by Lon Williams
He accepted a refilled cup and lifted it to his lips.
Chidchad pressed close to Winters. “You dog of gloom, why do you lie so glibly. Nineveh can never fall.”
“Fall it will,” said Winters.
Chidchad would have said something else, but Sorgum raised his drunken voice. “Where are those captives? Bring them and let them be sold.”
From opposite them, Winters and Chidchad saw women and girls being pushed forward to be sold into slavery. Wine cups had appeared generally, and prospective buyers were put in extravagant moods.
A young woman was made to step upon a low platform. An auctioneer called for bids and shortly made a sale. Another followed. Some were young, some middle-aged. All were meagerly clothed. Those who were young and had beautiful limbs and faces, brought high prices. Now and then Sorgum-sur-up made selections for himself, which excluded possibility of sale in their cases.
“Is-leeti,” groaned Chidchad, as one of extraordinary beauty and sweetness was put up for auction.
“Oh, no,” shouted Sorgum; “that one is mine.”
“No,” cried Is-leeti. Before guards could interfere, she sprang down and ran—straight toward Winters. She reached him and clutched his right foot. “Brave One, save me from a fate worse than death.”
“Let nobody touch her,” shouted Sorgum. Those who had pursued fell back; those who had stood near Winters sank away. Winters and Is-leeti were left isolated. “Bring me bow and arrows,” Sorgum commanded grimly.
A man in scarlet robe stepped forward from an alcove. He handed Sorgum his own bow and quiver of arrows. “A gift from your humble servant, Ne-bod-zanther-pal”
Sorgum fixed an arrow and tested his traction arm. He espied a small boy in that same alcove from which Ne-bod had come. “That, my king, is my favorite son Vash-tan-cek.”
Sorgum drew his bow, his arrow hissed, and Vash-tan-cek clutched at his small breast and fell forward, his heart pierced.
Ne-bod bowed low and rose smiling. “An excellent marksman art thou, my king.”
Sorgum fitted another arrow. “Next to learn my skill shall be that false Chaldean. When he is dead, then I shall slay her who spurned my favors. But only with this difference. In her case she shall be chained, that I may slay her at leisure, an arrow here, another there, until she is pincushioned in all except her vital spots. Then—”
He left his thought unfinished. He stared at Winters, his lips smiling crookedly.
Chidchad said low and quickly, “You can escape, Winters. Lift Is-leeti into your arms and ride away. Merchants will be leaving at Nineveh’s south gate. Join them. It is your only chance; it is Is-leeti’s only chance.”
“That’s what you think,” said Winters.
Sorgum slowly lifted his bow, his face distorted with hate.
Is-leeti released Winters’ foot and covered her eyes. “Oh, save yourself, most noble one,” she sobbed.
Winters lifted his sixgun. It spoke with thunder and lightning of Ashur. Sorgum’s bow and arrow collapsed together and Sorgum fell like an empty sack. A dark spot had appeared between his eyes, half an inch lower than Winters had intended, though just as deadly as if his bullet had gone true.
Immediate silence was followed by groans. “Our king is dead,” some cried.
Others said, “Let this strange one— this son of Ashur—be our king.”
Winters reached down and lifted Is-leeti onto Cannon Ball. He turned toward Chidchad, who had been as amazed as everybody else. “Horses, Chidchad.”
Chidchad replied, “This way, Winters.” He ran ahead and quickly had two horses in tow. While clamor mounted behind them for Winters to be their king, they rode south. As Chidchad had predicted, a merchant caravan was leaving Nineveh. They mingled with it, and escaped out of that bloody, fated city.
When they were safe, at least from their most recent perils, Chidchad signaled. They stopped, then drew away a short distance. There Chidchad thrust an object into Winters’ hand. “It is so little, Winters, but it is all I have of any consequence this moment.”
Winters opened his hand and looked at Chidchad’s gift. It was a golden chain and pendant with sparkling ruby. “From Lobo Lupo,” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” said Chidchad. “I should have delivered it to Eg-ed-nukel-bal, for it was his. But if what you said of Nineveh’s fate is true, he won’t be needing it.”
“Then you should give it to Is-leeti,” said Winters. “Here.” He tried to press it into her hands, but she drew them away.
