How the West Was Weird, Vol. 2

by Barry Reese

  “I’m here with a message,” Hane said. “You wanted the means by which to see the law upheld. You have it now. No more sacrifices of good men. No more incantations and late night manipulations. I will be your marshal, the man who goes into the badlands beyond what any man can comprehend and comes back with those who commit tres-passes against all laws.”

  “I—I—” Parker stammered. “You come from the Master?”

  “You have no idea,” Hane commented coldly. “I’ve already started the work I’ve been given.” He flung two badges at Parker. “The murderers of Molly Ferguson have been captured and dealt with.” He gestured out the window toward the Judge’s perfect view of his gallows. Two bodies swung from the end of ropes. Borton and Maker.

  “And,” Parker said, a vestige of indignant self-importance still alive, “if I refuse?”

  “Won’t matter,” Hane said. “His work will go on long after you’re boiled in brimstone, Judge.”

  “Here,” Parker offered, picking up one of the badges Hane had just tossed at him. “You’ll need this.”

  “No,” Hane argued. As he did, a small blotch of silver appeared on the right side of his coat, on his chest. It flowed smoothly on the black cloth, shifting and changing, forming finally into a star. A glimmering marshal’s star. “I’ve got one.”

  “What about men?” Parker said, eager to please what-ever arcane powers were at work. “I’ll put every man I’ve got at your command.”

  “No need,” Hane waved again at the glass pane to Parker’s right. The Judge gasped audibly. The men on horseback outside his window had not been there seconds before. There were three of them, each one Parker recognized to his own horror. A disgustingly fat man, the muscles and tendons of his neck exposed through a yawning wound. A shriveled husk in a saddle, flaps of skin jiggling like a turkey’s comb beneath his chin. And an Indian, a Creek Parker knew, sitting high in the saddle, a hat with six buttons sewed on its crown. Parker’s eyes darted to the hat’s near twin, nailed to the office wall to his left. Hane continued, “I’ve got all the posse I’ll need. You’ve already seen to that, Judge.”

  Hane turned, his coattails making a noise like dying breath as he moved, and started to leave. Isaac Parker jumped to his feet, finally overcome with confusion. “I—I don’t understand any of this, Hane!”

  Sam Hane hesitated at the door. He turned to face Parker. As he opened his lips to speak, Parker stared at Hane’s neck. A scar encircled it, a scar resembling the rope of a hangman’s noose. “Like the Book says, Judge,” Hane’s scar burned brightly with each word like hot embers of a new fire, “He does work in mysterious ways.”

  BEAST OF THE BLACK HILLS

  by Tony Wilson

  When the Great Sioux Nation looked out over the plains, it saw a dark island rising up out of the prairie. This was a sacred place where the earth touched the sky, where the Great Spirit dwelled and where the four winds met. These Black Hills were the center of the world to the Lakota. That is until one George Armstrong Custer had to go and fuck it up for everybody.

  The Treaty of Fort Laramie in 1868 was supposed to put an end to most of the bloodshed in the region by acknowledging the Lakota’s ownership of the Black Hills and promising to keep paleface assholes like myself from settling in their backyard. It was a good plan on paper, but for years settlers had been spreading stories about large deposits of gold hidden away in the mountains. People’s imaginations ran wild and next thing you know folks are sneaking over the reservation’s borders in violation of the treaty. They’re like children. The first thing they want is the last thing you told them they can’t have.

  In ’74, Custer led an expedition out of Bismarck southward into the Hills. The mission was to find a good place to build a fort, hopefully find a safe route to the southwest, and, of course, to keep an eye out for any gold. Not even a fortnight into the journey one of the miners in the party found gold in a creek next to their campsite. Word eventually got out to the press back east and suddenly the Lakota had a whole bunch of uninvited guests rummaging about on their supposedly protected land. They were not amused.

