The Good, the Bad, and the Dead

by Bruce Campbell

  Budge slid along the edge of the wadi, his eyes darting around the darkness. A sudden unease filled him as the moon crept behind some clouds and dropped an inky blue veil over the prairie. A sharp bark cried out into the night making Budge jump and whirl towards the sound.

  "Just a coyote," he told himself. "Nothing dangerous." He repeated it like a personal mantra and lowered the rifle.

  Struggling to still his rattling nerves, he wormed his way onward, but his attention was continually drawn to the deep, gaping hole he was skirting. It was dark and menacing. Pulling up abruptly, Budge almost swore he could see a large mass lurking within but he dismissed it when after a few moments it did not move. Most likely it was just a boulder. Nothing to be worried about.

  Soon he was past the wadi and on his way back to where they had left their mounts. Budge began to breathe easier. The clouds were drifting off the face of the moon and the prairie ground was illuminated once more. Sagebrush and cactus stepped out of the shadows. Their familiar stances removed the fear from Budge and reinforced the fact that this world was no different than the Serengetti of Africa or the craggy cliffs of Scotland.

  Moving with greater confidence, Budge estimated he was close to his objective. His chest filled with pride at his success and he lay the barrel of the rifle across his shoulder. He was looking forward to a good stiff brandy when he got back to the saloon, Precipitously, the moon vanished again. Budge glanced up at the night sky casually searching for the passing cloud responsible. Instead, something huge and hairy marred with large spikes loomed over him. Budge's scream was locked in his throat, his hands fumbled to bring the rifle to bear, but there was no time.

  He felt the air moving behind him just before his head was separated from his body It flew across the desert floor as the snipe's sharp tail sliced across like a silver spade into loose dirt. There was little resistance. Budge's head rolled ten feet away before bumping to a halt against a boulder.

  A scream erupted from the creature, its snout raised to the stars, its thrashing bone-hard tail dripped with fresh blood. Once done, a hand four times the size of a human's reached for the severed head and picked it up by its hair, the snipe's tongue flicking out quickly to lap up the precious liquid spewing from the ragged flesh at the neck.

  The snipe stared curiously into the dead, sightless eyes in front of him and then stuck it on a spike that jutted straight up from its shoulder. It studied its handiwork a moment more and then as an afterthought, picked up the bowler from the dirt and put it on his prize, slightly askew.

  It howled again.

  ***

  Lucas jumped up from his spot on the ridge as the fierce cry of the beast tore through the night. "Damn!" he shouted as an army of goosebumps burst over his skin.

  Earl, still concentrating on whittling a piece of wood, commented in a bored voice, "Snipe victory cry."

  Zeke rose, dusting the sand from his breeches. He scanned the horizon and then shook his head. Budge hadn't even fired a shot. "Damn greenhorn."

  Lucas inched backwards, his face ghostly pale in the blue light. "I g-guess he wasn't quite the hunter he thought he was, eh Zeke?"

  Zeke strode past him toward the horses. "Well, that's what you get for tellin' tall tales. Around here, our tales are gospel."

  HARMONY GAP HAS A BAD DAY

  by Angel Leigh McCoy

  Harris awoke from a nightmare about poker games, betrayal, and dead lovers. He lay there in a fog of sweat and emotions, chewing on the dream. Doreen had red hair, rich as copper and lively as fire. In his dream, Harris had brushed it for her. He liked that part, but then the red locks had become red blood. Fingers had pointed at him from all around, accusing, "You owe us. You owe us. You owe us." Over and over, the voices had repeated those words.

  Harris rolled out of bed. Sure, he had owed them. He still did. Killing Doreen hadn't gotten them a single cent of that money. Not a single cent, and it never would. Barefoot, Harris stumbled across the boarding-house bedroom. He dug his nails in the gritty nest of hair on his chest. He tugged his scratchy, wool underwear out of his crack and cringed. A rash. Harris needed a bath. He figured he could get one at the barber shop-later. A bath and a shave, five cents. For the moment, he just splashed his face with the day-old water left standing in the washbasin.

  A violent sound suddenly interrupted his morning: Caw! Caw!

  Harris jerked a squinty glare toward the open window. Water dripped off his hawkish nose and chin as he peered at his intruder.

  A crow sat on the windowsill. It cocked its head to one side and batted a black, button eye at Harris. It ruffled its feathers and took a strutting step. Caw! Caw!

