Dead in the West © 1986 by Joe R. Lansdale
This edition of Dead in the West © 2005
by Night Shade Books
Jacket illustration © 2005 by Colleen Doran
Jacket & interior layout and design by Jeremy Lassen Scanned/OCR/Proof:
Meatisgood
First Edition
ISBN 1-59780-014-7 (Trade Hardcover)
ISBN 1-59780-015-5 (Limited edition)
Night Shade Books
http://www.nightshadebooks.com
DEDICATION
The original version of this book appeared in ELDRITCH TALES #10-13. It was a tribute to the pulps. Especially WEIRD TALES. This considerably revised version is a tribute not only to the pulps, but to comics like those in the infamous EC line and JONAH HEX (the early ones), and perhaps most of all, B-brand horror movies like: CURSE OF THE UNDEAD, BILLY THE KID VERSUS DRACULA, JESSE JAMES MEETS FRANKENSTEIN'S
DAUGHTER, and the like.
The first version of DEAD IN THE WEST was dedicated to Al Manachino. This version is for my brother, John Lansdale, who made many suggestions I followed, and some, if he'll forgive me, I did not.
So, this is your book, John. I hope you like it.
The hour hath come to part with this body composed of
flesh and blood;
May I know the body to be impermanent and illusory.
— Tibetan Book of the Dead
And we were not able to detain Lazarus, but he gave himself a shake, and with all the signs of malice, he immediately went away from us; and the very earth, in which the dead body of Lazarus was lodged, presently turn him out alive.
— Nicodemus 15:18 (A Lost Book of the Bible)
From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-legged beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us.
—Old Scottish Invocation
Night. A narrow, tree-lined stage trail bends to the left around a clutch of dark pines.
Moonlight, occasionally blocked by rolling clouds. A voice in the distance, gradually becomes audible.
"You goddamned, lily-livered, wind-breaking, long-eared excuses for mules. Git on, you contrary assholes."
…
A stagecoach came barreling around the bend, the lanterns on either side of the driver's seat swaying like monstrous fireflies. It gradually began to slow, amid much cussing, and finally it was brought to a stop alongside the road near the East Texas pines.
The driver, Bill Nolan, turned to look with his one good eye at his shotgunner, Jake Wilson. Nolan wore a patch over the eye an Indian arrow had put out.
"Well, hurry for Christsakes " Nolan said. "We're late."
"I didn't make the wheel come off."
"You weren't much help putting it back on either.... Will you get down and pee already?"
Jake dropped to the ground and started for the woods.
"Hey" Nolan yelled. "Why you got to go so far?"
"Ladies present."
"You don't have to piss in the coach, you goddamned idiot."
Jake disappeared into the woods.
A dapper young man stuck his head out of the coach window on the right side.
"Hey," said the young man. "Mind your mouth, mister. There are ladies present."
Nolan leaned over, looked back and down at the young man. "I keep hearing that," Nolan said. "Let me tell you something, Mr. Tin Horn Gambler. The lady sitting next to you there, Lulu McGill, would suck and blow your asshole for four bits."
The gambler's mouth fell open, but before he could reply, a feminine hand jerked him back, and Lulu's attractive red head appeared.
"Goddamn you, Bill Nolan," Lulu said. "I ain't never done the like for no four bits, and you know it. Right now, I'm a lady."
"You don't say."
Lulu was pulled from view, and the gambler's head replaced hers. "She's not the only woman on this stage," the gambler said.
From inside the coach came Lulu's shrill voice. "You saying I ain't a lady now, asshole?"
"And there's a young girl," the gambler continued. "If she weren't asleep, mister, you'd already have me to deal with. Hear?"
Nolan's right hand dipped quickly, and when it reappeared, it held an ancient Walker Colt. He pointed it at the gambler.
"I hear you," Nolan said softly. "But whisper, will you? I'd hate for the little girl to wake up and you to have to try and be a hero. I'd have to blow your stupid head down the road a piece, and we wouldn't want that, would we? Now get back inside there and shut up!"
