When the hill fell quiet again, Bullock shouted out. "Come on out, Duke. You've got no place left to go!"
Duke laughed to himself. "Come on, marshal. We both know you're not letting me out of here alive. I'll take my chances up here, thanks!"
"It ain't that way, Duke. This ain't no lynch mob. We left those fools behind in town, and I've had enough time to cool off on this long chase you led us on.
"Just put down your gun and give yourself up. I'll guarantee you a fair trial."
"And then you'll hang me."
"I s'pect so."
"In that case," Duke began, and then finished his sentence with the last shots remaining in the gun.
When the gun clicked on an empty cylinder, Duke scrambled back over to me. "C'mon, Philip, where's yer extra bullets for this thing. You've got to have some on you."
I just shook my head. "I'm not a gunfighter, Duke. I've never had to fire the gun before. I don't have any more bullets."
The man looked at me in total disbelief. "You gotta be jokin'," he said.
Duke looked around desperately, his eyes landing on my saddlebags lying where I'd dropped them as I'd topped the ridge. He scuttled over to them on his hands and knees.
"Duke, don't," I asked quietly. "There's nothing in there you want to see."
"You never know, Philip," he growled. "I once found a gun I thought I'd lost in the bottom of my saddlebags. You'd be amazed what you can find in these things."
Then he just stopped for a moment, bewildered. "Waitaminnit," he said, puzzled, "these are my saddlebags. What the Hell?"
"We must have gotten them mixed up in all the commotion," I said, pleading with him. "Just leave them alone."
Duke shot me a look like I'd just fallen from the sky. "Are you off yer rocker? I've got just what I need in here."
Duke got up on his knees and dumped the contents of the saddlebags out on the ground. He was expecting to find boxes of bullets, maybe even another gun or two.
Instead, dozens of tiny, shrunken heads spilled out between his knees.
Duke stared at the little heads for a moment, each the size of a child's fist. The wrinkled dead faces stared back at him, their eyes cold and glazed, their gums drawn back in a rictus grin. Here were the clues he'd been after for so long, the missing parts of the many victims he'd seen over the past year. In among them, there was a single, still-bloody, full-sized head of a beautiful blond woman, a look of horror still frozen upon her smooth-skinned face. It was the marshal's wife.
Realization dawned slowly through the shock. Duke slowly looked up at me and saw me holding my little gun on him, pointed directly at his head. I gave him a knowing smile that told him that our little game had finally come to an end.
"Marshal!" I started shouting. "Marshal! I've got your killer right here!"
(Duke's adventure continues in The Anthology with No Name Volume 3: The Good, the Bad, and the Dead.)
PROVIDIN' THE CREEK
Don't Rise
By Clay and Susan Griffith "Pardon me, sir. I have something disturbing to tell you."
The interruption made Howard Clausen glare up suddenly from his desk. "Yes?" He jabbed his pen into the expensive gilt desk set and took a sharp breath. "What is it?"
He saw a tall, lanky man with worn pants, stained white shirt, threadbare jacket, shoes that no amount of polish or rubbing could save from looking ancient; he stood hat in hand, his thinning hair slicked flat against his speckled cranium with some sort of cheap, high-smelling eau d'toilet. An amenable, but troubled smile decorated his leathery face. He was probably 40 years old, but looked 60. A farmer, thought Clausen.
"Ernst Wickerman's my nanie." The farmer reached out his hand. Clausen hesitated, but then briefly took it. Wickerman dragged back a hard wooden chair with a harsh scraping sound and sat down. He wiped his brow with his shirt cuff. "Hot one today. Nice and shady in here though. I ought to come to the bank more often just to cool off. Anyhow, Wickerman's my name and I'm right pleased to know you, Mr . . ."
"Clausen." The banker indicated the name plate on his desk "Are you part of the Barton County Clausens?" Wickerman picked up the name plate and studied it.
"No I am not." The banker leaned forward and took the name plate. He replaced it on the desk and straightened it just so. "I've only been in Kansas a few weeks."
"You don't say. Well, welcome to Cornet, neighbor. We're right proud to have you. You ought to look up the Barton County Clausens. Might be kin. They're a fine family. Course, Randolph is a drinker. Don't think I'm telling tales, mind you. His behavior is a well-known fact here abouts. I'm no temperance man, but you have to know when to cork the jug. Don't you agree?"
"I'm a very busy man, Mr. Wickerman. Could you state your business, please?"
Wickerman looked contrite. "Sorry. I'm a talker. Ask any of my neighbors, they'll tell you the same thing. But I reckon you didn't put on your green visor there this morning so I could come in and bend your ear, so I'll get to it. I expect I'll miss my next few mortgage payments. Thank you so much for your time. It's been a pleasure to make your acquaintance." Wickerman stood up and made to put on his hat.
"One second, if you please." Clausen waved the farmer back to the chair. "Did you say you intend to miss your mortgage payments?"
"Well, you don't need to make it sound like it's on purpose." Wickerman sat down and stroked his chin, freshly shaven pale against the rough, redness of his cheeks. "It's just one of those things that happens. You know how things are. You get one good year, but then you get five bad ones. You understand farming."
