Straight Outta Tombstone

by David Boop

  I looked at McGoo, then back at the outlaws. “Sorry to point this out, boys, but you missed your chance.” I slid back my fedora to reveal the bullet hole in the center of my forehead. “I’m already dead—I’m a zombie. You can’t kill me.”

  I tugged down my sport jacket to show the prominent stitched-up bullet holes across the chest from yet another time I had been gunned down in the street.

  “It’ll have to do,” McClantock said, and his gunslinger gang members nodded vigorously. “You being dead actually works to our advantage.”

  “How do you figure?” McGoo asked, fidgeting with his grip on the service revolvers.

  “Because we’re all ghost gunslingers,” Deadeye One-Eye explained. He pulled out both of his Colt pistols; Moondance McClantock did the same, as did all of his boys. “All we have are ghost bullets—and as you saw with Mild Bill, ghost bullets do just fine against the undead.”

  “I’m a zombie, not a ghost,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

  Moondance McClantock frowned, as if he hadn’t considered that. I glanced over at Sheyenne, who waited at the boardwalk. She spread her hands, clearly not knowing the answer. The ghost gunslingers didn’t know either.

  Robin marched over to stand close to me, her expression stern. “You all have to stop this, right now. It’s against the law.”

  Seeing that all of the vengeful ghost gunslingers had drawn their weapons, I urgently pushed her out of the way. “McGoo, get her out of here. I don’t want either of you in the line of fire. Robin’s been lucky enough once today.”

  She tried to argue, but McGoo didn’t. Though she resisted, he escorted her toward the boardwalk.

  As soon as they were three steps away, Moondance McClantock and his gang lifted their revolvers, ready to gun me down. The ghost gunslingers aimed their weapons at me, and the staccato sound of twelve hammers being cocked back sounded like a high-caliber rattlesnake.

  I was standing there all by myself in the middle of the street, arms loose at my sides—or as loose as a zombie’s arms could be. I held my .38 in my right hand, but how could that stand against six pairs of six-shooters full of ghost bullets? Besides, my real bullets would just pass through the outlaw apparitions, but the ghost bullets were not likely to pass harmlessly through me.

  As the tension ratcheted up, the town clock started bonging again—apparently the previous bells had just been a warm-up for high midnight. It all happened very quickly.

  Just as they all opened fire at their target of a lone, and hopefully brave, zombie detective standing in the middle of the main street, McGoo let out a shout and threw himself in front of me like a human shield, flailing his arms. The twelve ghostly Colts roared with the sound of thunder.

  From the boardwalk, Sheyenne and Robin both screamed.

  In instant reaction, I managed not to fire my .38—a good thing, or I would have shot my Best Human Friend in the back, and he was already facing a storm of bullets from Moondance McClantock and his gang. The gunfire went on and on until the outlaws emptied their revolvers into my friend.

  I expected McGoo to drop lifeless to the ground. Instead, he stood there and turned to look at me in astonishment. “Well, that was one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done.”

  Robin bounded into the street, grabbing McGoo’s shirt, patting him down, looking for the dozens of bullet holes. But there were none.

  He showed me a nervous, relieved grin while the ghost gunslingers gaped at him, surprised and annoyed. “I guess I’m smarter than I thought I was,” McGoo said. “I figured it out, Shamble. Robin wasn’t just lucky earlier, and she didn’t dodge the bullets when Deadeye One-Eye gunned down Mild Bill. Ghost bullets can kill ghosts, but they don’t harm normal people, in the same way that normal bullets don’t harm ghosts.”

  I still couldn’t believe he was intact. “That was an awfully idiotic way to test a theory, McGoo.”

  “You wanted me to think it through for a day or two? I didn’t really have the time to do my due diligence. I had to act right away.” He patted his chest again, just in case he had missed a few dozen bullet holes.

  I felt a lump in my throat, and it wasn’t from anything nasty I had swallowed. “Thanks, McGoo. You saved me.”

  Moondance McClantock shouted, “Reload, boys! Time for round two.”