  Within a year, a delegation of Sioux leaders traveled to Washington to discuss the problem with President Grant personally. Congress had concocted a brilliant idea to solve the problem. The government would buy out the tribes and resettle them in Indian Territory. Insulted and annoyed by the whole thing, Spotted Tail summed it up nicely for the smiling white men in Washington. He said, “If it is such a good country, you ought to send the white men now in our country there and let us alone.” War soon followed and by ’77 the US Government had claimed the region as its own.

  Greed is a monster lurking within the hearts of all men. The more you feed it, the bigger it gets. You keep feeding it and eventually that beast consumes a man completely, leaving him incapable of doing anything that doesn’t feed the creature. Once they confirmed that there was gold in the Black Hills, there was no stopping the rush of greedy folks looking for their big break. One more stream, one more day and one more pan. That payday is always just around the corner and if only they had more time.

  Unlike most folks, greed didn’t bring me up this way. I’m content with my place in this world. I know what I’m good at and good for: hunting down other men. It was a hard lesson I learned after the war. Sure, the money is all right. It keeps me in whiskey and ammunition. Occasionally pays for some company on a cold night. I’ve made peace with it. What brings me to the Black Hills is someone else’s greed; a voice from the past, when I was a different kind of man.

  It was late in the summer of ’79 when I finally caught up with him. It was a decent ride north of Buffalo Gap and I didn’t get my lead until late in the day. I figured he would’ve been looking for cards or dice, so the general store was the last place I visited. Good thing the moon was full that night or I probably would’ve rode right by him. Being so late in the evening, I was looking for a quiet spot off the road when I saw the glint of moonlight on metal near the tree line on my left. I slid a fresh plug of tobacco into my cheek and nudged my horse off the road into the buffalo grass.

  What I was expecting to see was something akin to my quarry sifting in a creek after dark like a damn fool. As ridiculous as that would’ve been, I’ve seen it before and I wouldn’t have batted an eye. Folks who get the fever for gold are liable to do all sorts of crazy things. Just ask any prospector that’s followed his mule around for three days because he thought it swallowed a nugget. No, what I saw was something far more uncivilized.

  As I approached the line of elm trees, I heard a horse whinny about thirty yards away. I thought maybe I’d spooked it, but it was clearly more agitated with what was going on under that tree. That’s when another flash of moonlight revealed the head of a shovel throwing a load of dirt into the tree line. I reached for my Winchester rifle on instinct and pulled it out of its scabbard dangling from the saddle. There was always a chance I was wrong about the identity of my ghoulish friend.

  “Now you know as well as I do that anyone with gold teeth wouldn’t be buried out here in the ass-end of nowhere,” I said as I steadied my horse near the grave.

  The shovel shot straight up and traced a tight circle in the air. He was ready to take a swing at the first thing he saw. I answered the challenge by spitting a nice stream of tobacco juice on to its blade.

  “I knew you were shit at cards, but if you’ve resigned yourself to robbing graves I’m not sure we can be friends anymore, Adam.”

  He stood up so he could peer over the edge of the grave. Dirty red hair, a patchy beard, and two beady eyes. It was “Irish” Adam Logue all right. He’d aged quite a bit, but he still certainly hadn’t gotten any wiser. “Chance Raney?”

  I painted the shovel with more tobacco juice.

  “Goddamnit, Raney! Always was worse than a damn grasshopper.” He drove the shovel back into the ground and wiped his hands on his already filthy shirt. “How’d you find me?”

  “I was in Buffalo Gap pick
ing up some supplies and I inquired if anyone had seen the unluckiest gambler in the Dakota Territory. Luckily, Texas Tim Wilder ran off to Mexico to hide from the law or they might have been confused.”

  Adam took a swig from his canteen and rubbed his forehead. “Har har. Better question, then, why were you looking for me?”

  “I’d be happy to tell you all about it, but I’m not going to sit here and have a conversation with someone standing in another man’s grave.”

  He eyed me with suspicion. “Promise not to spit any of that shit on me?”

  I dropped off my horse and offered him a hand. “Aw, ya big baby. It was just the one time and I swear I was aiming for the other guy.”

