The Good, the Bad, and the Dead

by Bruce Campbell

  "Shut the Hell up!" Mac's gun flared sideways and a great, red pain smacked Yale on the side of the head. The blow tipped him and the chair sideways and Yale struggled to stay conscious as Mac bellowed at Greyhill.

  "Your little girl lifted her skirt for Cruz any time he wanted it, Nate! You were just too blind to see what a little tart you raised. I put up with your crap and hers and she brushed me off for that dago piece of shit! If not for me, Nate, she'd be off in Chihuahua with your money and Cruz between her-"

  "How... how dare you?" The wheeze was back.

  "Because I'm due, old man! I've killed for you more than I ever did for the Union Army and I deserve my share. Don't get moral on me now, not after you sat there and let me shoot Sadie down when she threw those prospecting papers in your face. When she said she'd seen Cruz die. She would've gone to the Rockies, Nate! She had to go!"

  "Yeah, right." Yale sat up and tried to move his bound wrists, rewarded with a little movement and a lot of pain. "So she found out your claim wasn't legal; there's maybe three legitimate claims from here to Fort Lincoln. With Cruz gone the Rockies would have covered it up, just to keep the dinero flowing from here. And the Sheriff killing a crook ain't no crime s'far as the Marshal's concerned. Hell, with Santa Anna rattling sabers in Baja, killing a Mexican troublemaker might even get you a medal. This might have been a problem Back East, Nate, but not in the Maze."

  Yale let that sink in, before concluding. "Mac was sick of her saying no to him, Nate, sick of her being better than him, and so he killed her right in front of you."

  Mac turned three different shades of purple, and then pointed his big Colt Walker at Yale. His thumb was pulling back the hammer of the single-action pistol when the room exploded with fury. With a gurgle of pain and hate, and the unholy ripping of metal through flesh, Cyrus Amlin pulled himself out of the chair where he was pinned by pulling his body along the poker that impaled him. The ropes binding his arms and legs snapped like dried branches thanks to sudden inhuman strength. Bleeding rotting ichor, he slammed into Mac just before the Sheriff pulled the trigger. They landed on the floor in a messy pile.

  Greyhill was screaming then. "Murderer! She was my daughter!" In a rage, he picked up the oil lamp on his desk and tossed it at the mess on the floor. Amlin was on top and the lamp hit him right on the back, turning him into an inhuman bonfire. Screaming with horrible pain, he stood upright and bolted for the window, taking the route he supposedly had the night of the murder. He smashed through the windows, flames licking and igniting the drapes, and ran across the porch awning. The old and damaged roof couldn't support Amlin's weight and three steps later he fell through with a loud crash.

  "You were always a damn fool." Mac got up slowly, his Colt pointed squarely at Nathaniel Greyhill. He seemed oblivious to the flames spreading across the walls. And to Yale's pistol, still on the desk. "If you'd have just kept your mouth shut when that hag Mary walked in here, I could've blamed Sadie's death on Cruz. Instead, you say someone ran across the roof. I broke his damn leg, Nate; no one was going to believe he ran across the roof."

  Mac pulled the hammer back. "You and your little whore may have always looked down on me, but this time I come out on top."

  In a sudden, bloody jerk, Yale pulled one hand free of the ropes, which claimed several layers of the skin on his wrist. He dove for his gun, and the short-barreled Peacemaker came up quickly. Mac tried to change targets, but his heavier weapon was sluggish and he had barely moved when Yale's round slammed through his right eye. Mac stood there for a second as shock tried to register in a brain that wasn't there anymore. Finally, he fell back in a bloody mess.

  Then Yale realized he was very close to burning to death. The flames were spreading now, running up the walls and igniting almost anything they touched. Smoke was choking the room too, blowing out the shattered widow Greyhill was looking up at his wife's portrait, which was rapidly blackening and curling.

  "Move it!" Yale had to drag Greyhill out of the office as the fire spread across the rest of the house. "Mary! Get out of the house! Fire!"

  By the time Yale got Greyhill outside, the house was turning into a great bonfire, which lit up the surrounding scene. He saw Mary off to the side, hands at her face, watching her life go up in smoke. By the water trough, Yale caught a glimpse of Cyrus, who had obviously plunged in. Blackened and burnt, the dead man looked more horrid than ever. To the south, Yale also saw other figures-a crowd getting closer.

