Six Guns Straight From Hell - Tales Of Horror And Dark Fantasy From The Weird Weird West

by Jennifer Campbell-Hicks

  “Well, Mr. Potbury; I’ve come about a delicate matter of some urgency which I think will require your attention. In fact,” continued Miss Abigail, on the verge of tears as she applied a handkerchief to the corner of her eye, “I don’t see how anyone else but you can assist me.”

  “Miss Abigail,” said Mr. Potbury with great sympathy, “it concerns me greatly to see you so distressed. Please believe me when I say I’m willing to do anything and everything in my power to help you with whatever your need may be.”

  “More than a business proprietor in good standing, you are a true friend in times of need,” declared Miss Abigail, whose heart seemed to be greatly touched by the businessman’s show of support.

  “I’m all ears, Miss Abigail,” said Mr. Potbury as he put a hand to his chin and assumed a look of attentiveness.

  Miss Abigail took in a deep breath. “First of all, Mr. Potbury, I’ll have you know that my intention is to disclose the full, unvarnished truth in this matter.”

  Recognizing a cue when he was handed one, Mr. Potbury put in, “Miss Abigail, I can assure you of my complete confidentiality.”

  “Sir, I am greatly comforted already. So I’ll cut to the heart of the matter. As I believe you know, the other night my older sister, who’d been feeling very poorly for a number of days, suddenly took a turn for the worse and passed away peacefully in her bed.”

  “Oh, Miss Abigail, allow me to express my deepest condolences at your loss.”

  “You are kindness itself, Mr. Potbury. Thank you. Now to the matter which – oh!” exclaimed Miss Abigail, who had looked toward the window to be sure that they were alone and suddenly saw a face there.

  “What the devil you think you’re doing! Get away there, boy! Get away there now!” roared Mr. Potbury, who had picked up a poker from his potbelly stove and was rattling it sharply up, down and side to side within the now-empty open window frame. As the young voyeur ran quickly away past the outhouse and out of sight, Mr. Potbury closed the window tight and drew the curtains. After this, he took the added precaution of closing the door.

  “I’m awfully sorry, Miss Abigail,” said the proprietor as he took his seat again. “Don’t mind him. I presume he can’t help himself when there’s a pretty lady in here to look at.”

  “You really do flatter me, sir, and I thank you for the compliment,” replied Miss Abigail with a radiant smile.

  “Please do continue,” said Mr. Potbury with an encouraging gesture of his hand.

  “Well, as I was saying, my sister, who, I think everyone will attest to, was of a disagreeable temper besides looking like an overloaded burro, passed away a couple nights ago. And what I require – that is, what I need... ” Miss Abigail’s voice trailed off.

  “Dear lady, say no more. You need me to raise your sister. Am I right?”

  “Oh, Mr. Potbury; if it could be done, I really should be most obliged.”

  “I see no reason why it can’t be done, provided all the requirements are met,” responded Mr. Potbury. “And let me just say how noble and devoted it is of you to take this measure to be reunited with your dearly departed sister.”

  Miss Abigail did not immediately return Mr. Potbury’s smile. “Mr. Potbury,” she began, “truth be told, there is another element to this. My motives are perhaps not entirely altruistic. There is the very important matter of a missing strong-box.”

  “A missing strong-box?”

  “Yes; and it is imperative that I locate it, as it contains certain valuable and prized family heirlooms. After my sister’s untimely death, I searched high and low for it in our shared house but to no avail.”

  “And your sister would know where it is?” inquired Mr. Potbury.

  “Precisely, Mr. Potbury; and I need her to tell me its location. You see, in the days preceding her death, she–perhaps in a state of delirium--must have removed it from its normal hiding place known to us both and secured it elsewhere. I only learned of this after her death.”

  “Say no more, Miss Abigail. I understand and I’ll do what I can.”

  “You’re a true gentleman, Mr. Potbury.”

  “Where is the body of your sister now?”

  “As we speak, my sister is in the care of Mr. Peabody at his undertaker’s parlor down the street. She’s been on ice almost since the time of death.”

  “Fine. That’s just fine,” said Mr. Potbury, who started to record the details on a fresh order form. “So there’ll be no need for an exhumation. Now: did you say that she passed away two nights ago?”