The gambler's head moved quickly out of sight.
Inside the coach, the gambler picked his derby from the seat beside him and put it on at a less jaunty angle than usual.
Across from him, the attractive brunette, Millie Johnson, stared at him. The little girl, Mignon, lay asleep in her lap. Beside him, Lulu practically fumed.
He chanced a glance at her. Her temper had reddened her face to match her hair.
"Ain't you the top dog," Lulu said.
The gambler looked at the stage floor.
…
Nolan put the Colt away and put a cigar in his face. He took out his turnip watch and popped it open. He struck a match and looked at the time. With a sigh, he put the watch away and looked in the direction Jake had taken.
There was no sign of him.
"Why couldn't he piss in the wind like a real man," Nolan mumbled.
He lit his cigar.
…
Jake shook the dew off his lily, began buttoning up.
As he turned to start back to the coach, he saw a rope dangling from a nearby tree. He had not noticed it before, but now with the moon out, he could see it clearly. He went over and touched it, tugged on it.
It was a hangman's noose, and well tied. Someone had dangled, and from the looks of the blood on the noose-dried but not ancient—not too long ago. Maybe yesterday, or even last night.
He slid his hand along the noose and was rewarded with a slight rope burn.
"Owwwwww."
He put the wound to his mouth and sucked.
As he turned from the rope, a large spiderlike creature scuttled from an overhead limb down the rope to where Jake's blood mixed with the hemp. The spider-thing lapped the fresh blood.
The creature changed. Became larger, dropped from the rope, curled on the ground, and changed more. When the transformation was complete, it moved quickly into the woods.
Jake never heard or noticed. He walked until he was almost to the road, and just as he was about to break out of the woods into the clearing, a shape rose up in front of him. A man-shape.
Jake opened his mouth to scream, but he never got the chance.
…
Nolan yawned.
Damn. He was getting sleepy. Real sleepy.
He tossed the dead cigar butt away.
He got a fresh cigar and a match. He pulled out his turnip watch, struck the match, and held it close to the watch face to check the time.
A huge, long-nailed hand reached over his, snuffing the flame, crushing the watch and Nolan's fingers in one motion. The sound of watch and fingers breaking was very loud.
But not as loud as Nolan's scream, brief as it was.
The passengers came next.
Later, in the deepest part of night, a time when the moon had finally been concealed by the dark clouds and the stars were as dull as blind eyes, the long overdue stage from Silverton rolled into Mud Creek, a dark poncho-swathed driver with pulled-down hat at the lines.
No passengers stepped from the stage. There were no friends or relatives there to meet them. No one was aware, except for the driver, of its arrival. It had been given up for the day a good time back.
The horses
snorted and rolled their eyes with fright. The driver set the rusty brake and tied off the lines, alighting to the ground gentle as dust.
The man walked to the back of the stage and threw up the cargo flap. A long crate stuck out at an awkward angle. He pulled it free, lifting it to his shoulder. Then, as if the crate were no more than a stick of stove wood, he ran down the middle of the street toward the livery, his boots throwing up little, short-lived dust devils behind him.
A hinge creaked, went silent. Now there was only the sound of the stage team snorting and a distant roll of thunder beyond the gray-black, East Texas woodlands.
I
THE REVEREND
BUT HE KNOWETH NOT THAT THE DEAD ARE THERE.
— PROVERBS 9:18
H e had come down out of the high country: a long, lean preacher man covered in dust, riding a buckskin mare with an abscessed back, a wound made by hard riding and saddle friction against dust and hide.
Both man and horse looked ready to drop.
The man was dressed in black from boots to hat, save for a dusty white shirt and the silver glitter of a modified .36 colt Navy revolver in his black sash waist band. His face, like many men of the Word, was hard and stern. But there was something definitely unGodlike about the man. He had the cool, blue eyes of a cold killer—the eyes of a man who had seen the elephant and seen it well.
