by Lon Williams
That evening Doc Bogannon was serving drinks to a crowded saloon, when his batwings swung in and a handsome, cold-eyed lobo with two guns strode arrogantly in and leaned against Bogie’s bar. He eyed Bogie malevolently. “Would you like to pour me a drink, or maybe you’d prefer I help myself?”
Bogie grabbed bottle and glass. “I should regard myself privileged to serve one so distinguished looking.”
“You talk my language, I see.”
“For which I am most grateful.” Bogie filled a glass. “But I must humbly beg your pardon for my not immediately recognizing you.”
“Oh, so you don’t know me? Now, ain’t that a insult for you? Maybe you ain’t even heard of Raincrow Martin?”
“Ah,” exclaimed Bogie, “I reckon any man who has not heard of Raincrow Martin is, indeed, a rare fish. You do fit his description perfectly. Slender. Redheaded. Eyes like ice. But handsome.”
Raincrow Martin touched his left-hand gun. “I reckon you’ve heard, also, that I’m right handy with my shootin’ irons?”
“Who hasn’t?” returned Bogie.
Their conversation was interrupted by appearance of a man in black suit and hightop hat, with a thin, upcurving black mustache.
“Friend Bogannon, be so kind as to introduce me to your friend.”
“My apology,” responded Bogie, glad to be interrupted. “Mr. Martin, my good friend Dr. Mesmer Ludwig. Dr. Ludwig, my most recent and respected acquaintance, none other than Raincrow Martin himself.”
“Delighted,” said Ludwig.
“Yeah?” sneered Martin. “And just what kind of doctor are you?”
Ludwig bowed slightly, but kept fixed gaze upon Martin. “If I may speak somewhat boastfully, I am a world-famous doctor of human minds.”
“You don’t say!” sneered Martin. “And what do you think you can do for a feller’s mind?”
“Without your cooperation, I can of course do nothing,” replied Ludwig. “With your cooperation, I can do much. As your intelligence increases, so does my power to be of assistance. Of course, in your case, there is no need of a doctor’s helpful ministrations, for I can see that you are one of remarkably keen intellect.”
Guests began to gather around.
A gold-digger said gruffly, “Ludwig, I bet you can’t put no spell on him.”
“What do you mean, spell?” demanded Martin.
“I mean put you under a spell—make you think you’re a wolf or wildcat or grizzly.”
Martin stared at curious, expectant faces. “I hope you don’t think I’d be fool enough to let him do that to me?”
Ludwig smiled. “Of course not. You would not submit to any such abasement. Moreover, my interest in your case would be improving your most noteworthy qualities. You are fast with your guns, but I could make you faster. You are quick of thought, but I could make you quicker.”
“Well,” said Martin, “if you can do all that, maybe I would let you.”
Four men at a poker table were too interested in their game to gather around Ludwig’s group. One of them called irritably, “You there! Whiskey!”
“On it’s way,” answered Bogie.
He left reluctantly. As reluctantly he responded to other calls. A half-stewed ape wanted to weep and relate his troubles. Another wanted an excuse to start destruction. Bogie lost time in quieting both of them.
* * * *
When he got back to where he could see Ludwig and Raincrow Martin, Raincrow had that queer sleepy look which characterized a man going under a spell.
Ludwig was saying, “In your present state you are subject to my will, not your own. You sleep, yet you do not sleep. You sleep, and you will not wake until I command you. Now something strange is happening. You are slowing down. You are slow, slow, slow. Now you have completely stopped. You cannot move your hands. You cannot draw your guns. Your hands are in my power. You cannot move them. Why don’t you try to move your hands? Ah, you do try. You do, but you cannot.”
Bogie stared, amazed. Martin was trying, yet he could not move his hands. “Wonder of wonders,” Bogie murmured.
Spectators stared, dumbfounded.
“But you can move your hands now,” said Ludwig. “You can move them, though not fast. You can move them slowly, very slowly. See, it is as I told you. You can draw your guns, but so slowly, so slowly. You will never be fast again until I give my word. You are now subject to my will. You will obey me. You cannot move fast. You will move slowly, talk slowly, and if you are minded to use your guns you will draw them slowly. Slowly.”
Suddenly Bogie’s batwings swung inward again. A man of tall, athletic proportions strode hurriedly in. He pushed through until he faced Martin.
