not possibly have passed them.
Yet his spirits quickly rose again. Pan, rushing ahead of Cannon Ball, leaped alongside those easygoing horses. Instantly they were panicked; they reared and plunged. Their driver screamed and set himself against their lines. But uselessly. They were running away. Coach passengers screamed as their vehicle rocked and skidded around perilous curves.
Run as they might, however, Cannon Ball closed in behind them. Their driver, scared stiff, stood up and prepared to jump.
“Don’t do it,” Winters shouted.
“What are you doing there; trying to get us killed?”
“Keep going,” shouted Winters. “Hang onto them lines.”
He got proper response, and their roaring cavalcade swept furiously onward.
As they neared Forlorn Gap, Winters glanced about, then looked again. He searched for Pan, but that man-goat had disappeared.
As stagecoach and horses rumbled past his cottage in front, Winters swung to its rear. He leaped down, and through its open back door rushed inside.
Caution asserted itself then. He heard stair-steps squeak. They squeaked in two places, indicating that two people were going up. There were no other sounds. Winters drew his six-gun and moved silently, but swiftly.
Going up were, indeed, two people. Ahead by five steps, and moving backwards, was Myra, eyes staring, in one hand a candle, her right hanging limply, barely holding onto her gun, which she was clearly not aware that she had.
Following her, back to Winters, was a man who must have resembled a monster. Winters remembered a description: A humped sort of bozo, dressed in shabby britches, ragged shirt that showed his hairy chest, an old round hat with black hair stringing past his ears.
Myra did not see Winters. She was staring at that hideous thing which followed her slowly, relentlessly, a gun in his hairy hand pointed at her heart. She backed around a stairway turn, still without realizing her husband was near.
But as her pursuer was about to make that same turn, Winters yelled. His six-gun roared and thundered until it was empty. A body crumpled, tumbled downward, and Dennison Fothergill lay dead, motionless eyes staring at Winters. Lee rushed up to Myra, caught her as she was sinking helpless in a faint.
Minutes later she revived. Wine braced and steadied her.
* * * *
When Winters had dragged Fothergill’s body out and dumped it, she came down, lighted a lantern for him and accompanied him while he put up his horse.
They were returning, when Myra screamed and almost fainted again. “Look, Lee! Look there!” Winters looked down, as she had pointed. Lying at their feet was a set of pipes, altogether no larger than Lee’s right hand. “Now, what could that be?”
“They are Panpipes,” cried Myra. “Oh, Lee, he has been here. Pan has been here.” She bent and picked them up, held them nervously, but tenderly.
Winters was not so astonished as he pretended to be. “Some boy’s toy,” he scoffed. “Why don’t you play ’em?”
Myra hesitated, finally put them fearfully to her lips. As she blew upon them Winters heard again that sweet, enchanting music he had heard several times before.
“Mighty pretty music for a toy,” he observed casually.
Myra removed them from her lips and looked at them longingly. “This is no toy, Lee. No toy ever made such heavenly music as that.”
They went in and locked their door.
Upon reaching their living room he was surprised to find a candle burning upon their mantel. Surprise encompassed more than candle. Behind it stood a small image made of clay—a creature half-man, half-goat.
“What’s this, Myra?”
Myra placed her newly-found Panpipes beside candle and image. “Lee, forgive me for being so foolish. I… Well, I’ll tell you. Of course we can’t allow ourselves to believe in ghosts and deities and such. But even so… Well, I thought—just assuming there might be such a being as Pan—if I’d let him know we wanted to be his friend, perhaps he’d be our friend, too. So I fashioned an image of him and set a candle before it in his honor.”
He put an arm about her shoulders to steady her. “Not a bad idea, Myra.”
“But it didn’t work, Lee. If you hadn’t got here when you did, I’d have been killed.”
He considered whether to tell her what he knew, but decided against it. “We can never tell about those things,” he said. “Now, let’s have some supper and call it a day.”
After supper they sat before a small fire until drowsiness was upon them. Myra got up then and was about to extinguish her burning tribute to Pan, when Lee stayed her.
“Why did you stop me, Lee?”
“Let it burn,” he said. “A candle is only a candle, a mighty small tribute to give in honor of a friend. Pan may have helped us more than we know.”
They went up to bed.
When they came down next morning Myra’s image of Pan was still in its place, but candle and pipes were gone.
Noises distracted them momentarily. An amazing sight greeted their eyes, too, when they looked out into Elkhorn Road. Forlorn Gap’s queer-acting miners were straggling home.
Silently Lee and Myra turned back. Winters was about to uncover their banked fire, when something caught his eye.
“Myra!”
She hurried to his side. �
�Lee, what is it?”
He pointed downward. “There,” he said.
They both stared in awe at their hearth. Tracks of a goat were clearly discernible in its ashes.
MEN BURNING BRUSH
Real Western Stories, February, 1957
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters, homeward bound from Rocky Point, emerged from dark, jumbled mountains onto Alkali Flat sometime between sundown and midnight. Occasional recollection of blazing guns explained that ache in his head. Thickness of a hatband represented his margin of escape, a thin fabric that saved his skin from being grooved, but not his brain from stunning concussion. Intermittently he recalled faces of two wanted monkeys Mitt Jargin and Rufe Odderman, who had gunned at him with confident insolence, and quickly wilted downward in grotesque finality.
For miles he had ridden with only vague awareness that he was headed toward Forlorn Gap. One moment, delirious dream had him drinking nightcaps with his good friend Doc Bogannon in Bogie’s saloon; another put him at home with his beautiful wife, Myra. Intervals of clarity had continually brought him back to towering cliffs, clatter of hoofs and ever-changing patchworks of moonlight and shadow until now upon Alkali Flat tormenting dreams receded and left his mind glorified and exhilarated by new and other-world illusions of clarity and freedom.
Yet in that new mental state was mystery, as well as glory. Though he saw Alkali Flat spreading away in its familiar, vast desolation, and felt its sweeping winds against his face, there were cold, quivering sensations in his blood which invested this barren region with extraordinary strangeness. Where there should have been moonlight and starlight, illumination like mist-softened sunlight revealed earth and its objects as distinctly as if it had been day.
Then he perceived something he should have seen long before—came upon it with inexplicable suddenness, indeed. It was a lively scene in which three oddly-attired men were burning brush.
He drew rein sharply, his horse Cannon Ball dug to a stop. “What goes on here?” he shouted in neighborly spirit.
Only one man heard him. This one, dressed in tunic and sandals, came close and stared upward. He was a fine specimen of half-naked human form and strength, somewhat dark, but clean-shaved and about thirty years of age. Bow and quiver of arrows were slung upon his back.