  "Damn bird!" Harris growled.

  With a flutter, the crow took flight. It glided down toward the dirt of Main Street, then scooped upward and landed on the jailhouse roof.

  ***

  Sheriff Jason Masters looked up from his desk to his deputy, Eugene Crutchfield. "Smith?!" he spat. "Here?! In Harmony Gap?!"

  The scrawny deputy shrugged, "That's what I hear, boss." He sniffed sharply. "Joe down at the stables tol' me. I reckon Smith rode in yesterday afternoon."

  Masters stood and walked toward Eugene, "Yesterday afternoon?! Then why th'Hell didn't I hear about it sooner?"

  "I dunno."

  The sheriff sighed. In his opinion, he had more than his share of problems: the Tapper boys feuding with the Hendersons, Injuns tearing down fences, and Mellie-Sue pregnant and begging marriage off him. Now this.

  "He's put up at Ruth's," Eugene volunteered.

  Masters paced. "Lightnin' Smith? Y're sure about that?"

  "Oh, yessir. He signed his real name in th'guest book. I had Ruthie read it t'me." The deputy passed gas in punctuation-a wet flag flapping in a stiff wind.

  "Hell." The sheriff waved a hand and stepped back. "Git outta here. Keep an eye on 'im. You don't let him outta yer sight, ya hear?"

  "Sure, boss. Whatever ya say."

  Sheriff Masters went back to his desk. He sat in his chair and put his head in his hands.

  The deputy's lanky, bow-legged stance shifted slightly, but he didn't leave. Neither did he speak, though he obviously had more to say. Finally, he turned to go, but then changed his mind again. When he swung back around, mouth open to voice his question, he found the sheriff looking straight at him. He shut his mouth.

  The sheriff eyed the other man, "Well?"

  A steely warning in his boss's eyes made Eugene change his question, "Ummmm... ya gonna arrest 'im?"

  "Far as I know, there ain't no bounty on 'im, but I'll telegraph th'Rangers, jus' in case. No matter what, he's bad news. Trouble follows that boy like a mongrel sniffin' up a bitch."

  Eugene bounced his bony chin, furrowed his brow, and sucked his lips into a determined pucker. "I'll keep my eye on 'im." He tugged up his britches and, with a wiggle, settled his hips into a swagger that took him to the door. He pulled on it, but it wouldn't budge. Summer's heat had swelled the wood. The deputy braced, abandoned his dignity, and put his back into it. The door unstuck abruptly, catching the man off-balance. He stumbled back a few steps before regaining his composure. His Adam's apple bobbed. Quickly, he scooted across the threshold and pulled the door shut. As soon as he cleared the porch and stepped into the dusty road, a bird flew overhead. It dropped a greasy splat of shit on his shoulder.

  Caw! Caw!

  Eugene shielded his eyes and tracked the crow to the eaves of the White Horse General Store.

  ***

  Ptang! The brown gob hit the spittoon inside the rim and ran thickly down the sloping brass. Horse earned a wish. He leaned on the counter in the main room of his general store and debated what he wanted.

  "I wish," he mused, closing his eyes, "for a purty girl with big, brown eyes an' skin as soft as a sow's ear... an' lips made for kissin'... an' th'heat down between...."

  "Horse!" his wife yelled from the storage room.

  Horse cringed. Oh, that woman could screech! He cast a glare at the
spittoon. "Traitor."

  "Damn you, man! Git your lazy butt in here an' help me with this flour."

  Horse pushed off the counter and waddled toward the back. Pausing in the doorway, he gazed upon the broad backside of his wife; Martha was bent over a pile of sacked flour. Her behind reminded Horse of their mare. Horse shrugged and thought, A man has to accept his fate. He stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him.

  "You dumb or somethin?" his wife asked. "I cain't see a damn thing. Open the door."

  Horse strode straight through the darkness and pushed his hips against that mare's backside.

  Martha fell forward on the flour sacks. "Horse!" A hint of a giggle softened the woman's voice.

  "C'mere, my brown-eyed beauty," Horse purred. He rolled Martha onto her back and stretched out on her plump form. "I wanna kiss."

  The mare giggled again, "Spit out that chaw first, then I'll give ya a kiss you'll never fergit."

  Ptang!