  Now Robin stormed forward, striding down the main street toward the ghost gunslingers. I could tell by That Look on her face that she was angry now, really angry—and no one got in Robin Deyer’s way when she was angry. “Oh, no you don’t!” She faced the twelve six-guns, and even if she hadn’t already seen proof that ghost bullets couldn’t harm her, I think she would have walked right up to the surly gunslingers regardless. “You are not allowed.”

  Robin’s handbag was actually more of a satchel for legal documents, and she had been working with Mild Bill’s ghost nonstop until the day of the Wild West Show. Now she reached into her satchel and yanked out a folded document, waving it in the faces of the ghost gunslingers. “Holster your guns. You are not allowed—it says right here.”

  McClantock guffawed. “Oh, little lady! So now you’re the lawman?”

  “Not the lawman,” Robin said with a sniff. “I am the law. Legal contracts. You signed this yourself.”

  “Not me.” McClantock adjusted his turquoise bracelets and straightened his bolo tie. “That was our agent.”

  “And he has power of attorney. It’s signed in blood.”

  “Not our blood, borrowed blood.”

  “It’s still legally binding. The terms specifically state ‘a limited engagement, one and only one exhibition of gunplay.’ Your agent was very specific, and a ruthless negotiator. You all insisted on the terms.” She jabbed her fingers at the contract. “You emptied your guns. You shot at your target. Therefore your legal obligations have been satisfied. You are no longer allowed to fire any bullets at Mr. Chambeaux, whether for vengeance or for entertainment purposes. You cannot rescind the contract.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said McClantock. “That wasn’t the spirit of the contract.”

  “It’s the letter of the law,” Robin said.

  The gunslinger with the big beard and big eyebrows said, “Better be careful, boss—we don’t want our agent to dump us.”

  Deadeye One-Eye groaned in disgust. “Why do you think I went freelance? I’ve told you guys over and over that you have to read your contracts! It’s your own damn fault.”

  Sensing there was more fun to be had at the Wild West Show even after the gunfire, the skittish crowd began to reappear. Apparently they had shut off the water in their bathtubs, checked on their pets, stirred the burning casserole on the stove, and whatever other excuses they had made to get out of the danger zone.

  The unkempt gunslinger ghosts stood, grumbling. They gathered around Robin’s copy of the contract, scrutinizing the clauses again and again to find some loophole—which was difficult, as many of them were illiterate.

  The ghost of Mild Bill’s ghost shimmered in the air before them. He clapped his hands and grinned at the spectators. “Show’s not over yet, folks! Lots more fun all through the night.”

  Albert the ghoul began picking up dust-encrusted remnants of his barbecued bones scattered over the ground. He inspected them with a drooping, milky eye, painted more sauce over the dirt, and offered them for sale again.

  Still muttering, Moondance McClantock tucked the folded copy of the contract in his vest, and then all the ghost gunslingers vanished into the darkness.

  Sheyenne ran forward from the boardwalk, looking restored now. The ectoplasmic blood in her makeshift bandage had faded. I cocked my fedora and said in a completely unconvincing drawl. “You look pretty as a picture, Miss Sheyenne.” Then I turned to Mild Bill’s ghost. “Show’s over for us. We’ve had enough of this sort of entertainment. I prefer something a little more noir.”

  McGoo was already telling tall tales to the enthusiastic audience members, and I let him have his day in the moonligh
t. His selfless bravery had certainly touched me.

  But when the crowd congratulated me on my victory over the ghost outlaws, insisting that they’d really wanted to help, if it weren’t for so many other obligations—I didn’t want to hear the excuses. I wondered how great-great-umpty-ump grandpappy Marshal Dirk Chambeaux had felt in the Old West facing outlaws and bank robbers.

  “Too bad we can’t just ride off into the sunset,” Sheyenne said. I felt a tingle as she slipped a ghostly arm through mine.

  I shook my head. “No way—sunset is when things start hopping in the Unnatural Quarter.”

  “Then let’s get hopping,” she said.

  Together, we all left the cursed Indian burial ground, looking for a good time on our own.