“Raincrow!” he shouted.
Martin stared at him. His lips moved in a snarl. “Ipswitch! Dirty, double-crossin’ Ipswitch. So we’ve met again.” His voice was filled with hate, yet his words were frighteningly slow. “All right, Nelse, you know what this means.”
Men backed hurriedly, expecting gunplay.
Ipswitch also drew back. “No!” he shouted. “Don’t draw, Raincrow.”
Raincrow was coming up with both guns, coming with distressful slowness.
Ipswitch continued to back. But when Raincrow’s guns were out of their holsters and slowly lifting, Ipswitch with speed almost quicker than sight snapped up his gun and fired.
Bogannon blinked his eyes. There’d been other killings in his saloon. He’d taken them as they came, events as inevitable as these gold-rush towns themselves. But this one left him peculiarly cold.
* * * *
Long after an undertaker had come and gone with Raincrow’s body, Bogie sweated and racked his brain. To him as to the other spectators, it had appeared superficially as a killing in self-defense. In reality it had certainly been murder. Who was this Ipswitch? How had he happened to appear at a moment so favorable to himself?
In time, however, Bogie shrugged it off as something beyond his jurisdiction. He was only a man who sold whiskey to wayfarers, strangers who demanded it as one of life’s necessities. They came, they went, they were forgotten.
Likewise this sinister mesmerizer had come and would go. He was friendly, polite, outwardly kind. But Bogie perceived in him more than an evil eye. Toward Mesmer Ludwig, death pointed, as a finger.
Three evenings later Ludwig was in Bogie’s saloon indulging in small risks at poker, when Bogie’s batwings swung in.
“Winters!” exclaimed Bogie. “Come in, Winters.”
Winters advanced and paid his tribute. “Wine, Doc.”
“Wine it is, Winters,” Bogie responded. In a low voice he added as he poured, “Am I glad to see you!”
“How come, Doc?”
Bogie slowly mopped his bar. “Winters, something has gone wrong in this town. People are afraid, yet they don’t know what it is they’re afraid of. Savings of hard-working miners have disappeared mysteriously.”
“Hmm!” mused Winters. “Any people disappeared?”
“Not that I know of.”
Winters glanced about. He was about to ask for Doc’s little man of silence, when his attention was distracted by movement.
A man in black suit, with thin up-curving mustache and high-top hat rose and came toward him, his face alive with smiling friendliness. “Bogannon,” he said pleasantly, “may I claim your courtesy?” He nodded toward Winters.
“Indeed, my apology,” Bogie replied. “Winters, my new and distinguished friend, Dr. Mesmer Ludwig. Ludwig, my old and trusted friend, Deputy Marshal Lee Winters.”
Winters did not offer to shake hands. What he saw in Ludwig’s eyes warned him that he might later have to shoot their owner. Moreover, experience had long ago taught him to be wary of Bogannon’s new friends.
He said, “Howdy.”
Ludwig nodded, but now Winters perceived that his smile was cold and eerie.
“Indeed, a pleasure, Officer Winters.”
Guests gathered around. A gold-digger said, “Ludwig, I bet yo
u can’t put no spell on Winters.” Winters felt his scalp tingle. “Spell?”
“No, no,” Ludwig said softly. “I’m no good at that.”
“No?” said bystanders. “That’s not accordin’ to what we’ve been seeing hereabouts.”
Winters stared in awe at Ludwig. “You mean you can mesmerize people?”
“Winters,” Bogie said in sharp warning, “he certainly can.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Winters.
“If you don’t, then of course I can’t,” said Ludwig, lifting an elbow to Bogie’s bar and leaning closer to Winters. “I admit that I have had passing amusement for all of us by exercise of what these good men choose to call a spell.”
Winters backhanded his mustache. “That’s as interesting as a raccoon with his fist in a bottle. How do you do it, Ludwig?”
“It’s fairly simple,” replied Ludwig, beginning to concentrate coldly. “It requires your cooperation, of course. But you only have to listen to what I say, to believe what I tell you, and to offer no resistance to my commands.”
“Huh!” scoffed Winters. “Want to try it on me?”
“Only in fun, Winters,” responded Ludwig. “Winters!” Bogannon intervened sharply. “I have word for you, Winters. I must see you privately.”
