The Good, the Bad, and the Dead

by Bruce Campbell

  But somehow, I had the idea that Beaseley wasn't making empty promises. I really believe that if I had been willing to abandon the job, he'd have whipped out ten big ones and paid me off right there. But I wasn't that smart.

  Besides, one had a professional reputation to maintain. If it became known that you could be bought, it made work harder to find. Employers expect a certain amount of loyalty.

  "I don't think so, Mr. Beaseley," I said.

  "How unfortunate," he commented as though he really were disappointed. "But perhaps there is something else I can offer you."

  So saying, he stroked my cheek lightly. The action threw me off guard. No one had ever done that before, not even my mama. He brushed the skin lightly with this index finger, and I felt a tingling sensation go through me the likes of which I had never experienced.

  I found myself becoming very confused. This was an act of affection so new to me, I wasn't sure how I was supposed to react. My mama had spent so much time trying to teach me proper etiquette that she hadn't ever shown me any real love. And my pa loved me pretty well, but he wasn't the sort of man who showed such things. You could see it by a certain glint in his eye how much he cared, but he never spoke of such things, let alone touched you affectionately.

  There had been men in the past who had made comments about me and who found me desirable, but these were mostly criminals and other lowlifes who had more visceral designs on me as a woman. They weren't interested in courting. And the kinds of men who courted weren't particularly interested in a woman who could outshoot, outride, and outperform them in most of the so-called manly arts.

  So when sinister Mr. Beaseley brushed my skin with the tip of his finger, and I felt a reflexive shudder of pleasure go through me, I had no idea exactly what it was or how to react to it. Beaseley saw all of this in an instant, and he pounced on the opening I had unwittingly given to him.

  "Poor Sandra," he said soothingly, "you've never known true pleasure." He put his palm on my cheek, and his fingers softly stroked the flesh there. Despite myself, I found that I had cocked my head a little to the side to lean into the caress.

  Something about what he said keyed my mind in to the fact that this was a seduction, but the truth of what he was saying to me made the pain of it all too unbearable. I found myself wanting him to seduce me just to ease the pain of all that missed affection.

  I could only dimly hear the alarm bells in my mind ringing out, telling me to stop this now before he really got his hooks into me, and when he pressed his lips to mine and kissed me, they were drowned out all together. I was awash in the sheer ecstasy of a man, even this man, taking a real interest in me as a woman.

  I returned his kiss as best I knew how, for no one had ever taught me how to kiss. I only knew what I had read about in the dime novels and penny dreadfuls, and you couldn't rely on those for real information. But Beaseley was more than patient. He guided me, and wordlessly showed me how it was done.

  He put a hand at the small of my back and drew me to him. Then, with his other arm wrapped around my neck, he massaged and teased my lips, showing me just how to get the most pleasure out of this simple act of human kindness.

  After a time, his hands began to roam. I had no idea that being touched could bring so much pleasure. My mama had always told me that proper ladies didn't allow such things to happen, let alone take pleasure in them. Having no experience to the contrary, I had actually believed her. Now, Beaseley showed me how wrong she had been; how much she had lied. As he touched me, I found myself giving over more and more control to him. I found myself reveling in the sensations he was creating within me.

  A warm sensation began to grow from my loins and spread up through me. At first it felt pleasant, like the glow from a campfire on a cool night. But it soon turned to an inferno. I felt passion playing over me, taking hold of my thoughts and turning them to just one goal. I felt Beaseley working at the buttons of my shirt and I wanted to scream at him to work faster. I wanted him to strip the clothes from me so that I could be closer to him.

  Before long I lay naked on his big canopy bed. He had the shutters from the window open and the moonlight streamed in. I basked in the glow it created on my skin, until Beaseley, naked himself, joined me in bed.

  He kissed his way up my body and I found myself hungering for him now. I wanted nothing more than for him to take me now and give myself over to the passion he had awakened in me.

  But before he could complete the seduction, before I could allow him to consummate what he had begun, he made a fatal mistake. Had he kept his mouth shut and not tried to revel in what he had brought forth in me, he could have ravished me as easily as he did Annie Allen. But instead he whispered in my ear.