  He dropped Greyhill and the old man gasped for air, coughing up phlegm and ash. "Thank you, Deputy"

  "I've been to Hell and back because of you, Greyhill. It's time you paid up."

  "I'll fully compensate you, once the Rockies' ship gets here. I have substantial reserves in Lost Angels."

  The crowd was very close now, maybe a hundred feet. And closing. "I can't say as I'm really confident in your promises, old man. What stops me from ending up like Diego Cruz?"

  "Cruz was Mexican trash! He convinced Sadie to dig up papers on the mines to challenge my claim. He was going to rob me of what was mine. Mac's man Sierra told us the whole plan. He needed killing." Greyhill's voice was defiant in his outrage at being made to defend his actions. "Surely, you understand that as a lawman."

  As soon as Greyhill stopped yelling, other sounds filled the air. Greyhill looked around and finally noticed the crowd of Mexican miners who stood some twenty paces away Some bore torches, others makeshift clubs, and still others nothing but the rage in their hearts. They had come to see the hacienda burn and now had the hated hacendado right in front of them. Yale saw Manuel and Hidalgo at the front of the mob. The crowd boiled on the verge of explosion, Spanish words of anger filtering above the crackle of the burning house-"criminal," "asesino," "venganza para Diego."

  "This has nothing to do with law, Greyhill," Yale said as Manuel walked forward to grab Greyhill. "Only justice."

  When Manuel had a hold of Greyhill, he stretched out his open hand toward the crowd. Hidalgo put a rope in it-a rope with a noose.

  ***

  The next morning, Yale and Amlin were sitting on the dock below Howling Bluff waiting for the Rockies ship to arrive. The town had burnt much of the night, the mines office and several other buildings joining Greyhill Manor in its ashy state. Yale and Amlin, two gringos in the midst of justicia, had wisely lain low.

  Mary, the Greyhill maid, was there too. They had brought her to safety when the crowd exploded. The accountant Jenson, they had left to the hemp party.

  "Mac was right, wasn't he?" Yale asked.

  '"Bout what?" Cyrus was wearing a long coat, hiding his burnt and rotting skin. It had already started to heal, but that wasn't a pretty sight. Because of it, Mary was sitting at the other end of the pier.

  "You got something bad inside, don't you?" Yale looked at him now. "Some devil that let you sit back and watch Joe Sierra try to redecorate a hotel room with my insides."

  Cyrus looked down the channel toward the horizon. "It started when we got here. Whenever I scared someone, it felt good. Real good."

  "Like Jenson."

  "Oh, yeah. I loved making him sweat. I felt strong. Stronger than I've ever been." Cyrus swallowed hard, and his undead throat made a sound like a rotten apple crushed underfoot. "So when I saw Sierra coming up to your window, something inside me just told me to sit there an' soak up the fear."

  Yale's hand flashed to his holster and brought his Peacemaker up and into Amlin's face. "So, I wonder if what Mac said about blowing your cabeza off was true too."

  "Wait!" He raised blackened and cracked hands. "I'm fighting that thing inside me. I swear it. I snapped out of it when Sierra shot you. It was me checking on you that stopped Mac from popping you like he did Sierra; he heard me and took off." He swallowed again. "And I saved you at the mansion."

  Yale started to squeeze the trigger. This was a monster, a thing he had killed once and should kill again. He had settled things in Howling Bluff. Time to clean up this last detail and get back to
being a lawman.

  But his own words came back. This wasn't about the law.

  "Even dead men deserve some justice."

  He lowered the gun.

  PLAYING THE GAME

  Don DeBrandt

  Zebadiah Zane sighed and laid down his cards. "Full house, ladies over aces," he said regretfully. "I win again."

  The others at the table glared at him as he raked in the chips. None of them were as well-dressed or well-groomed as Zane, but that wasn't why their eyes were full of resentment and suspicion. He'd won five hands in a row, and their hard-earned dollars were disappearing into his pockets just a mite too quickly.

  "Ready for another?" Zane asked, his diamond-studded front tooth flashing as he smiled. It matched his cuff-links and the stick-pin in his silk tie. Zane wasn't rich, but he liked to dress like he was-and jewelry could always be used as a marker if his cash ran low.