Winters was staring at Ludwig. “I’m your man, Lud”
Ludwig drew inches closer and vanquished frivolity. “Winters, a great manipulator of human thought named Count Mesmer, for who, my parents flatteringly named me, had one simple formula, concealed though it was beneath useless gestures and distension of eyes and nostrils. Success depends upon you, Winters, rather than upon me. You merely relax—relax—relax. There. You realize that we are all your friends, that no harm will come to you. I note that you are relaxing surprisingly well, and that is good. With relaxation comes sleep. You close your eyes. You tell yourself that you are asleep. Of course your nerves respond to your thought. You relax your body, your eyes. Slowly, slowly, you sink into sleep.”
Obediently Winters had closed his eyes. He heard Bogannon speak insistently into his ear, “Winters, I must see you. Winters!” He ignored Bogie, but listened closely to Ludwig.
“Now, Winters,” Ludwig was saying, “you will open your eyes. You have passed from your former superficial self into your real self. You are now Lee Winters. But in relaxation your will has given up its control over you. My will has taken its place. To prove it, I tell you now that your right hand has become paralyzed. You cannot move it. Though you try with all your might, you cannot move your right hand. Would you like to try it, Winters?” Spectators crowded close and stared at Winters. “He’s done it,” several exclaimed. “Ludwig has put a spell on him.”
“Now,” said Ludwig, “your paralysis is gone. You can move your hand, though only at a snail’s pace. Try it, Winters. Slowly. Slowly. Your hand can no longer move fast. There, did I not tell you? You can draw your gun, Winters, but your draw is greatly slowed.”
Spectators gasped in amazement. Winters drew his six-gun, but it took several seconds for him to lift it.
“Winters!” Bogie called insistently. “Don’t trust him, Winters.”
Winters stared at Ludwig, dog-like expectancy in his countenance.
“Well,” Ludwig sighed, “I must be leaving. Good-night, gentlemen.” When almost out, he turned. “Perhaps you would like to come along, Winters. I’m going your way and shall be glad to see you safely home.”
Slowly Winters followed Ludwig.
Bogannon called, “Winters, don’t do it.” He stared around. “You men stop him.”
“Aw, let him go,” a drummer suggested carelessly. “Ludwig won’t hurt him.”
Bogie was diverted by numerous demands for whiskey. Yet he worried. His fears were worsened by recollection of his little man of silence, one Poley B. Delong. Poley had gone out with Ludwig. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Poley again.
Outside, Winters dragged himself onto his horse and followed Ludwig, who had mounted his own animal and was riding off. Cannon Ball, spurred lightly, promptly overtook Ludwig’s horse.
“You understand, of course,” said Ludwig, “that you must do what I tell you to do?”
“I understand,” replied Winters.
They turned into a deserted part of town and stopped before an old shack where a lamp burned. “Dismount, Winters.”
Slowly Winters eased himself down.
Two strangers came out. Bright moonlight revealed one as of excellent proportions, alert, suspicious. “Who comes now?” this one asked coldly.
“Ipswitch,” said Ludwig, “this is Deputy Marshal Lee Winters, reputedly of considerable means. Winters, my servant Nelson Ipswitch. You will bow to him as your superior in handling guns.” Winters nodded with marked slowness. “My superior,” he drawled.
“And this,” said Ludwig, “is my other servant, Darby Faw. He, like yourself, moves very slowly. You see how it is, Winters. Both of my servants are subject to my will. One I have made extremely fast; one, extremely slow.”
“Slow, like me,” said Winters.
“Exactly,” said Ludwig. “Now, Winters, we shall waste no more time. I have a mission for you.”
“Mission?”
“Yes. You will go to your home, collect all of your money and bring it here to me.”
Winters said draggily, “Bring you all my money?”
“Exactly. You are under my power, Winters. You will do as I say. Get on your horse and ride. You will return here in exactly twenty minutes. You are in my power, Winters. Do as I have told you.”
“But I couldn’t do that,” Winters protested, his words pouring like cold molasses. “I couldn’t give you my money.”
“You would disobey your master?”
“Ye-e-e-s,” said Winters.
“That is too bad,” said Ludwig. “For your disobedience, we shall have to kill you. Ipswitch, get ready.”