  "Yes, my dear," he said. "That's it. Give yourself over to the now. Nothing else matters."

  As he said that, our earlier conversation resounded in my head. I heard Beaseley telling me that the fields were unimportant. Only the celebration of life mattered to the farmers of Flatbush. All the feelings of uneasiness that I had been experiencing throughout this sordid job came flooding back to me. I opened my eyes and saw myself lying naked next to a man whom I had been hired to bring back dead or alive for five hundred dollars. My experience, training, and professionalism all kicked back in, and I knew that something was terribly, terribly wrong here.

  It was probably already too late to do anything about it. Beaseley had so lowered my defenses that, not only was my trusty six-shooter not at my hip, but I was completely unclothed in front of him. I had no weapons available.

  That had never stopped me before, though. With a quick roll, I sprang away from Beaseley and got off the bed. Heedless of my nudity, I scrambled for my gunbelt, which lay in a crumpled heap in the center of the floor. I managed to reach it and drew the Colt, spinning as I did so to face Beaseley Before I could do anything else, though, I felt a crack on the top of my head. Then the world went black.

  The sensation of a cool breeze blowing across my back was what brought me back to consciousness. When I came to, there was sunlight streaming in from the open window along with the breeze that had brought me around. I was still naked, but I found myself lying face down on the bed instead of in the middle of the floor where I last remembered being.

  Slowly I tried to get up. My head swam and as soon as my feet touched the floor, I vomited. Spilled my guts onto the hotel room floor just as I had a few years ago when I'd been hit with that shovel. The smell made me want to do it again, but I managed to keep the rest of last night's dinner in my stomach.

  I'd fallen to my knees in the process of retching, so I made another attempt at standing up. I was more successful this time, managing not to vomit or to fall. I stepped around the pile of sick and attempted to remember exactly what had happened to me. It all came painfully back, and I figured that Beaseley was half way to Denver by now. What an idiot I'd been.

  Just then, I heard a sound come from the sitting room in the suite. Someone had just come in, probably the maid. Wouldn't she be pleased with the extra surprise I had left for her on the floor?

  A moment later, my warning senses went off. Whoever had just come in was not walking around the suite the way you might expect them to. The new arrival was trying to be quiet, trying to sneak up on me. His or her efforts were being thwarted by the creaky floorboards and inexperience. It was obvious that I was dealing with an amateur.

  My mind raced, looking for a means to take advantage of the situation, but as I was naked, I had little at hand. Or did I? It occurred to me that whoever was in the other room trying to sneak up on me was a man. If that was the case, I had a very definite advantage.

  As lightly as possible, I dashed over to the doorway. I got there just before my would-be assailant arrived at the same place. Then, naked as the day I was born, I stepped out into the sitting room.

  I had been right. It was a man. It was Abel Kennard, the farmer whom Beaseley had swindled at the poker table yesterday. This was all starting to make some
sick sort of sense, but I couldn't put my finger on exactly what it was.

  As soon as Abel saw me, he froze in his tracks. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He had been expecting to find me here, but he clearly hadn't expected me to be up and around. But the thing that made it work so well was my nudity.

  Abel just stood there gawking, his eyes transfixed on my chest. I smiled to myself. This was a pretty good trick. I might have to use it again in the future.

  Then I noticed that Abel had a gun in his hand. I had expected that, but I hadn't expected it to be my gun. That made me angry.

  "That's my gun, you bastard," I said to him.

  Hearing what I said, Abel finally was able to tear his eyes away from my naked body. Like an idiot, he turned his head and looked stupidly at the gun.

  That was when I moved. I raced over to him and delivered a fierce kick to his chest. It was much rougher than it needed to be, but I was angry. I was angry that I had been duped by Beaseley, I was angry that I had had to exploit myself to beat this hick farmer, and I was angry at myself for not paying any closer attention to what was going on around me during this entire job. As a result, I put a little extra into that kick and Abel Kennard sailed off his feet and landed with a crash onto an end table that ceased being valuable when it collapsed beneath him.