In his own way, he was a killer.
Men had dropped before the blast of his .36 Navy, their last vision being thick, black smoke curling upwards from the mouth of his shiny revolver.
But in the Reverend's eyes, to his way of thinking, each had been in need of the sword stroke, and it had been God's will. And he, Jebidiah Mercer, had been the Lord's avenging hand. Or at least it seemed that way at the time.
As Jeb often told his tent congregation: "Brethren, I kill sin. I am the good right arm of the Lord, and I kill sin."
And there were the times when he did not feel so righteous. But he had learned to put these thoughts aside, swamp them with his own interpretation of God's word.
It was the break of day, and as Jeb rode—slowly— wearily—toward Mud Creek, morning slipped in on the breath of a cool wind as the birds sang in symphony.
Stopping on a velvet-green rise of grass above the town, Jeb—like some saint from on high—looked down. Down on clapboard buildings lined on either side by thick forest.
A tumbleweed thought, one that often rolled by, came to him: East Texas, a hell of a beautiful sight, a long missed home.
Tilting his broad-brimmed hat forward, the Reverend urged his buckskin on, down into the town of Mud Creek, down to plant the seed of his rambling ministry.
II
He came into town slow and easy, like an on-the-watch shootist, instead of a holy messenger of the Lord.
When he came to the livery he dismounted, looked up at the sign. It read: JOE BOB
RHINE'S LIVERY AND BLACKSMITH SHOP.
"Whatchawant?"
When he looked down from the sign, he was confronted by a shirtless youth wearing a floppy hat and baggy suspenders supporting wool trousers. The boy looked sullen and bored.
"If you don't think it'll tire you out too much, I'd like my horse groomed."
"Six bits. Now."
"I want him groomed, not shampooed, you little crook."
The boy held out his hand. "Six bits "
The Reverend reached into his pocket and slapped the money into the boy's palm.
"What's your name, son? I'd like to know who to avoid from here on out."
"David."
"At least you have a fine biblical name."
"It ain't all that good."
"It isn't all that good."
"Hell, that's what I said. You're the one that's all blazed about it."
"I'm talking about your English. ISN'T is acceptable. AIN'T is not."
'"You talk funny."
"I return the compliment."
"You look like a preacher to me, except you got that gun."
"I am a preacher, boy. Name is Jebidiah Mercer. Reverend Mercer to you. Perhaps you'll groom my horse sometime between now and tomorrow?"
The boy was about to speak when a big man wearing overalls, a leather apron, and a disagreeable expression appeared from the interior of the livery. As he approached, the Reverend saw the boy tense.
"Boy talking you to death, mister?" the man said gruffly.
"We were just making a deal on the grooming of my horse. You must be the owner?"
"That's right. Joe Bob Rhine—he charge you two bits like he was supposed to?"
"I'm satisfied."
David swallowed hard and looked at the Reverend for a long moment.
"Boy's like his mama," Joe Bob said. "A dreamer. You have to beat respect into him.
Damn sure wasn't born with it" He turned to David. "Boy, take the man's horse. Get to work."
"Yes sir," David said. Then to the Reverend. "What's her name?"
"I just call her horse. Mind you that she has a saddle rub on her back."
David smiled. "Yes sir." He started removing the saddle.
"I'd like to board her for a while also," the Reverend said to Rhine. "Is that convenient?"
"Pay when you pick her up."
David handed the Reverend his saddle bags. "Thought you might need these."
"Thanks"
David nodded, took the horse, and went away.
"Where's the best place to stay?" the Reverend asked Rhine.
"Ain't but one." Rhine pointed down the street. "The Hotel Montclaire."
The Reverend nodded, tossed the saddlebags over his shoulder, and started up the street.
III
The sign over the weathered building read: THE HOTEL MONTCLAIRE. Six sets of windows looked down at the street. Each was shaded by a dark blue curtain. All the windows were open and the curtains billowed in the light morning breeze.