“No, Brave One. You have given me my life. To me, that is more precious than rubies and gold. Keep it and treat it as a gift from me, also.”
Winters stared at her, for one entrancing moment mistook her for his own beautiful Myra. “Fair enough,” he said. When he’d dropped it into a vest pocket he said awkwardly, “I reckon I’ll go my way. Three’s a crowd, I’ve always heard.”
“Farewell, brave, mysterious stranger,” said Chidchad.
“Farewell, and Ashur be with thee always,” said Is-leeti.
All three fell silent. Screams and tumult of war had broken loose in Nineveh. “We escaped just in time,” said Winters. He turned to Chidchad and Is-leeti. “In my country, we have a custom of shaking hands in parting.”
Chidchad and Is-leeti in turn extended a hand. Winters lingered over Is-leeti’s for a long moment. There was warm responsiveness in hers, a touch of gratefulness he would never forget.
He drew away then, and Cannon Ball lifted himself into a long, easy lope which put miles behind him in that desolate, lonely, flat, and strange, strange world.
His fast movement, plus birth of cold winds, made Winters seize his forehead suddenly and wipe his sweating face. He saw lights ahead—odd lights that shimmered and darted like streaks of fire. But as he rode on nearer to them, they stilled, and he recognized them at last as lights of Forlorn Gap—and home.
* * * *
In this semi-ghost town, creature of gold-rush days and victim of an equally feverish rush to richer fields, there was one spot where lights glowed especially bright. That spot was Doc Bogannon’s saloon, only place of its kind left in a town where they had once existed by scores.
Doc Bogannon himself was a man of mystery, tall, broad, handsome, with fine head, dark hair, and intellectual face. He was putting away his last glasses and thinking of home and his half-breed Shoshone wife, when his batwings swung in.
“Winters!”
Winters strode to a table and dropped into a chair. “Wine, Doc, and two glasses.”
Bogie hurried and sat opposite his old friend. He poured drinks and studied Lee’s face. “Winters, you look pale; either you caught up with those two wanted monkeys and took a beating, or you’ve seen ghosts.”
Winters drank and backhanded his mustache. “You’re at least half right, Doc. Those monkeys double-teamed me.” He took off his hat and examined its band, which had a ragged tear two inches long. “It was that close, Doc.” He put his hat back on and held his glass for more wine.
“I’m grateful it was no closer,” said Bogie. He sipped wine and continued his scrutinizing study. “Did you also see a ghost, Winters?”
Prompted by hazy recollection, Lee fingered in his vest pocket and came up with a gold necklace with pendant lacework that encased a magnificent ruby. He puzzled over it for seconds, then laid it down for Bogie to see.
“Does that strike you as something right nice, Doc?”
Bogie picked it up, but promptly laid it down again. “I don’t know about you and your odd souvenirs. Where did you get this one? Don’t tell me you’ve taken to robbing dead bodies?”
Winters picked up his necklace, derived from its touch queer sensations of pleasure, loneliness, too, as one who dreamed of far countries. “In some respects your guess was right, Doc. This came from a dead wolf.”
“Ah, indeed. And when did wolves take to wearing necklaces?”
“He wasn’t wearing it, Doc. He’d et it.” Winters put his souvenir away and drain
ed his glass; he puzzled his brain, then said, “Doc, what is your foreign-language name for wolf?”
“Caninus lupinus,” Bogie responded promptly. “Or, just plain lupus.”
“And what would Lobo Lupo mean?”
“Timber wolf,” replied “Bogie. “Why do you ask such crazy questions?”
Winters got up and snapped his finger in disgust. “I figured I’d got it wrong. Lone Wolf, I called him. I guess Chidchad thought I was pretty ignorant.” He put down a coin and stared amusedly at Bogie. Bogie stared back. “Chidchad?”
“Yeah, Chidchad. Also—. Well, good-night, Doc.”
THE BANSHEE SINGER
Real Western Stories, April 1957
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters drifted into Forlorn Gap shortly before midnight with mind confused and troubled. His gunfight at Hoodoo with a wanted monkey named Scrugg Amory had left him unnerved, his imagination conditioned for strange adventures.