"I understand farmers." Clausen slipped off his visor and ran a hand through his graying hair. He wearily rested crossed arms on his desk. "I suppose this has been a bad year for you?"
Wickerman shook his head ruefully. "Mr. Clausen, Lord knows nobody alive likes to admit failure. But sometimes I reckon God just doesn't want a man to farm."
"I reckon," Clausen drawled as he regarded the apparently crestfallen farmer through half-closed eyes. He couldn't help mocking, but the farmer didn't react. Typical, he thought, of their level of wit. He looked at the large clock on the wall-quarter after 10 in the morning. He cringed at the thought of facing another tiresome day in this dismal place listening to these dismal people lie about their problems.
"Mr. Clausen," Wickerman slapped his knee for emphasis, "farming is always hard, but I managed to get by. But the run of bad luck I've had is near impossible to believe. Sir, I never have missed a mortgage payment before. Sometimes I couldn't pay the whole thing mind you, but I'm a man who pays his bills. Ask any of my neighbors and they'll tell you the same thing."
"Quite the point." Clausen stared at the farmer. "The Cornet Farmers' Bank understands the uncertainties of agriculture. But uncertainty is the nature of life, whether tilling the soil or high finance. I'm afraid that neither droughts nor locusts nor poor management relieve farmers of their financial obligations anymore than the collapse of the gold market would relieve this bank of ours. We all get wet in the rain. If we forgave the debts of every farmer who overplanted or underplanted, we would have long ago closed our doors. And then where would you and your neighbors be, I ask you?"
Wickerman sucked on his teeth for a second, then said, "I've sure enough had my share of Mother Nature kicking me in the pants. Three years ago, I got flooded out just a week before harvest. Two years ago, borers ate up my crop. Then there was the year I decided to raise crows instead of chickens. You know, they get awful big and don't taste too bad. Dang things broke loose, ate my corn, and flew away. Came near to ruining me."
"How unfortunate" Clausen rolled his eyes without trying to hide it. "But we need hardly bear the burden for the unaccountable failure of such a commercial venture."
Wickerman looked at the banker. "You're new around here so I reckon you don't know the ways of this area."
Clausen suddenly felt uncomfortable. Was Wickerman threatening him? Perhaps, Clausen thought with alarm, his sarcasm wasn't slippin
g past the target as widely as he believed. He kept his face emotionless. It didn't do to show fear with these people anymore than with mad dogs or wild animals.
Wickerman stared up at the ceiling. "Last year, my bull was struck by lightning."
Clausen relaxed. The farmer was, in fact, oblivious to insult. He was just continuing his rambling excuse as to why he was a special case and deserved suspension of his mortgage payments. The banker was so relieved that his well-deserved mockery wasn't going to flare into some unpleasant, frontier confrontation that he nearly smiled and he prepared to give Wickerman's story more attention than it would no doubt deserve.
Clausen even prompted him. "So lightning killed your bull. How dreadful."
"No, it didn't kill him. He was fine enough afterward, except for this strange blue glow. The real problems came when he started killing my cows."
"The lightning deranged him?"
"No, sir. You see, I had twelve cows. And he electrocuted all but two of them."
"Electrocuted? And how did he accomplish that?"
Wickerman looked around him sheepishly. "There are ladies in here, Mr. Clausen." He leaned forward and said quietly with a wink, "You know what bulls do? Well, sir, every time he...went about his business, he'd shock the cow clear to death. I couldn't stop him. Couldn't touch him; he was crackling blue with lightning. Didn't want to kill him because he was a good bull, and an expensive one too. But I finally had to take a shot at him with my shotgun and he ran off into the woods."
Clausen stared at the farmer, at a momentary loss for words.
Wickerman sat back. "Oh, but he's still out there. Every now and then, on clear nights when I'm sitting out in the yard smoking my pipe, I can see a big, blue glow moving out amongst the trees. He doesn't ever come out in the open when I'm in sight, but in the mornings I see his hoof prints burned into the ground around the barn. Of course, I keep my cows locked up at night now."
"Very wise of you." Clausen rubbed the back of his neck. Oddly enough, he felt an unexpected little bubble of cheer. At least he wasn't listening to another well-thumbed sob story about the unpredictable and irresponsible evils of insects or weather. He looked at Wickerman's sunburned, bony face. It was plastered with an exaggerated sincerity that Clausen knew well, the look of a too-clever hick trying to put one over on the hated banker. But this man's ruse was so blatantly, so uncaringly audacious it provided the first even mildly interesting diversion Clausen had experienced in his miserable short time with the Cornet Farmers' Bank. He adopted a look of official sympathy. "Not being from this area, I must ask, is this sort of thing a common problem among the local agriculturists?"
"You mean an electrified bull? No, sir, not specifically. Two years ago, Merton Waite's bull drank a tub full of corn whiskey and went crazy, but that's not really the same thing, is it? But the bull wasn't the end of it. Let me tell you what happened next."
"Oh do." Clausen leaned back in his padded chair and linked his hands over his stomach.