Already the breeze was turning warm. It was August in East Texas, and save for the wee-morning hours, and an occasional night breeze, it was hot as a bitch dog in heat, sticky as molasses.
The Reverend took a dusty handkerchief out of his inside coat pocket and wiped his face.
He removed his hat and wiped his thick, black, oily hair with it. He put the handkerchief away, his hat on, stretched his saddle-worn back, and went inside the hotel.
A man with a belly like that of a foundered horse, snoozed behind the register desk.
Sweat balled on his face and streamed down it in dusty rivulets. A fly buzzed and tried to land on the snoozing man's nose, but could get no braking. It tried again—circled and found a perch on the fat man's forehead.
The Reverend bounced his palm on the desk bell.
The man popped out of his slumber with a start, sent the fly buzzing away with a wave of his hand. He licked his sweaty lips with his tongue.
"Jack Montclaire, at your service," he said.
"I would like a room."
"Rooms are our business." He turned the register book around. "If you'll just sign in."
As the Reverend signed. "You caught me sleeping. It's the heat.... Uh, six bits a night, clean sheets every three days.... If you stay three days."
"I'll stay at least three days. Meals extra?"
"Would be if I served them. You'll have to eat over to the cafe." Hoping against it,
"Bags?"
The Reverend patted his saddlebags, then counted out six bits into Montclaire's hand.
"Much obliged," Montclaire said. "Room thirteen, top of the stairs to the left. Enjoy your stay."
Montclaire turned the register book around, moved his lips over the Reverend's name.
"Reverend Jebidiah Mercer?"
The Reverend turned around. "Yes?"
"You're a preacher?"
"That is correct."
"Ain't never seen no preacher that carries a gun before."
"Now you have."
"I mean, a man of the Holy Word and peace and all...."
"
Who ever said keeping the law of the Lord is peaceable work? The devil brings a sword, and I bring a sword back to him. It is the will of the Lord and I am his servant."
"I suppose."
"No supposing about it."
Montclaire looked into the red-rimmed, killer-blue eyes of the Reverend and trembled.
"Yes sir. I wasn't trying to tell you your business."
"You could not."
The Reverend went upstairs to leave Montclaire staring at his back.
"Sanctimonious sonofabitch," Montclaire said under his breath.
IV
Up in room thirteen, the Reverend sat on the sagging bed to test it. It would not be comfortable. He got up and went over to the washbasin, removed his hat, washed his face and then his hands. He was tedious with his hands, as if there were stains on them visible only to him. He dried meticulously, went over to the window to look out.
Pushing a curtain aside, he examined the street and the buildings across the way. He could hear hammering coming from Rhine's blacksmith shop, and below a wagon creaked by with squeaky wheels. Out in the distance, just at the edge of town, he could hear faintly the noises of chickens and cows. Just a pleasant little farming community.
Voices began to buzz in the street as more and more people moved about.
A team of mules in harness was being giddyupped down the street—their owner walking behind them— directing them out of town toward a field.
Seeing the mules sent the Reverend's thoughts back twenty years, back to when he was a ragtail kid, not too unlike David at Rhine's livery. A kid dressed in overalls, walking behind his minister father as he plowed a big team of mules, cutting tiny grooves into a great big world.
The Reverend tossed his saddlebags on the bed. He took off his coat, slapped dust from it, and draped it over a chair. He sat down on the edge of the bed, opened one of the bags, and removed a cloth-wrapped package.
He unwrapped the whisky bottle, bit the cork out, and put it and the cloth on the chair.
Next he stretched out on the bed, his head cushioned by a pillow. He began slowly tilting the whisky, and as he did, he saw a spider on the ceiling. It was tracing its way across the room, supported on a snow-white strand that connected with other strands in a corner of the room, twisted and interlocked like the tedious weaving of the mythical fates.
A muscle in his right cheek jumped.
Dead in the West Page 1