  “Actually, it’s nearer four nights ago now.”

  Mr. Potbury stopped writing and looked up. “Four nights, you say? Hmm.”

  “Well, two–four–five nights. What can that matter?” asked Miss Abigail, who was beginning to become concerned by the serious look on Mr. Potbury’s face. “I’m sure it doesn’t matter to her – least of all her,” added Miss Abigail with a nervous laugh.

  “Miss Abigail, are you aware that my standing recommendation for all clients is that the body be dead for no more than forty-eight hours?”

  “Mr. Potbury, I appeal to you – I implore you! As I said, she’s been on ice for days now. Surely that counts for something,” argued Miss Abigail, who was quickly losing control of her emotions.

  “Miss Abigail, please don’t take on so,” urged Mr. Potbury, trying to sound less businesslike and more like a consoling friend. “I said I would do everything in my power to help you, and I meant it. I am willing to take on this task, but I wish to advise you that there are no guarantees. If I revive your sister at this late date, there is every possibility that she will not quite be herself again. She might be permanently slow in the mind.”

  “Oh, Mr. Potbury, that is precisely how I prefer her,” said Miss Abigail with renewed hope.

  “I am greatly pleased to hear that,” said the proprietor. “Let us proceed again with the required formalities.”

  One by one Mr. Potbury went over the checklist of questions with Miss Abigail, who was able to provide a satisfactory answer to each of them.

  One thing at the end seemed to trouble Miss Abigail.

  “Mr. Potbury,” she began. “I don’t recall your addressing the question of duration.”

  “Duration? Ah, forgive me; I thought you already knew. Normally the renewed ‘lifespan’ of a deceased person will be two to three years. In the case of my deluxe service, ten to twelve years is the optimum range. In any event, the first year is guaranteed.”

  “Two to three years, you say? Why, I had no idea it could be so long,” said Miss Abigail, thinking it over. “Mr. Potbury, I’ll be frank and say to you that all I really need is a few days with her. A week should be more than enough. Anything longer than that, and we’ll just start throwing things at each other.”

  “I’m afraid that it doesn’t work that way,” replied Mr Potbury. “I can’t go against the laws of nature. There is a natural time period for the renewal of life that has to be respected.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Abigail, disappointed but undeterred.

  When the contract was ready and only her signature remained, Miss Abigail, said, “One other thing, Mr Potbury. There were, at the time of my sister’s death, some rather vicious and preposterous allegations made against me by some of my relations and neighbors. The allegations related to the assertion that my sister must have been given poison or something in her meals over a period of days and that I was to blame. Naturally, I don’t think that my sister would believe these completely unsubstantiated allegations, but if she were to, this would perhaps keep me from my rightful claim to the strong-box. So I have a real fear that these people of ill intent might corrupt my sister against me.”

  “Hmm. Here is what I propose,” offered Mr. Potbury. “As soon as I’ve raised your sister and she can stand on her feet, I’ll walk her over to your house and deliver her there. You don’t have to concern yourself about any people along the way putting foolish notions into her head, because she’ll still be in
a daze and won’t know Adam from Eve or a cat from tumbleweed. When I’ve delivered her to you, you just take her inside and set her down in her favorite chair or put her to bed. Within a few days, I’m confident you’ll get the answers you’ve been looking for–provided, of course, that she hasn’t suffered any lingering damage in the head, as I already alluded to. You can expect me sometime this evening.”

  “From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, Mr. Potbury. I’ll be at home all evening waiting for you. Oh–and if for any reason I’m not at home, would you please just set her down on the back porch out of sight of the neighbors.”

  “Just leave the matter entirely in my hands, Miss Abigail, and I think that the results you seek will be attained. I have every confidence the matter will be resolved to your satisfaction. I truly do.”

  As Mr. Potbury saw Miss Abigail out the door, a newly arrived client stood waiting patiently outside the door. Also, standing about ten paces directly behind him in the street was a younger man with a vacant, unblinking expression. The younger man stood awkwardly on his feet, with his arms hanging down loose and heavy. Somehow he looked like a rag doll figure or puppet held up by strings that was liable to collapse to the ground at any moment.