  He dropped the gun, and I quickly retrieved it. As I moved toward him, I began to feel a bit more sheepish about the fact that I was naked. Apparently my modesty was choosing to return at an inopportune time. I did my best to ignore it as I jammed the barrel of the gun up under Abel's chin.

  "What the Hell are you doing here?" I asked him in my most intimidating voice.

  Abel gurgled something incomprehensible.'! pulled the hammer on the Colt back and gave the gun another little shove into his jaw.

  "What are you doing here?" I repeated.

  "Mr. Beaseley sent me," he wailed. "He sent me up here to kill you. Said if I did it, he'd give me my money back."

  You come see me tomorrow morning Abel, and I'll give you the opportunity to earn it back. That's what Beaseley had said as the unfortunate farmer had turned to go yesterday afternoon. But how could he have known that he'd want me dead the next day? He didn't even know who I was at that point. Unless he knew all of this would happen. But that wasn't possible. Was it?

  All at once the little eerie signs came back to me. There had been no activity on the plains. They had been still. By way of contrast, a quiet farming community had transformed into a den of carousing and drinking in the middle of the week, leaving fields untended. In the middle of a poker game, my cards had transformed themselves from a full house ace high, to a Dead Man's Hand. And Beaseley had managed, through a silver tongue and by taking an interest in me as a person, to charm the pants right off me.

  I had sensed all along that something was wrong here, but now I came to realize that it was wrong with a capital "w." By not paying any closer attention to things, I had put my foot right into the middle of a big patch of ugly weirdness. Silently, I swore. There was no way to tell how any of this would turn out.

  "Where is Mr. Beaseley?" I said, becoming even angrier with the poor farmer.

  "He's downstairs in the saloon like always," Abel said.

  "Thanks, Abel," I said with a smile. "You've been a great help."

  With that, I thumped him on the head with the butt of my Colt. Then I went to see about getting dressed.

  I walked into the saloon with a new sense of purpose. Truth to tell, I probably should have just ridden back to Dodge and forgotten about the whole damned incident. There are better ways to earn five hundred bucks, and I already knew that I was hip deep in Weird.

  But like I said before, I was angry. I wanted to make Beaseley pay for what he'd done to me. I wanted to make sure that whatever vengeance Morg Allen had in store was inflicted upon him, and I wanted to present him to Morg with a smug look on my face that the esteemed Mr. Beaseley would never forget.

  So I strode into the saloon and found Beaseley playing cards again. I stood across from the table with a defiant look on my face and got ready for the worst.

  "Beaseley," I commanded, "let's go."

  He looked up from his cards with an amused expression on his face. Then he went back to playing.

  "I don't think so," he said. "I'm perfectly content to stay right here, Miss Locke. You and Morg Allen can go straight to Hell."

  "If that's what it takes," I said, putting my hand on the Colt.

  Beaseley looked up at me when I said that. He had a wild, maniacal look on his face.

  "It just might," he said.

  Something about that terrified me. I can't explain what it was, but it scared the Hell out of me. Right then and there, I'd decided I'd had enough. I drew down on him.

  There was a crack like the sound of thunder and a green flash. I felt something whiz past my ear, but whatever it was missed. Beaseley turned the table over and nearly threw it at me. I had to dodge to get out of the way, firing off a shot as I did so.

  The bullet went wide, digging into the wood planks of the saloon wall. Beaseley rolled to his feet and dashed out a back entrance I hadn't seen before.

  I raced after him. He was just a few steps ahead of me as we chased down a narrow hallway. He stopped, flicked his hand open, and there was another green flash. This one blinded me momentarily. I fired another shot, hoping to get lucky and hit him, but I heard it ricochet off of something. I could hear his footsteps race down the hall and go outside.

  I turned back, meaning to cut him off. I went through the saloon and out into the morning sun. My eyes cleared just in time to see Beaseley come around the corner of the hotel on a midnight black stallion. I emptied the Colt in his direction, but none of the bullets struck home. Beaseley galloped out of town. But I noticed that he had gone out the same way I had come in, which meant he was riding east. Towards Dodge. I couldn't believe my luck.

