The Good, the Bad, and the Dead

by Bruce Campbell

  "Remember what we talked about, Zach," he said softly. "You've got to get back home with the medicine. Don't do anything stupid." The hatred in his boy's eyes softened as Bear turned the key in the door and swung it wide open.

  "Out!"

  "Get your horse and get out of town, son. Leave my horse for me."

  "I will, pa!" Zach pressed his face into his father's chest for one moment more, soaking it with his tears before tearing away and barging out past the tall sheriff. He darted across the room and flew out into the street without looking back. Bear watched him go, then slammed the bars shut and walked away himself.

  "Sleep well in there tonight," he called back over his shoulder. "Tell me, do demons sleep?" Bear laughed and closed his office door behind him.

  ***

  Jeb pondered that question through the night. He didn't know if demons slept, but certainly he didn't. When the first gray fingers of approaching dawn came in through the cell's only window Jeb's heart was racing. Lingering pain from the lump at the back of his head penetrated his very bones and no position, standing, sitting, or laying down was comfortable for long. Feeling helpless, trapped, and alone, he mustered courage from the thought of Zach heading away north and home.

  "Ride, Zach," he whispered to himself and smiled. "Ride."

  "Up and at 'em, demon," Fatty Burke ordered. Jeb had barely heard them come in, the fat deputy and his two thinner comrades, scatter-guns at the ready. "Don't try nothin' stupid 'er we'll blast you." One of the others grabbed up the keys and turned Jeb loose, never letting his eyes or gun barrels drop. Jeb stood slowly, painfully, and ambled out the door. Fatty produced a pair of steel cuffs and locked the prisoner's wrists together in front of him. Once in the street, even the light of the approaching dawn made him squint hard after being all night in the dark cell.

  "Get a move on!" Fatty ordered, poking Jeb in the back with his shotgun. He staggered forward down the dirt street, his legs trembling from lack of use. Or was it terror? Jeb wasn't sure. The large torches along the street were just smoldering now, the smoke drifting lazily through the slowly stirring town.

  The deputies positioned themselves behind and to either side of the condemned man, herding him around the left of the jail and out onto the nearly barren town square. The mud from the rain two nights before had mostly dried, but little or no grass grew, and the few trees were spindly with only a handful of gray leaves. Jeb felt the cool morning breeze as it rustled through those leaves, making him tremble all the more as they approached the pile of stones.

  Crosses grew up around the pile like so many weeds, so many that Jeb had to pick his way through them. There were all manner, finely crafted of stone, wood, or iron, or just sticks lashed together and thrust into the ground. Even on the waist-high pile there were more, stuck between the stones or just laying on top, crosses of leather and painted wood, crockery and twisted vines. Some had taken to painting crosses right onto the stones in blacks and reds. The stones themselves were of all sort, granite and slate mostly, quarried who knows where and brought here. From the dirt piled along the edge of the pile in places Jeb figured the pit went deeper than just ground level. Lord only knew how many poor folks were buried there.

  "Over there!" Fatty ordered, shoving Jeb against the ribs and nearly making him fall. The Reverend Thomasson was along the far side of the stone pile along with Bear and a couple of other town dignitaries in their black suits and gold fobs. At their feet was a pine casket and in the street a large wagon piled high with fresh stones. Grimy workmen, probably railroaders or miners with their picks and shovels, stood nearby, ready for their grim task.

  By now the gathering light spread clear across the sky, and the eager onlookers emerged from their shuttered houses to attend the show. Shopkeepers in white aprons with their wives in simple dresses strolled down the street behind suited bankers with their parasol-wielding wives, nannies, and brats. Buildings nearby opened up and windows filled with anxious faces sipping coffee or chattering softly. The quiet morning succumbed slowly to the din of gathering onlookers, witnesses taking well-remembered positions practiced many times before, carriages parked along the road, folding chairs set in the dust for the elderly or infirm. Beyond the stones on a large balcony above a saloon the pantalooned working girls gathered, and Jeb could see among them his accuser Louise Granger, reclining against the rail, sipping a drink and smiling knowingly. Rage welled up inside him. Jeb gritted his teeth hard and clenched his bound fists before him, but the image of his son riding away to the north gave him strength. The grim carnival atmosphere built steadily as he made his way around the stone pile.