  “Morning, ma’am,” said the first man, removing his hat as Miss Abigail opened her parasol to the morning sun and passed him by.

  “Morning, Potbury,” said the same visitor upon seeing Mr Potbury in the doorway.

  “Ah, Jake I see you’re in town early this morning. And you brought your ranch hand with you, I see. It’s good to see he’s on his feet again. I hope he’s working out well for you. Why don’t you just step inside and tell me –”

  “I ain’t exactly here to make no social call,” interrupted the man in an unfriendly tone. “I just come to settle some business with you before returning to my ranch.”

  “Oh? That so, Jake? And what sort of business is it you refer to?” replied Mr Potbury guardedly.

  “I’ve come to return what you gave me and collect a refund.”

  “What is it you wish to return?” said Mr. Potbury, though he already suspected what it was.

  “You’re looking at it. My ranch hand that you raised the other day.”

  “From here he looks fine to me, Jake.”

  “Well, he ain’t, and that’s a sincere fact. I just can’t use him the way he is. He keeps following me round like a mongrel dog. And he never speaks nor replies exceptin’ to ask the same question over and over again every five minutes. Listen; he’s gettin’ ready to speak again now.”

  From out of the mouth of the dead man came a hollow, almost mechanical sound: “You want me and the boys to bring in them new head of cattle from the hills now, Mr. Hostler?”

  “Why, that’s great. Shows he’s a willing worker – that he’s starting to come to his senses,” said Mr. Potbury eagerly. “It’s a good sign, Jake.”

  “But we drove them cattle more ’an a week ago. And he don’t react to no new instructions.”

  It must have been the last thing he recollects from before he died. He’ll soon be remembering other things and be able to take instructions from you again.”

  “He was the best damn ranch hand and wrangler I ever had,” groused Jake Hostler, as much to himself as Mr. Potbury. “It’s a shame and a waste. I paid good money in good faith. Twenty-four dollars I put down. But you already knew that,” he added, looking like he was about to spit nails.

  “Calm down for a moment, Jake, and hear me out.”

  “I’m as calm as I can be under the circumstances,” replied the rancher with clenched teeth.

  “You’ve got to understand that your ranch hand’s still in a transitional phase, Jake. It’s like he’s still in a dream. If you just wait a couple more days, his full memory of who and what he is’ll come back to him. He’ll be just like he always was; just you wait and see. In the meantime I’d recommend you keep him indoors–even keep him tied up if he won’t stay put.”

  The advice seemed to fall on deaf ears, or on a mind already made up. “Them’s just words, Potbury. You’re just like a lawyer spreading honey over things that reek. I already give it four days, and that’s more ’an enough. Know what I think? I think my ranch hand ain’t right in the head and never will be right in the head. Seems to me it’s a clear-cut case of negligence. So unless you can give me back my twenty-four dollars I paid, I’m goin’ to have to go to the sheriff.”

  “Dammit, Jake. Be reasonable for just one moment. Those are hard words you’re laying at my doorstep.”

  The rancher shook his head. “Nonetheless, them’s the facts of how I feel–and one thing I hate more than anything in all the world is the feeling I’ve been taken in and my hard-earned cash has gone to waste.”

  “I’m sorry you feel this way, Jake. I really am. As I said, if you just wait a couple... ”

  “No use in repeatin’ yourself, Potbury. I already know what you’re about to say. You can’t convince me I got my money’s worth when I know I ain’t. Well, I’ve come here to have my say, and that’s what I done.”

  “I’ve taken notice of it,” said Mr. Potbury bluntly. “The only thing I have to say to you is to give it more time. Seems to me, that’s the intelligent thing to do.”

  The rancher arched back his head as if he’d just been hit by a crumpled wad of paper. “You’ve got no call to be insulting me, Potbury. Maybe I haven’t got the education you have, but I have my integrity.”

  “I’m not insulting you, Jake, not at all. Now why would I be wanting to insult a customer? I’m a businessman, pure and simple, through and through. I only think of what’s good for business, and that includes keeping the customer happy.”

  “Well, I’m not happy.”

  “That’s your prerogative. I just think you’re wrong, is all. You’re going about this all wrong if my opinion is worth anything.”