At a sharp bridle pull, his horse Cannon Ball and their moon-cast shadow halted dustily. Good reason, there was, for such behavior. From an old building known in Forlorn Gap’s uproarious days as Bodep Opera House, desultory singing was distinctly audible. Beyond its half-open door, light could be seen. Such as might have diffused itself from some hidden, over-large glowworm.
That singing voice was feminine, young, enchanting. Its quality of casual ease suggested that its owner sang for her own amusement, the way the deputy’s wife, Myra, often did while cooking meals. As in other eerie situations, Winters told himself that this was something imagined. No entertainment had been offered here for three or four years. Bodep’s was deserted, its glory but hazily remembered.
Yet while he listened and argued with himself, a creepy feeling made Lee Winters sleeve his face; uneasiness urged him to get away quickly. Afterwards he refused to look back, fearful of what he might have seen.
Two blocks from Bodep’s, Forlorn Gap’s only remaining saloon still had its lights going. Inside, its owner, Doc Bogannon, put away glasses in readiness for his customary midnight closing. Bogannon himself was of distinguished appearance—tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair, broad forehead, and features which suggested high intelligence. Clearly nature had endowed him for great things. Nevertheless, for reasons undisclosed, Doc had chosen to make his way in this far-off, lonely town and live contentedly with his half-breed Shoshone wife.
He had reached up to extinguish his bar light when his batwings swung inward and a slim weather-beaten individual with dark mustache, spurs and six-gun strode in. “Winters!” he cried joyously. “Am I glad to see you!”
Winters advanced and slapped down his tribute.
“Wine, Doc.”
“Wine it is, Winters.”
As Bogannon reached for glass and bottle, a high-pitched, complaining voice raised itself. “You couldn’t make that two glasses now, could you, Mr. Bogannon?”
Winters turned and stared at a small-faced, seated critter of about fifty. “Who’s your cuckoo, Doc?”
“My apology,” said Bogannon. “He isn’t cuckoo, exactly. Rather, he’s afflicted with what you might call dreams. His name—and I’m not joking, Winters—is Rub Elbow.”
“Nothing uncommon about that,” returned Winters. “When I was a water-sprout down in Texas, we had a neighbor some thirty miles across Trinity Bottoms called Standin Fencecorner. Always seemed to me right proper as a name.”
“Beyond question,” Bogannon nodded emphatically.
“Like I said,” Elbow persisted plaintively, “I’m not one to turn down whiskey or wine, once it’s offered.”
“Notwithstanding you’ve already bummed two glasses off me,” observed Bogannon.
Doc Bogannon had poured for Winters. Lee picked up his glass and headed for Rub Elbow’s table. “Fetch wine and two more glasses, Doc, they’re on me; I never could abide seeing anybody unhappy.”
Bogannon obliged promptly. Seated, he arched an eyebrow knowingly. “Elbow is troubled by dreams, Winters. If you were an astrologer or soothsayer, such talent might put you in great favor.”
Elbow drank and licked his lips. “Now, sir, I never said anything about dreams. I said it reminded me of something.”
Bogannon looked at Winters. “Elbow used to work at Bodep Opera House. Sort of butcher, baker and candlestick maker.”
“No such thing,” declared Elbow. “I was handy man. Wasn’t nothing I couldn’t do, give me proper tools.”
“Where’ve you been, and why’ve you come back?” asked Winters.
Elbow twisted his mouth. “Some people will ask questions or bust.”
“Elbow is not one to be squeezed of information,” Bogannon explained. “It germinates, as a seed, from within.”
Elbow nodded appreciatively. “All right, now. As I was saying, I was in St. Louis. Had me a cabinet shop there, I did. When I heard he’d escaped—”
“Who escaped?” asked Winters.
“Officer Winters, who’s telling this, me or you?”
Bogannon interposed gently, “You are, of course, Mr. Elbow. Go right ahead.”
“All right,” said Elbow. “You see, I worked at Bodep’s when she was there.”
“She?” Winters asked suddenly.
Elbow looked his disdain. “Some people just don’t know when to keep their mouths shut.”
“As Doc would say, my apology,” Winters returned sourly.
Bogannon intervened again. “You know how it is with men, Mr. Elbow; mention of women excites them. However, Officer Winters meant no harm.”
Elbow drank his glass empty and watched approvingly while Doc refilled it.