  COYOTE

  NAOMI BRETT ROURKE

  The wrinkled face of the hills surrounded the little town. Patchwork light and dark rolled its way across the hills and the valleys like good and evil crawling across the earth. Wispy clouds shaded the baking sun but never for long. The ground was dry, parched, and dusty. The old man shaded his eyes from the strong glare. It was after midday and the heat of the sun was boiling down in waves—in pulses a man could feel in his face, chest, and hands.

  “Granddaughter,” he said in a querulous voice, “get me a drink of water.”

  “Yes, Grandfather,” the girl answered. She was tall and slim, with a river of blue-black hair streaming down her back. She was young, only sixteen, but she was already beautiful and would make a good wife for a strong Apache man, if only she didn’t have the dark circles under her eyes. Dark circles that spoke of nightmares and long nights of remembrance. She wore a white calico shirt and a faded blue-and-white skirt, moccasins, and many necklaces of beadwork and shell. She came back with a dipper of water and gave it to her grandfather, watching as he tipped the cup and slowly drank it. She accepted it, replaced it, and came to sit beside the old man.

  The day was sweltering and the old man had the last bit of shade under the roof of the local store. Dewdrops of sweat started on the girl’s hairline but she made no move to wipe them off. Her grandfather, even with his long-sleeve cotton shirt, ancient vest, pants, kilt, and long moccasin boots, looked cool and remote. His white hair was tied with a headband and his kerchief, red faded to coral by constant washings, was tied around his neck. He also wore long necklaces of shell, and on his vest, odd designs worked in beads livened the rusty brown of the old garment.

  The street was busy although most of the townsfolk were inside trying to escape from the Arizona sun. The old man and his granddaughter could not enter a store. They were Apache, and the Apache were not welcome in most of the stores and saloons in the white town. Apache still fought outside the town in the high hills and valleys, killing the pale interlopers as often as they could, but they did not dare come into the town. The grandfather’s village had been destroyed in one of the many skirmishes against the white government and they went home to poverty every night on the reservation, but every day the old man insisted on sitting in the town.

  A cowboy on a horse went by, both filthy with red dust, and the man looked at the girl with brief interest. Then he saw the old man and his face changed. He spat.

  “Damn Apache.” And he was gone, his horse trotting slowly down the dirt road, kicking up tufts of dust with every step.

  The girl’s hands clawed and her eyes darted to her grandfather and back. He never even blinked.

  The old man hadn’t always sat in the town. When his village was several miles from the town, he hadn’t cared what went on with the whites and with their village. The great leader Cochise had made a treaty, and his people, the Chiricahua Apache, remained at peace with the whites until his death, even though other Apache tribes still marauded elsewhere. Then the treaty was broken, and the old man’s village was destroyed, the young men killed or driven off and the women and babes killed. The old man’s wife died with their village, her heart breaking while the bullet pierced her brain. The whites couldn’t tell the Apache tribes from one another. They had no way of knowing that the old man’s tribe, which had remained at peace, and the other tribe, the tribe that was still killing and pillaging in the many hills and valleys, were two entirely different entities. To the whites, the name Apache was a name to fear and mistrust. The old man and his granddaughter lived on the reservation, with meager stores, boredom, and disease, but still the old man and the girl came into the town every day on two mules and sat and looked at the white town.

  A shadow fell over the two. The old man looked up and saw a tall dandy—black velvet coat, embroidered waistcoat, glittering watch-chain and ring, and highly shined red boots, blood red boots, even in the dust of the road.

  “Old Man,” he said. “You’re in my way.”

  The girl looked up in anger and down at his boots. The fine gentleman with the shiny red boots, blood red, dark red. Her eyes widened with recognition, and then narrowed with hate. So many years waiting and here he was. Did the city slicker recognize her? It did not matter.

  “Itza-chu.”

  “What?” The dandy’s eyes saw her, saw her fury.

  “Itza-chu. It’s his name. It means Great Hawk. You should address him by his name.”

  “I should, should I?” The man threw back his head and laughed. His sandy blond hair under his expensive hat caught the light, looking like gold, or dread. “He doesn’t look too much like a great hawk to me. More like a little chicken.” He threw out his foot and kicked the old man. He swayed. The girl’s eyes snapped and she gathered her legs under her to rise. He was the subject of her dreams. Recurring dreams. Pointing fingers. Yelling of the crowd. The sheriff tying her father’s hands behind him. Escorting him to the jail.