  *»*

  On the front porch of the general store, two rocking chairs sang to a syncopated, lazy-afternoon beat.

  "Y'see th'crow?" One of the old men drawled.

  "Yup."

  "Been flyin' 'round all day."

  "Yup."

  "Somebody's gonna die."

  "Yup."

  For a moment, the rocking chairs sang in harmony, then one missed a beat and fell off the rhythm. The two old geezers gazed out upon their town-the town where, some said, the men didn't have enough color and the women had too much.

  "Checkers?"

  "Yup."

  The men pushed up out of their rocking chairs and headed for Bentley's Barber Shop.

  A horsefly took off from the first man's hair and buzzed out into the street. A woman walked by and swatted at it. With a dip of wings, the fly diverted its trajectory around her. It recognized her perfume: honeysuckle, a scent for bees in striped, velveteen suits. No honeysuckle for this insect-it sought something stronger, blacker. It hungered for the delicacy of decay. Zipping through hovering dust motes, it turned east toward the gathering shadows.

  •••

  The polecat carcass lay askew in the dirt. It housed a mini-city of crawling citizens that had taken up residence beneath the sun-bleached, fur-draped rafters of its ribs. It had life again, but only via the teaming parasites that fed off its rotting flesh. Flies buzzed around it like black angels overseeing the progress of the masses.

  Nearby, the dirt shimmied and liquefied. A fat tentacle thrust upward into the sunshine. It stretched like a giant earthworm, the limb extending off the buried bulk of its body. Its odor immediately attracted the black angels.

  The flies sensed the darkness oozing from the thing's pores. They zipped around it or landed to try a taste. Here was a kindred soul, one that appreciated the epicurean link between death and nutriment. Excitement jazzed up the flies' song and their choreography dazzled.

  And then, the thing opened its eye-the one at the end of the tentacle. It unfurled its eyelashes. It blinked. The horseflies flew into a tizzy.

  The stalk leaned forward toward the carcass, snake-dancing back and forth. It studied the polecat hull, then straightened and looked off toward the west. It stared that way for a long while, swaying ever-so-slightly. A fly crawled across its eyeball. The lids blinked shut and captured the insect between long, stiff lashes. The fly struggled and buzzed, but to no avail. Abruptly, the tentacle shrunk back into the earth, back into its body. It took the fly with it.

  The creature tunneled. It was close to its destination, it knew. The creature had a good eye. It had seen the hive in the valley and recognized the system of chambers all in neat rows. Besides, the constant hum of activity vibrated through the dirt to it, even at that distance. Close, yes, closer. It scrambled faster. The thought of succulent meat made it drool.

  Thunder approached and shook the ground.

  The creature froze, hunkered down, and drew its eight legs in tight against its body.

  The thunder stopped directly overhead and settled into a light clip-clop, clip-clop. Something wet and warm leaked down through the sod.

  The creature clacked its mandibles and tasted the damp soil-ahhhh, the bitter fluid that often bursts from between its victims' legs. The beast shivered with anticipation. In a flurry, it tunneled. It circled under the food, creating unstable ground that gradually centered on its prey.

  There was a rumble and a trickle of dirt from above. Then, with a rush of air and dust, the whole thing collapsed. The creature watched from its tunnel as the food slid down into the sinkhole and landed on its back. It made a god-awful noise. The creature shimmied forward from its waiting place and clamped its mandibles onto the food. This one was big. It wiggled and fought, but food was no match for the predator.

  ***

  Harris bit voraciously into the chicken leg and grease ran down his chin. With a practiced swipe, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Chewing, he glanced around the saloon. Everyone was staring at him. Harris quirked an eyebrow. He watched as they, in unison, turned away and tried to look busy. Humph. Harris went back to eating. He was used to the stares, and actually, it surprised him that Harmony Gap hadn't run him out of town yet. Everyone knew Harris was bad luck. Everywhere he went, calamity struck.

  To prove the point, someone started shouting in the street, "Sheriff!! Sheriff Masters!! Somethin' ate mah horse!"

  Everyone in the saloon, except Harris, clambered to the door to spy on the ruckus. Harris gazed upon the swaying backsides of the bartender, the barmaids, and the bachelors-those who frequented the saloon. He finished his chicken, and then took a few minutes to dig bits of meat from between his teeth. He washed them down with the last of his whiskey, careful to set the empty shotglass away from the table's edge. The gawkers at the door gossipped among themselves, intent on the drama-Act 1-playing out in the street.