  "The accused has chosen wisely to save his mortal soul and confessed his crimes to me yesterday from his cell," Thomasson began, getting right to the point, hushing the gathered throng with his booming voice. "The Lord grants mercy to those who confess their sins! This demon shall fall!" And with that the onlookers cheered and hissed. But all Bear had to do was raise his hand once and the crowd fell deathly silent.

  "We will dispense with the opening prayer and instead hold a special prayer during our regular services later on this morning," the reverend continued. Was it Sunday, Jeb wondered? He had lost track. "Now our town is rid of one more demon and one step closer to God!" The workmen stirred to bring over the stones on cue while the children in the crowd scurried forward to get a better view.

  "Wait!" Jeb shouted, but Bear swiftly knocked him across the jaw with the barrel of his pistol. Splintered teeth and blood filled his mouth, but Jeb spat them out, falling forward against the sheriff, spitting a crimson stain on his shoulder. Disgusted, Bear shouted and Burke yanked the accused off of his boss and back onto his feet and Jeb yelled again. "Is there no one here who will stand up for me! No Mayor! No Judge! No Federal Marshal!" His eyes shone wildly and Bear reared back for another blow against him, which Jeb barely dodged.

  "My God! I'm no demon! I confessed to save my boy but I'm not! You've got to believe me!" Another blow took him on the back of the head and the children cried out delightedly. A hand grabbed the hair at the back of his head and forced his head up.

  "Someone wants to say good-bye, demon!" Bear said grinning. Stunned, Jeb blinked and looked up where the whores were laughing at him from the balcony. Among them was a bedraggled customer with one hand on Louise Granger's exposed breast, heaving his drunken guts up over the side. A youngster, just a boy His boy.

  "Zach?" It couldn't be, but it was. Inebriated and oblivious to his surroundings, Zach turned back from the rail dizzily, slipped in his own vomit to the delight of the whores around him.

  "Headed straight over there when he left the jail," Bear stabbed. "Miss Granger was anxious for his company after I talked to her again. She can be most persuasive, especially with a youngster like that. He sold that medicine for another ride with the ladies. Sold your horse, too." Sheriff and deputies laughed.

  Jeb's own guts rebelled against him, forcing dry heaves that convulsed his entire body. The sheriff pulled him to his wobbly feet by his hair, threw him forward and landed a well-placed boot to his side to send him sprawling into the casket. Jeb rolled over desperately, blood from his mouth streaming into his eyes as the lid was pushed down on top of him, blocking the early morning light. He pushed against it but the laborers held it down and set hammers and nails. The hammering deafened him until the casket was dragged over and dropped into the shallow hole, slamming his shoulder and hip against the side and forcing him to bite his tongue. Then they brought the stones, one by one, dropping them loudly onto the casket while the children chanted "Bury the demon, bury the demon!" With every stone the light streaming through the casket's planks grew dimmer and his own cries weakened and faded.

  ***

  How much time had passed? An hour? A day? Jeb didn't know. Images swam in his spinning head of demons and hatred, temptation and resolve. One moment he felt free and soaring, the next painfully aware of the close walls of the pine casket holding his arms at his sides. He screame
d and then again and again until he hurt his own ears and throat and when he stopped he heard the distant laughter of children scampering around above him. They giggled and listened as he hollered until he was hoarse and choking. But when he started laughing with them, slowly at first, haltingly, but steadily louder, the children grew silent and then scampered away, some whimpering for their mothers. Jeb laughed and laughed with the last of his strength, fumbling with the amulet he stole from around the sheriff's neck.