“Like I was saying, gentlemen,” he resumed in good humor, “this Jason Inbred was in federal prison for mail robbery. When I heard he’d escaped, I says to myself, ‘Rub Elbow, that reminds you of something.’ That set me to thinking. ‘What is it, Rub?’ I says to myself. I can tell you one thing, gentlemen. When I put my mind to thinking, it’s katy-begone-doggie. First thing you know, I’ve got it figured.”
“I’d bet on that,” declared Bogannon. “Wouldn’t you, Winters?”
“But what about she?” demanded Winters.
“Didn’t I tell you, Mr. Bogannon?” Elbow complained angrily. “Some men, I don’t know whether they ain’t got no sense or ain’t got no manners.”
“I dare say that sometimes it’s both,” Bogannon commented, winking at Winters.
Elbow restored his equanimity with wine. “Yes, sir, gentlemen, Jason Inbred murdered her, but he didn’t get her jewelry. Do you know why? Well, sirs, one day Miss Neverland says to me, ‘Mr. Elbow,’ she says, ‘you’re one friend I can trust. I want you to build a secret panel in my dressing room, where I can hide my jewelry. If you don’t, some night while I’m singing somebody will steal me penniless.’ That’s what she says to me, gentlemen. That’s what I’m thinking when I hears he’s escaped from federal prison.
“I says to myself, ‘Rub Elbow, Collinda Neverland had no kinfolks. Like others suspected of murder, I lit out, but nobody but me knowed where that jewelry was hid. According to law, finders is keepers.’ Yes, sir, gentlemen, I’m bound to be rich.”
Bogannon looked at his watch; its message alarmed him. “It’s after midnight. I’m not superstitious, but no good can come of being open after twelve.” He sprang up. “With your kind permission, gentlemen.”
But again his batwings swung inward. This time they admitted a distinguished looking stranger of about thirty, with black mustache, pointed beard, and blue-green eyes.
He bowed gracefully. “Ah, sirs, I was afraid I’d be too late. Permit me, I am Ovid Train.”
Winters chilled. Politeness and menace joined here in sinister alliance. Animal instinct made him slide his chair back in readiness for explosive action.
Bogannon said nervously, “I was just closing.”
“Such inconvenience,” said Train. He allowed his black coat to hang loose and expose an underarm gun. “It pains me deeply, but one glass of wine, if you please.�
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Winters nodded at Bogannon. “What are a couple of minutes, more or less, Doc?”
“Of course,” said Bogannon. He came to life and hurried behind his bar; a glass tinkled.
Winters glanced at Rub Elbow, found him staring, frozen white.
Ovid Train, also, had looked at Elbow. When his eyes joined those of Winters again, a flicker of recognition was just leaving them. He said with mild contempt, “When one gentleman introduces himself, other gentlemen usually reciprocate.”
Bogannon had set up a glass. “Your drink, sir.”
“One moment,” Train responded, his gaze fixed upon Winters.
Winters, though sweating, refused to be intimidated. “Find out as best you can, stranger.”
“You are talking to Deputy Marshal Lee Winters,” Bogannon interposed. “I am Doc Bogannon. Our small friend there is Mr. Elbow.”
Train bowed stiffly and advanced for his drink. He emptied his glass, paid, and strode out.
Winters listened with relief to his retreating footsteps, then eyed Rub Elbow coldly. “You knowed that bozo, didn’t you?”
Elbow swallowed and shook his head vigorously. “Never saw him before in my life. No, sir.”
“You, Doc?”
Bogannon pulled down his bar lamp, blew out its flame, came around and reached up for another. He said shakily, “Winters, I’m almost as scared as Mr. Elbow. I will say, however, that Train has an angry, discouraging feature here and there which I certainly have seen before. But where?” Bogannon shook his head.
Winters gouged Rub Elbow and nodded for him to get out. When he was gone, Winters got up. “I’m confident both of you could’ve told me.”
“Sorry, Winters, but I’m not sure. As a token of good faith, I’ll put my mind to it, however.”
“Yeah,” Winters commented sarcastically. “And when you do, it’ll be katy-begone-doggie. Goodnight.”
* * * *
After supper with his charming young wife, Winters sat quietly before their living room fireplace and watched golden embers do their antics.
Myra eased down beside him. “Worried, Lee?” He started, then assumed boldness. “Why would I be worried?”