  "I think we had just about enough," the cowpoke across the table from him spat. He was still dusty from the trail, and his eyes were red from the whisky he'd been drinking since he sat down. "I ain't a man to call another one a cheat, not without good reason-but stranger, yer just a little too lucky fer my taste."

  Zebadiah gathered the cards and began shuffling them. "Well now," he said reasonably. "I'm sorry you feel that way-"

  Without warning, another of the players-a paunchy fellow with a bushy black beard and a derby-jumped up from his chair.

  He was considerably more brief in his opinion: "Y' lyin' thief!" he bellowed, and went for his gun.

  Unfortunately for him, Zebadiah Zane already had something far more dangerous in his hand: a deck of cards.

  Zane went to throw a hex. In the same instant, the gun roared.

  Everything went black.

  ***

  At first, Zane didn't notice anything wrong. He'd been a huckster for a while now, and was used to what happened when he went to throw a hex; everything around him would disappear, and then he'd be sitting at a table with a single candle lighting it. The room around him would be pitch black, and he wouldn't be able to see much in the way of details— though he could hear things moving around in the darkness if he tried—and his manitou opponent would be sitting across the table from him. He'd never be able to actually make out what the thing looked like; all he'd see would be two glaring red eyes in the shadows, and a pair of bone-white hands with black fingernails holding a deck of cards.

  They'd play a quick hand of five-card stud, no draw, without saying a word. When they were done, Zane would return to the real world, except no time at all would have passed. If he'd won the hand, the hex he was trying to throw would be successful. If he'd lost, he was out of luck.

  This time was different.

  The room he appeared in was well-lit, and looked like a fancy saloon-fancier than the one he'd just left, anyway. There were five men sitting around a green felt-covered poker table, and they were all staring at him expectantly.

  Zane's blood ran cold as he realized who he was looking at.

  "Greetings, Mr. Zane," Darius Hellstromme said to him. Zane recognized him from pictures he'd seen in the Tombstone Epitaph; the high forehead, the piercing eyes, the neatly-trimmed beard and sideburns. The great scientist of Salt Lake City was wearing a white doctor's coat, and sat with his hands folded in front of him.

  "You may already know my companions, but allow me to introduce them formally," said Hellstromme. He motioned to the man on his left. "The Reverend Ezekiah Grimme."

  Grimme was thin as a skeleton, with a sharp, thin-lipped face and a lion's mane of white hair framing a high, bald forehead. He wore a black tunic and a priest's collar. He nodded crisply at his name.

  "Coot Jenkins." Jenkins was an old man with a wiry white beard and a wide-brimmed hat. He had a red kerchief tied around his neck, and wore a faded brown shirt.

  "Howdy," said Coot with a grin. His teeth were stained yellow and brown from chewing tobacco.

  "Raven."

  At the mention of the name, Zane felt his heart stop and his stomach drop. Raven, the last of the Susquehanna, the head of the Raven cult. Some said he was the most evil man to ever walk the earth. The shaman stared at him stonily, but said nothing. He had eagle feathers in his long black hair, and his muscular arms were crossed over his bare chest.

  "And lastly, Edmond Hoyle." Zane felt his heart start up again. Hoyle was Zane's personal hero; he'd studied everything he could about the man. He was the one who'd encoded knowledge about how to throw hexes into his Book of Games, the huckster's bible. He was a distinguished looking gentleman with greying hair, spectacles and a neatly-pressed dark-blue suit.

  He was also supposed to be dead.

  "I suppose you're wondering what you're doing here," said Hellstromme.

  "It had crossed my mind," Zane managed.

  "It's quite simple," Hellstromme said. "We intend to play a game of poker. As the stakes are somewhat high, we require an uninvolved party to deal the cards."

  "Why me?"

  "Well, young feller," said Coot Jenkins, "We figger this here's the kind of chance y'might be interested in-seein' as how y'got yerself in a bit of a fix, back in that saloon."

  "I can handle myself," Zane said stiffly. "What does that have to do with anything, anyway?"

  "What good Mr. Jenkins means is that you have been singled out for a purpose," said Grimme. His voice was deep and sonorous. "Being given an opportunity, as it were."

  "We have made an arrangement," Hoyle said primly. "Instead of the manitou you usually face, you can act as dealer for our game. With the manitou, you would have risked losing the hand and thus failing to throw a hex. In the dire circumstances you placed yourself in, that would almost certainly result in your death."