  I spent the time necessary to reload my Colt, then went over to where Ginger was tied to the hitching post. I holstered the Colt and withdrew my Henry rifle from its saddle holster. I checked to make sure that it was loaded and then climbed atop Ginger.

  This was going to be easy. Beaseley had left town scared and without supplies. He was riding in the direction I wanted him to go. Moreover, he was riding across the Kansas Plains. If you've never been out this way, then you have no appreciation for how flat the world can be. You can see damn near all the way to Heaven out here. I could have spotted and fired off a shot at Beaseley if he'd been ten miles away from me.

  So I spurred Ginger and we galloped off after the fleeing dandy. Within moments, we had left Flatbush behind and I could see Beaseley riding Hell bent for leather in the direction of Dodge City. I urged more speed from Ginger so that I could get a good rifle shot off at our quarry.

  Finally, I believed I had enough range. Shooting a rifle from horseback is difficult. I was hoping to put a bullet close enough to Beaseley to cause him to rein up or to change direction, either of which would have given me a better chance to overtake him. I never expected to hit him.

  But when I fired the shot, he threw up his hands in the air and fell off his saddle. The shot had apparently hit him right between the shoulders. I slowed Ginger's pace and rode up casually to where I had seen him fall. He wasn't there.

  Perplexed, I looked around. I spotted him again behind me. He was standing in the tall prairie grass about a hundred yards away. How he had gotten there, I couldn't imagine. But I had decided that Morg Allen was going to have to do without his revenge. I was going to take Beaseley out right here and bring his carcass back to Dodge.

  I spurred Ginger again. She took off like a shot and we came galloping across the prairie aiming right for Mr. Bob Beaseley. He raised his arms over his head. Ginger, slowed up despite my urging. I pulled her to a stop, aimed, and fired another shot at Beaseley. He fell over like I'd hit him right between the eyes.

  But again, when I rode over to where he'd been standing, he
was no longer there. This time, I immediately turned to look behind me. I didn't see Bob Beaseley. What I did see made my blood run cold.

  The grass was moving. It wasn't waving gently in the breeze. It was shaking as though something were moving through it. Several somethings. That usually meant only one thing: prairie ticks, insidious little monsters that liked to crawl down your throat and suck the blood out of your guts.

  I shuddered. I'd fought these nasty things before, but it was never pleasant. As I raised the Henry to the firing position, I saw one of them bound up out of the grass. I squeezed the trigger. The tick exploded as the bullet ripped it apart.

  Ginger started to panic. She was neighing nervously and trying to bolt. I had to shush her repeatedly so that I could get off a clean shot. I dusted three of the ticks but missed several others owing to Ginger's actions when the Henry ran out of ammo.

  Ginger reared up, and I was thrown from the saddle. I landed roughly in the grass. Five ticks leaped up and swarmed over her. She galloped away madly, trying to get them off of her. The rest came at me.

  I could see them more clearly now. They were knocking down the prairie grass making them easy to track. I drew the Colt and started firing. I emptied the barrel and gunned down five more of the little bastards.

  Still more came. There seemed to be an endless number of them. I began using the Henry as a club, bashing them to death as they leaped at me. But there were more of them than I could hope to resist. At last, I swung wildly and missed. The tick I had been aiming for landed on my face. The horrid little thing was as big as my fist and it used the hooks on its forelegs to pry my lips apart and work its way into my mouth.

  It's working its way quickly and efficiently down my throat was the most revolting sensation imaginable. I fell to my knees and vomited, but the Prairie Tick blocked my throat, forcing it back into my stomach, an equally revolting feeling.

  I cried out in pain as it sank its hooks into my stomach. I had to do something. Looking around, I saw that the rest of the ticks had disappeared. It occurred to me that this was strange since I didn't remember killing all of them, but I was in no mood to argue. Ginger had fallen a little ways away. No doubt several of the bastards had gotten inside her. Somehow, I got to my feet and staggered in her direction.