  "Demons, come and get 'em!" he shouted, snapping the thin metal in his fingers with a brief flash of light in his darkened tomb. It's magic was finished, he knew, the sheriff's masquerade at an end. "Dinner time for the Devil's children! Zach, get off them whores and get to your horse, boy!" Jeb giggled into the evening, delighting in the screams of terror above him, the cacophony of a village descended upon by demons and the creatures of the night. The flapping of leathery wings, the ripping of flesh and pleadings of the damned mingled in Jeb's ears. Let the demons consume them, he thought in a most un-Christian manner, just like they had consumed him!

  IN SEARCH OF MR. BEASELEY

  by John R. Phythyon, Jr.

  Two years ago someone hit me over the head with a shovel. When I came to, I got sick. Emptied my guts on the ground and then tried to stand up. Big mistake. For days it felt like my stomach was going to crawl up my neck and head south. My head would spin, and it was all I could do to keep straight who was talking to me.

  That was a walk in the park, by way of comparison to this. I can feel my guts being ripped apart from the inside, and all I can do is lie here in the grass and wait for it to happen. Wouldn't be so bad I guess if he weren't over there leering at me.

  How did this happen? It all seemed so simple a few days ago. It seemed like an easy five bills. Now things are so different. And boy did they change in a hurry About a week ago, I was in Dodge. Dodge City, that is. Kansas. Not exactly a nice part of the world right now, but very good if you're looking for certain kinds of work. And I was.

  Sandy Locke, that's me. My mama named me Sandra because it sounded pretty to her, I guess. But I've never felt pretty. No, it's always been Sandy to me. Anyway, I was looking for work. I work for bounty, which is a nice way of saying I'm a mercenary. Not one of those soldiers, mind you. No, I go after the people you always see on those wanted posters. Well, most of those wanted posters have reward notices on them. That's my business. Collecting rewards.

  It can be dangerous, and it usually is. So unless you're a complete fool, you never go into a job blind. You expect something to go wrong, because most of the cases you take involve bad people. They wouldn't have gotten their faces on wanted posters if they weren't trouble.

  But this case was different. It looked like a walk in the park, and I was fool enough to believe that it was. Morg Allen is a rich cattle rancher living just outside of Dodge City, and he has one very beautiful daughter. The kind of girl that fathers hate to have. She looks just as sweet and cute as a button, and when she walks by, lust rises in men's hearts. She's the sort of girl my mama always hoped I would be.

  Well it seemed this fine young lady had gone to town one day and attracted the attention of a man named Beaseley. Robert Beaseley was not a man of the highest reputation, it seems. He was a gambler. You know the type: one of those smartly dressed masters of sleight-of-hand who come into town under the auspices of starting a "nice friendly game of cards" and end up fleecing the locals for all they're worth. Well, it seems it wasn't just money he was after. Our Mr. Beaseley had a taste for another sort of treasure.

  He met Annie Allen at the general store, and before long they were seeing each other regularly. Apparently Morg Allen didn't like Beaseley too much. He ordered him to stop seeing the girl. To hear Allen tell it, Beaseley seduced the charming creature against her will to his hotel room. More than likely, Morg Allen's little flower has a warmer heart than he'd care to admit. Regardless, they said goodbye intimately.

  And apparently Mr. Beaseley left Annie Allen with a parting gift which was due to arrive in about five or six months. Morg was furious and put a five hundred dollar reward on the man's head.

  So you can imagine why I thought this was going to be as easy as pie. All I had to do was track down some dapper Dan who had deflowered Morg Allen's little angel. Easiest money I'd ever made.

  I did some checking around and found that Robert Beaseley—or Bob as he apparently liked to be called—had left town and was headed west, probably to Garden City, last anyone had heard. That was about two months ago. According to the hotel manager, Beaseley had been in Dodge for about three months before Morg Allen had effectively run him out. I figured there was a pretty good chance that if Beaseley did go to Garden City, he was still there.

  So I saddled up and headed northwest in the direction of Garden City. Figured it would take a few days to get there. Tell the truth, I really expected the trek west to be the hardest part of the job. The Kansas plains are not a good place for anyone to be. It's disputed territory, which y'all surely know. Never can tell if you're going to run into some captain with a burr in his bottom who decides you must be working for the other side.