  As I pulled him up out of the hole, I got a better look at him in the moonlight. To put it nicely, he looked like he’d been dragged across the badlands behind someone else’s horse. His eyes were dark and sunken, his features gaunt. The stench coming off of him was sour and earthy, the result of weeks without a shower. He’d been feeding the monster all right.

  “I know, I know. I smell worse than the devil’s asshole.”

  I smirked and leaned my back against the old elm. Even after all these years, it was easy to slip back into the old banter.

  “Who sent ya? Hearst’s boys out of Deadwood? If you missed my company, Raney, I’d have run into you long before now.”

  “I did pass through Deadwood. It didn’t take long to run into all the new friends you made up there. Heard about you losing your claim. Most fools would’ve stopped there and went home to lick their wounds.”

  “I... I was on a hot streak. Hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night. That sonovabitch dealer cheated me! Dealt me from the bottom on the last hand.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “If your streak was so hot, how’d you end up in such a tight spot where you had to bet your claim to begin with?”

  He avoided my gaze and shrugged his shoulders. Lying to other people was one thing, but it’s hard to pity a man lying to himself.

  “Adam, what in the hell were you thinking? Losing the claim was bad enough, but you weren’t satisfied with that little fuckup. You had to take it to a whole other level like always, didn’t ya?”

  “I had that extra money locked up in my room! Somebody stole it,” he fumed. “I swear to you, Raney, I had that money.”

  Maybe I let our past together blind me, but I believed him. I could always tell when he was lying. That’s why he was so sorry at cards. He never could bluff for shit.

  Adam poured the rest of his canteen over his head and took a deep breath. “Well, if I have a choice between dead or alive, let’s just go ahead and do this. I ain’t giving those assholes the satisfaction.”

  That caught me off guard. “Adam, I’m a hard man, but I owe you more than that. Besides I’m not trying to claim your damn bounty.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Nope,” I said. I wiped the sweat from my brow and decided not to volunteer any more information. I never miss an opportunity to make someone squirm.

  Adam thought about it for a moment. His forehead wrinkled up and I watched him work it out.

  “Lily?”

  “The one and only,” I grinned.

  “Shit. She okay?”

  “What do you think? She’s already pissed. Wait until she hears that you lost the claim.”

  “What about Matthew?”

  “He was doing fine when I left. Just starting to talk too.”

  Adam beamed with pride. “Talking? What’d he say?”

  “Tell my good-for-nothing daddy to get his sorry ass home.”

  He chucked his empty canteen at me. “It’s no wonder people don’t like you.”

  “Good thing I don’t like people,” I said, emphasizing it with another stream of tobacco spit. “Now that you know who sent me, let’s talk about the why. Lily wants you back in Des Moines.”

  “Wants me back or needs me back?”

  “Needs. Her father passed away a couple months ago. She’s helping her mother as best she can, but keeping that ranch going without a man around to kick those cowboys in the ass is proving to be too much for them. It’s time for you to head home.”

  I could see it in his eyes before he even opened his mouth. He wasn’t leaving this place without a fight. I briefly considered hogtying him over the back of my horse, but listening to him bitch all the way back to Iowa didn’t strike me as much fun.

  “I can’t. Not now, Raney,” he pleaded. “I know I messed up with the claim, but I’m chasing something even better.”

  I folded my arms and glared at him. “Cut the shit, Adam! You’re always chasing something better. You got responsi-bilities back home and I promised I’d get you back there. No more chasing fool’s gold. You need to be a man and go take care of your family.”

  “Give me a couple days. I’ll change your mind, I swear. I’ve got... uh... a map of sorts. Did you hear about the stagecoach robbery in Canyon Springs last year?

  “The Monitor out of Deadwoood?”

  “Yeah. It was loaded up with gold from the Homestake mine.”

  “I heard all about it. Lots of folks went after it to get their share of the reward money. I thought they recovered all of it.”

  “Most of it. There were two huge gold ingots that were never found. Believe me, they’re out there and I’ve got something that’ll point the way to where they were stashed.”