Ipswitch stepped briskly in front of Winters. “I always give my adversary five seconds before I draw. Go ahead, Winters.”
“No,” Winters objected, “I—don’t—want— no—gunfight. I—couldn’t—”
“You have no choice, Winters,” Ludwig told him crisply. “Ipswitch has his orders. He never disobeys.”
“Go for your gun, Winters,” snarled Ipswitch. Winters sleeved his forehead. “You’ve—got— too—much—”
“I’m counting five on you, Winters. One!”
Winters lowered his hand, gripped his gun.
“Two!” snapped Ipswitch. “Three! Four!”
He waited, but Winters didn’t wait. Slowness suddenly ceased. In one swift motion his gun came up, his left hand palmed its hammer. Ipswitch staggered back, fell, kicked twice, and was dead. Winters whirled as Ludwig’s gun came from an underarm holster. Ludwig fired, but it was downward into his own flesh. Lee’s third bullet knocked Darby Faw into a squatting heap with a gun smoking in his dead hand.
* * * *
Before Doc Bogannon had recovered from worries for Winters, his batwings swung in.
“Winters! Come in, Winters.”
Winters strode to a table with a heavy canvas bag. “There’s their loot, Doc. I reckon your fellow citizens as it belongs to can come and get it.”
Soon he was surrounded by curious guests. Bogie was among them. “Winters, you had me scared; I thought Ludwig had put a spell on you.”
“That’s what Ludwig thought, too,” responded Winters. “But while he told me I was slow, I was telling myself I was fast. You heard him say he had to have cooperation in order to mesmerize a man. Well, I didn’t cooperate.”
THE THREE FATES
Real Western Stories, February 1958
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters had heard a rumor that one Nick Olfinger, new on his list of wanted monkeys, was hiding in a weird, lonely valley west of Forlorn Gap known as Terre des Revenantes—land of ghosts. Near mid-day in that valley he pulled up in nervous surprise before a rounded hill or mound where, on its southern face
, fresh earth had been thrown up from a pit. His horse Cannon Ball snorted uneasily and Winters, warned of impending action, tightened bridle and knee holds.
Then he saw an object which caused his scalp to creep and his hat to become loose on his head. On a scraped-out shelf of earth bare bones had been assembled to form a human skeleton. Winters and his horse were of one mind then, but before thought could be translated into homeward action, an apparition appeared, three ghosts marching in step over this ancient mound’s curved summit.
They carried a long box. Two held handles on opposite sides near its front; their companion supported its rear. Tall and slim, dressed in long black coats and small black hats, had they looked slightly more human Lee would have accepted them as a trio of undertakers. Men never wore more funereal expressions, and that long box they carried would have served handsomely as a coffin.
They put their burden down, faced Winters, bowed as if performing a ceremonial, and said in unison, “Good-day to you, sir.”
Winters gave a start. “Huh! I mean, howdy.”
One of them said, “We did not mean to startle you. I trust you will forgive us. We are three distinguished and scholarly Englishmen from Oxford. Permit me, sir, I am Sir Edward Kiewit, Knight of Tombs and Hidden Secrets.” He indicated his nearer companion, a dignified gentleman and, his longer nose excepted, much like Sir Edward.
This one bowed graciously. “I am Sir Frederick Peers, Knight of Red Garters, Round Tables and Spoons, sir, knighted by her young and gracious majesty, Queen Victoria, long may she reign.”
Number three lifted heavy eyebrows at Winters. His eyes, deep wells of darkness, gave Lee cold shivers. This one bowed less ostentatiously than had his companions. His voice had that depth and resonance to be heard when someone spoke in a vast empty hall. “I,” he said, “am Sir George Yonderlook, Knight of Doom and Finality.” He indicated with a flabby gesture his two companions. “We three are specially gifted, in that we commune with spirits.”
“And,” said Sir Long Nose, “we walk and talk with those long dead.”
“Moreover,” said Sir Edward Kiewit, “where there are those who would hide their secrets from us, we desecrate their graves, dig up their bones, expose them to public view, and then sell them, as one might sell a cord of firewood, or a pumpkin at Hallowe’en. As arbiters of human destiny, we also occupy roles as inexorable as Time, as cold as northern winds and as unconquerable as shifting sands. In that awe-inspiring triumvirate, I am What.”