  More than that, though, the plains are wild. There're things that live in the tall prairie grass that most people just don't want to meet. Between the prairie ticks, bone fiends, bloodwires, and God knows what else, this isn't exactly the safest part of the West—not that I think there's really any part of the West that's safe anymore.

  But with all that on my mind, I headed West towards Garden City with some trepidation. After all, a body just never knew when things were going to change out here.

  But the trip itself was pretty peaceful. Nothing really bothered me on the way there. I'd been out for about half a day thinking that I'd been pretty lucky when it occurred to me that things were too quiet. I hadn't seen anything. There were no stray cattle grazing. No herds of buffalo. There were no other travelers and no rowdy ranch hands on their way to Dodge for a good time. In fact, the entire plains seemed to have this eerie calm about it. It was as though someone or something was waiting for something big to happen.

  That made me nervous, so I put myself on my guard. I figured it was just a matter of time before something happened so I was going to be ready. If I'd known what I was in for, I'd have turned back right then and told Morg Allen that he could keep his money.

  Instead, I rode on in silence. Ginger, my palomino, was clearly spooked by this. Sometimes I think horses are smarter than people. They can sense when something isn't right, and they prefer to get the Hell out of there when they do. People, on the other hand, just keep right on going. Of course, Ginger let me force her to go on, which wasn't exactly smart either, but her instincts were better than mine at least. I just kept patting her neck and telling her everything was going to be alright as if that were actually true.

  By mid-afternoon, I'd come upon a small town called Flatbush. I often wonder how people with the pioneering spirit who are willing to risk life and limb to go out and settle the West, aren't blessed with enough imagination to give their towns better names.

  Anyway, Flatbush was some sort of farming community. The town itself operated as a sort of central headquarters for supplies. Thus, it had a general store, a hotel to put up suppliers, a smithy, and a church. People came to town to get what they needed and to worship on Sunday. Otherwise, they were out working in their fields.

  I'd been to a few dozen of these towns in my travels. They were rarely exciting, and, except on Sunday mornings, they usually reminded you of ghost towns-, plenty of buildings, but not many people in them. So I was somewhat surprised when I rode into town and discovered it to be bustling with activity. People were moving up and down the boardwalk and heading in and out of the general store and the hotel, which I now saw had a saloon attached.

  This was my second big clue that something was very wrong about this job. After the eerie calm on the prairie, I rode into a town buzzing with activity when it shouldn't have been. I
t was the middle of the week. Unfortunately, I ignored my instincts again. It was so unusual that I felt myself being drawn in by a curiosity I could not describe.

  I rode Ginger up to the hotel and tied her at the hitching post. There were several horses already tied there, and I had to nudge one of them over to make room for Ginger. Fingering the butt of my Colt, I pushed my way through the doors of the saloon.

  It was quite lively for mid-afternoon. There must have been fifteen or twenty men drinking and talking. In the corner, another man was playing a piano that sounded as though it had never been in tune. Everyone was laughing and talking as though there were no fields that needed tending. I wondered for a moment if these were cowboys stopping off on a cattle drive or something like that, but I didn't see a lot of horses out front, and besides, who would have been watching the cattle?

  Further, why stop here when Dodge City wasn't that far away? No, something told me these were locals.

  I walked up to the bar and ordered a bottle of whiskey. The bartender looked at me strangely. I'm not sure he'd ever seen a woman in pants before, but he was perfectly willing to take my money.

  I poured myself a shot, threw it back, and then had a look around the room. People were watching me, but no one looked as though they wanted to start something. As I scanned the room, I noticed a poker game going on at one of the back tables. It was comprised of three farmers and one gentleman in a fancy black suit. The fop was dealing.

  Morg Allen had given me a description of Bob Beaseley, and this stranger certainly seemed to fit it. He seemed tall, even sitting down. His black suit had a red vest. I could see a gold pocket watch from my vantage. A black bowler hat rested on the table next to him, and his black hair was parted immaculately down the middle. He had a big, black, bushy mustache that was neatly combed and waxed. He sat at the table like a king, and as he dealt the cards to the three farmers with whom he played, he brimmed of confidence.