  “Horseshit.”

  “Ten thousand dollars worth of horseshit. C’mon, give me a couple of days. We check it out and if the gold’s not there, I’ll lead the way back to Des Moines. What do we got to lose?”

  “Nothing. But we could sure as hell gain a chest full of arrows from pissed off Lakota.”

  “We could find a treasure that’ll right all my wrongs back home and set my family up for their rest of their lives. It’s worth a look, Raney. Please.”

  I mulled it over. He made it sound so damn easy. I knew we should head straight for Iowa, but I also wanted to trust him for old time’s sake. “Fine. Couple days and we don’t find nothing, we head for home. Now, where’s this map of yours?”

  Adam jerked a thumb at the grave behind him and smiled.

  When someone tells you there’s a treasure map buried in a grave, what should you ask first? How do you know? Who is buried there? Do you have any other delusions I should be aware of? Let’s start with who, because at least that part sort of made sense to me.

  That elm tree we were standing under happened to be the final resting place of a highwayman and horse thief known by the moniker of Lame Johnny. Word was that his gang was responsible for knocking over the Monitor, an iron-armored stagecoach, and making off with the Homestake’s monthly shipment. The Homestake put up reward money and encouraged posses to go round up their missing property. I heard it took ‘em a little more than a month to get the job done. Apparently, I heard wrong.

  There were two sizable gold ingots still out there somewhere. The last attempt to discern where the two remaining gold ingots were is how Lame Johnny ended up as worm food. The law caught up with him and put him on the Sydney-Deadwood Stage heading north out of Chadron, Nebraska. Somewhere north of Buffalo Gap a group of vigilantes stopped the stage, dragged his ass out of there, and threatened to stretch his neck if he didn’t tell them where the gold was. For the first time ever, Lame Johnny managed to keep his big mouth shut. Unfortunately, they called his bluff and hung him from the elm tree right then and there.

  Adam said he ran into some cattle drovers up near Deadwood that claimed they found the body still swinging the next day and were nice enough to put him in the ground. I suppose that’d be an odd thing to lie about, so the tale held water up to that point. Then, he had to go and tell me about the Miracle Man.

  “You dreamed it, Adam. You drank too much that night, pissed your britches, and had a weird dream.”

  He shook his head violently. “No, no, no! I did not dream it up. He was real as you are now! I’ve got the elixir in my pack.” He r
eached into one of his saddle bags and pulled out a small dirty bottle full of green liquid. “See, this is the bottle I bought from him.”

  “The gangly Indian in the top hat and suit?”

  “Yup.”

  I scratched my beard and thought about the dozen or so reasons that didn’t make a damn bit of sense. “What in the hell was a Sioux doing all fancied up like a banker?”

  “How should I know! I mean I don’t know if he was even Sioux. His face was all leathery and kinda red from the sun. You know how they get. He had some yellow dots painted on his forehead. Two long black braids of hair tied off with red bands. That says Indian to me. Besides, who else is going to be able to sneak up on me at my campfire in the middle of the night?”

  I let loose a gut laugh. “Damn near anybody the way you snore, friend.”

  “Look, I opened my eyes and he was sitting on the other side of the fire. Scared the shit out of me. He started asking me questions in pretty good English. He wanted to know what I was looking for, so I told him. It just slipped right out. He grinned at me real big and said he could help me find the gold.”

  “Why would he want to help you do anything?”

  “Because I had money to buy his information, idiot! He said the best thing to do would be to ask Lame Johnny himself. And I said, ‘How can I do that seeing he’s dead?’ That’s when he pulled out the elixir.”

  “And told you to go dig up Johnny?”

  “Just Johnny’s head. I don’t need the rest. But I have to take the head to a crossroads near here where the... the... uh... veil between our world and the other side is real thin like. And it had to be during a blue moon too! He was very firm about that. The elixir will only last as long as the blue moon. When it fades, so does the power of the elixir.” He wiggled his fingers in the air to make sure I got it.