  “I don’t know that it is,” retorted the rancher with a touch of bitterness in his voice as he began to cross the line from civility to incivility.

  Mr. Potbury opened his mouth as if to say something more but instead bit his lower lip and said nothing.

  “Well,” said the rancher, “I’ve given you fair warning, just the same as I’d give anybody I felt took advantage of me. I’ve tried to settle this dispute in my own way. Now I’m going for the sheriff.”

  With no more to say, Jake Hostler put on his hat and turned sharply away. If he thought Mr. Potbury would call him back, he was mistaken. Holding his head high, he walked down the street toward his buck board wagon that was waiting. Following after him was his ranch hand, who again asked, “You want me and the boys to bring in them new head of cattle from the hills now, Mr. Hostler?”

  After securing his ranch hand in the back of his wagon among sacks of grain and branding irons, Jake Hostler climbed into the front of his wagon. With a crack of his whip, he headed out, a stern, unyielding look fixed on his face as if it had been put there by one of his branding irons.

  A few minutes later a new prospective client was in Mr. Potbury’s office sitting across from him.

  “What’s the name of the person you want raised, Jimmy?” said Mr. Potbury to the young wheelwright apprentice of about nineteen.

  “Not any person, Mr. Potbury,” answered the youth with a concerned look. “It’s my pony, name of Chandelier. We were passing along the trail atop Breakneck Gorge, where I was leading him by the tether, when he lost his footing and fell headlong down into the gorge. I never saw such a horrible sight or heard such a despairing cry in my life. Weren’t more than an hour ago, and I came to you directly. I figure it’d be cheaper to fix up this old horse than to buy a new one.”

  “A horse, you say? I’ve never raised a horse before.”

  “Couldn’t you try it just the same, Mr. Potbury? That horse sure meant a lot to me. He was the best horse I ever had.”

  “Hmm. I just had another client in here awhile ago who said the same thing about a person. Anyway, I just thought of s
omething. Don’t you think that horse of yours must have suffered at least one or two broken legs on the way down that gorge?”

  A realization came to the young man’s eyes suddenly. “I hadn’t considered that till now. I sort of thought that when you brought him back to life, he’d be whole again.”

  “Sorry, Jimmy, but that just wouldn’t be the case. Believe me, you wouldn’t want your horse back if he had a couple of broken legs. You’re better off keeping your money. In fact, wasn’t so long ago I raised Nat McGrue. You remember how a group of drunken men caught him and strung him up outside town because they thought he was the one who held up the Gold Label Saloon? Well, they felt real bad about it when they found out it wasn’t him. So they all chipped in and paid for me to raise him. Trouble was, his neck was still broke. Now when you see him walking around town, his head’s just all limp and resting on his shoulder. That’s about the saddest sight I can imagine.”

  The young man lowered his head. “I’d forgot about that,” he said quietly. “No, I guess I wasn’t thinking clear when I decided to come to you, Mr. Potbury. I’m sorry I used up your time.”

  “Don’t think of it that way, Jimmy. I’ll be happy to be of service if you someday have a horse or family member in good condition that needs raising. You can just save your money for it till then.”

  Jimmy thanked the proprietor and went on his way.

  Mr. Potbury’s next client was a retired shopkeeper named Robert Stanford.

  “I’ve come about my Emily,” explained Mr. Stanford. “I’m not afraid to tell you my heart just about broke when she passed away. She nearly took me with her – and there sure are times when I wish that had been the case.”

  Mr. Stanford heaved a sigh. “We’d been sweethearts since we were sixteen and eighteen years old. That was over forty years ago. I know you may not believe this, but t’weren’t a single day we spent together that we quarreled. I never once raised my voice against her,” he said, close to tears.

  “Mr. Stanford, your story is touching. You’re the first one in here for a good long while who’s motivated by pure love and a desire to sustain that love. Yesterday morning, for example, I had a client wanting me to resurrect Kitty LaRuche, who used to dance in cabaret shows on Saturday nights and work in Mrs. Broadhurst’s bordello across the street there on weekdays. Well, she certainly had her admirers, even in death. By the time I’d closed up yesterday, there’d been no less than three separate inquiries made about resurrecting her, and none of them blood relations.