  “No, jeeken,” the Apache murmured. Other than regaining his balance after the kick, he had not moved.

  “‘No, jee-ken,’” the fop said, “stay where you are and let the great hawk fight his own battles. Or little chicken.” His voice took on a higher tone, one of mocking distain. “Here, chickie, chickie.”

  Itza-chu did not look at the man but continued looking out across the dirt street.

  “There is more than enough space for you to get by me. I am not in your way,” he commented softly.

  “Not in my way! You damn Apache…”

  The girl shot to her feet. His lie had killed her father. The dandy had stood with the sheriff, pointing at her father. He did it. That Injun. He killed him. And they believed him. Believed him because he was a white man and not Apache. Nothing she could say would change the sheriff’s mind. He didn’t do it. That man’s lying. Just a little bit of a girl, a little Apache girl in beads and braids. He didn’t do it. The sheriff shook his head slowly, sadly.

  “Leave him alone!”

  “Jeeken! Sit down.”

  The girl stood glaring at the dandy, who smirked at her, and she slowly sank back down, to sit cross-legged by the old man.

  “Perhaps, jeeken,” Itza-chu murmured, “you should tell the man a story.” The girl looked up in surprise at her grandfather, and then, examined the ground, trembling.

  “A story,” the man jeered. “What makes you think I want to hear a damn Apache tale?” He looked at the girl and his expression changed with the speed of horses across the desert. “Maybe I’ll just take this little girl and teach her a thing or two.” He grabbed the girl’s brown arm and yanked her to her feet. One of her necklaces burst, spilling shells that went dancing over the wooden walkway in front of the store. Their plink, plink, plink sounded loud in the hot air.

  “No,” the old man insisted in the same calm tone. “You must hear the story first. You might hear something that you like. That you value. You might learn.”

  “Learn? Learn? Learn from an Injun? From an Apache? Now, that’s funny.” He looked at the old man, who still hadn’t moved and who still hadn’t raised his voice. The old man was silent. The white man looked at the girl; her eyes still looked at the ground, but suddenly the dandy thought they looked
sly, like a thieving cat or a horse just before she bites. He hesitated, thinking.

  The slicker nodded. “All right. All right. You tell me a story and if I like it, I won’t beat the Injun out of your sorry hide.” He threw the girl down in the dirt and leaned against a post, putting his hands in his pockets and bringing up one leg nonchalantly to rest on the post. “Go on. I’m waiting.”

  “She will tell you the story,” the old man said, watching as the girl righted herself and brushed off the dirt, “but you must swear to go and leave us if you learn from it.”

  The man nodded, smirking, and waved his arm.

  “Cocheta,” the old man smiled, his first smile in many years, “tell the story of Coyote and Yellow Jacket. Begin.”

  “Cocheta,” the dandy snickered, “that your name?”

  Cocheta glanced at him and looked down again. She put a hand in her pocket and took out a small drawstring bag. Putting her hand in the bag, she pulled out vials of yellow, blue, red, and black powder. Singing quietly to herself, she drew a circle, and within it she drew designs in the four colors, East, South, West, and North, red for blood, black for strength, white for purity, and blue for wisdom. The dandy sighed noisily, bored. She ignored him and continued to sing, passing her hands over the powder. She was silent for a while, and then began.

  “This tale was given to me by our brothers the Jicarilla Apache, was given to me by Lolotea, daughter of—”

  “Do you really think I want to hear this stuff?” the dandy cried. “What’s wrong with you? Can’t you tell a damn story? Get on with it.”

  “This is the way we tell our stories,” the girl muttered. To the dandy, she said, “I will tell you the way a white man will understand.”

  “Good,” said the white man.

  You know Coyote was a trickster and was always trying to get things other people had—their wives, their food, their homes. One day Coyote was walking and came upon Yellow Jacket walking with a bag. Coyote addressed him, “Yellow Jacket, what is in your bag?” Coyote thought that Yellow Jacket must have good food in the bag and Coyote wanted some.