  Quietly, Harris pushed back his chair, nice and easy, and reached for his hat. He stood and stalked up behind the crowd. He waited there a moment, unnoticed, then abruptly requested, "Pardon me."

  A few of the women gasped in surprise. Even the men jumped. Harris smirked. In perfect harmony, the crowd parted, a Red Sea of startled faces, and let Harris pass. Setting his hat on his head, Harris pushed out the swinging doors. He paused on the porch to look around; front row seating is easy to obtain when people think you're cursed.

  Across the street, two men stood in front of the telegraph office. One waved his arm toward the east. He flapped his jaw like a fish out of water. The distance swallowed his words.

  The other, the one with the badge, leaned against a pole and looked distracted. His pants hung loose on him as if he'd recently lost weight. Harris noted the haggard aging in his face and the hunch of his shoulders.

  The sheriff looked up at Harris and their eyes met. The sheriff's blue eyes had a lackluster quality They couldn't hold a candle to the gleam in Harris' hazel ones.

  Harris smiled and tipped his hat to the sheriff. He started whistling a spry, little tune about a bonnie red-head and the man who loved her. In no hurry, he descended the stairs and headed down the street.

  ***

  Billy Jacobs explained between gasps, "...into a sinkhole... opened up right in fronta th'house. Jennie's scared t'death, Sheriff. It's dead. Been chewed up... by somethin' big...." He noticed suddenly that Masters hadn't heard a word he said. He followed the sheriff's stare to a stranger standing in front of the saloon. The man had the worn, hard look of a 'slinger, and something in his eyes sent a ripple of unease up Billy's neck.

  "Sheriff?" Billy uttered, looking back and forth between the two men. The stranger walked on down the street, whistling a haunting tune that gave Billy another shiver.

  "Bless me," Billy mumbled, rubbing at the nape of his neck. "Someone jus' walked over mah grave." With a shake to clear the feeling, Billy turned back to Masters. "Sheriff? Sheriff! Mah horse? What about mah horse?!"

  "Let's go take a look," Masters grumbled succinctly He strode out i
nto the street with a suddenness that took Billy by surprise. It forced the young man to scamper in order to catch up.

  ***

  As Harris reached his destination, he looked up. Caw! Caw! Harris grinned at the crow; even it couldn't spoil his mood. He bent to pick up a rock. The stone felt good and heavy in his hand. He cocked his arm back and threw it straight at the bird. He missed. The projectile hit the roof and tumbled back down to the street. The resulting clatter, however, sent the crow fleeing with a screech of outrage.

  Harris crossed the wooden verandah and entered the barber shop. These words greeted him: "...Lightnin' Smith? In Harmony Gap? Oh, Hell."

  The fat man in the chair had spoken them. He had a towel oyer his face and was the last to notice who entered. Everyone else turned to look and fell silent immediately.

  Mr. Bentley, the barber, pinched the fat man on the arm.

  "Ow!" the man howled, tearing the towel off his face. "What'd ya do that for?" He followed the barber's nod to the door. "Oh." His indignation bled right out of him.

  Bentley sidled over to sharpen his razor. "Afternoon," he greeted Harris.

  "Afternoon," Harris replied.

  "What can I do for ya?"

  "I need a bath, a shave, and a haircut, if you please." Harris stood with his back to the door, feet apart, arms loose at his sides.

  "Sure. Have a seat. I'll be right with ya." Bentley went to the back door and informed his wife she needed to heat water for a bath.

  Aside from the fat man and the barber himself, the shop held two other patrons, both old men, playing checkers. One had the tall, skinny build of a poplar. The other looked more like a fat-bottomed pine. They cast furtive glances at Harris.

  Harris ignored them. He took a seat on a bench and waited silently, barely moving. While the barber's wife filled his bath, Harris flipped through his memories. They weren't all bad. He had been kind to someone once. About a year after Doreen's death, he had found a baby. Indians had killed its mother. They would have killed her offspring too, but the mother had hidden her child away where they couldn't find it. Harris had stumbled across the starving, half-dead thing purely by accident. He had taken it home, cared for it, fed it, and cleaned up after it. Eventually, he had grown to love the baby as if it were his own kin. He never would have guessed he had it in him, but the strangest things happen in the strangest of times.