  "Choose us, and there's no risk of failure," said Hellstromme curtly. "When our game is done, you will return instantaneously, with whichever hex you care to use."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "You return without the hex," said Hellstromme.

  "And die," said Raven. His voice was as cold as a winter grave.

  Zane swallowed. Well, he thought to himself. What cardsharp wouldn't give his left hand for the chance to watch a game like this?

  As long as that was all it cost him ...

  "Gentlemen," said Zane, forcing a smile, "you have yourself a dealer."

  ***

  One second the green felt of the table was bare; the next, there was a deck of cards on it. Zane picked them up, studied them. They were cold to the touch, embossed on the back with a design of a horned skull over a pentagram.

  When he glanced back up, a pile of poker chips had materialized in front of each player as well. The chips were made of some kind of shiny black glass, with depths that seemed to swirl with a smoky inner fire.

  Zane shuffled the cards. They felt almost alive in his hands— but then, cards always did.

  "Uh, before we begin," said Zane, "there's one little thing I'd like to know. How long is this game going to run?"

  Hellstromme gazed at him dispassionately. "Until one player is in possession of all the chips."

  Zane decided to push his luck. "How big a pot is that, exactly?"

  "Why, all the souls west of the Mississippi, my son," said Reverend Grimme. "Now—let's play."

  "The game is five card stud," said Hellstromme. "One draw. Nothing wild."

  Zane nodded and put the deck in front of Hoyle, who cut it. Zane picked up the cards again, gave them one last shuffle and began to deal.

  The players let the cards fall in front of them without picking them up. Their eyes were fixed on Zane, who tried not to notice. When all the cards were dealt, he waited.

  • "Ante is a thousand souls," Hellstromme said. He picked up a chip and tossed it into the center of the table. It landed with a slight hiss, and a wisp of smoke curled up from the table. Zane realized the chips were made of polished ghost rock.

  The others each pitched a chip in, then picked up their hands.

  "Two,"
said Hellstromme. Zane gave him two cards.

  "One," said Reverend Grimme.

  "Reckon I'm good," said Jenkins.

  Raven simply shook his head.

  "And one card for me," said Hoyle.

  Zane gathered up the discarded cards and put them off to the side. His part was done, for the moment. Now was when things would get interesting.

  "Ten thousand," Hellstromme said. He counted off ten chips with precise, measured movements. The chips were definitely throwing off heat, but it didn't seem to bother Hellstromme, or any of the others.

  Grimme saw his ten thousand, and raised ten thousand more. Jenkins did the same. So did Raven. Hoyle folded without a word.

  The pot went up to fifty thousand before Grimme called. Hellstromme won the hand with three kings, and collected his chips without cracking a smile. He stacked his winnings in front of him in neatly organized piles of twenty-five.

  As Zane shuffled the cards for the next hand, Coot Jenkins gave a little chuckle. "Nuthin' like a friendly game of cards, I always say," he declared. "Puts me in mind of a little tournament down Abilene way. Held every year, or so I've heard. Kind of a specialized deal: y'can't enter if you got a pulse. Lends a whole new meanin' to the phrase, 'dead man's hand'."

  Jenkins turned and spat into a brass spittoon beside his chair. "Anyhow, the stakes are kinda interestin, too. See, a lotta dead folks—what some call the Harrowed-find themselves wearin' out after a few years. Life on the trail is hard enough, but unlife is even harsher. And it ain't like you can go to the local doc and say, 'Y'know, I been havin' nuthin' but trouble with my right ear since I crawled outta the grave-I think maybe I got a beetle in there, somewhere. Can y'help me out?' Next thing y'know, the poor bugger's tried to fix it hisself with an icepick, and now he can't hear a blamed thing."

  Zane let Reverend Grimme cut the cards. He started dealing.

  "This tournament gives such unfortunates a fightin' chance," Jenkins continued. "See, certain dead folks got this power called stitchin'. Normally, it lets 'em make repairs to themselves—includin' things that have fallen clean off. Now, that's all right if the part you're reattachin' is in good shape-but what if it ain't? I know a Harrowed got her nose bit off in a fight, and by the time she'd killed the other feller it had been chewed some, too. She insisted on sewin' the damn thing back on, and I swear, she might as well have just nailed a rotten potato to the middle of her face."