"I wanted to get to the spring plowing and put in the alfalfa early. The field seemed damp even though we hadn't had a good rain for more than a week. But I didn't pay it no mind. Well, sir, when I started putting in those rows my old mule started acting funny, throwing his head around and carrying on. I wasn't paying much attention. I daydream a lot when I'm plowing. But then it got hard to walk and my feet were making a sucking, muddy noise. I looked down and my shoes were covered in blood."
"Blood?" Clausen jerked involuntarily.
"Yes sir. I'd plowed two rows and they were both running red like open wounds." Wickerman shrugged. "I tried the other end of the field, but same thing happened. Every bit of earth I turned brought up gushes of blood. Of course blood ain't good for nothing." He thought for a second. "Maybe rye. But I don't know anything about rye. So I had near fifty acres worthless, just like that."
Clausen diverted his gaze to his desktop and stroked his-well-groomed mustache to hide the upturning corners of his mouth. He wanted to chuckle at the predictably prosaic end of such a horrific story. With the Earth bleeding inexplicably and supernaturally, the only point this bumpkin could make is that he lost fifty acres of alfalfa. Clausen cleared his throat. "So fifty acres is the extent of your arable land?"
Wickerman considered the word 'arable' for a second, then said, "Uh...no sir, if I take your meaning, I have near on three hundred acres total. I did get some alfalfa in, but it was only half my usual crop. Not that it did me any good in the end. But I'm getting ahead of myself."
"You've endured additional hardships besides the bull and the blood?"
"Yes sir. You see, I'm mainly in corn."
"So I assumed from your tale of the crow experiment."
Wickerman smiled. "Good. Well, anyway, I'm mainly in corn. About two hundred acres of it. After the crow experiment, I made myself three scarecrows. Real scary ones too. Stuffed some old clothes with hay and corn shucks. Took some gourds for heads and carved evil faces on them, slitty eyes and jagged old teeth. Well, a few days after that I heard crows, so I picked up my shotgun and went out into the cornfield. That's when I saw two of my scarecrows missing. Then I heard a rustling noise, like somebody was walking around with me in the field. The corn was about five feet tall and, sure enough, I spotted a hat thirty, forty feet off. Some tomfool boy sneaking around, heading for my last scarecrow. Well, I figured I'd fix him pretty good with a hindquarters full of buckshot. So I hunkered down and waited.
"But the fellow I thought was just a boy was really one of my scarecrows. He was walking around like you or me. Had a peculiar walk, like he had palsy. And then he started tugging on the scarecrow that was still up on its post. And that one started jerking around like a bug with a pin through it. I just squatted there staring until out of the corner of my ear, I heard something behind me. I turned around and there was the third scarecrow, with my axe! I ducked and fired my shotgun. The blast knocked him sideways and the axe flew out of his hand. The axe missed me pretty good, a couple of inches. By that time, the third scarecrow was off the post and the whole gang of them started making this weird, hollow, gibbering sound. Then they came running for me. It was all I could do to get back to the house and lock myself in."
"What did the scarecrows do then?"
"They stayed outside the house. And stayed and stayed and stayed. I was holed up the whole summer. Once I tried to use a burning log to get past, but they didn't seem as scared of it as I'd hoped. And with three of them, there was always one sneaking around behind me. Usually, the three of them would stand out in the yard, stock still for hours. They were good at that. Not surprising, I guess. Anyhow, I was lucky they never did try to bust in the house."
Clausen nodded with mock sympathy, but stayed quiet.
Wickerman continued, "The nights were the worst. On still nights, I'd lay there listening to them; they made a dry, rustling sound when they moved. The bold rascals would come right up to the house and stare in the windows at me. And they always made that sick gibbering noise, like they were talking."
Wickerman stopped for what seemed to be no good reason. He sniffed and picked dust off his coat sleeve for a long moment.
"Well, what happened?" Clausen sat up in his chair.
"Come a hard frost they fell apart. Nothing left but three piles of old clothes and some dried out husks." The farmer shook his head. "Didn't make no never mind. Corn was mostly rotten by then anyhow. But I did count on wearing those clothes over the winter. I didn't much care to after all that carrying on."
"It must be disappointing to have your own trousers turn on you," Clausen said.
Wickerman furrowed his brow in confusion and tugged on his pants leg. Then he grinned. "Oh. I reckon you're right. That's a good one, Mr. Clausen. I ended up giving those clothes to a church bazaar so Heaven knows what they're up to now."
Clausen laughed out loud. Several bank tellers craned over the counters, looking at him with concern and surprise. Then they all exchanged glances and furtive smiles a
s they returned to their work.
Wickerman continued over Clausen's laughter, "Even losing the corn wouldn't have been the end for me, but my hogs all turned inside out."
Clausen stopped laughing abruptly. "Beg pardon?"
"Yes sir, about two days before slaughter. It was something to see. Well, I mean, I didn't see it happen. But I sure heard it. It was a blue cold morning. I was in drinking coffee when all the hogs started squealing like the devil was pulling their tails. I rushed outside presently and all seven of them were inside out."
"You mean strung up?"
"No. They weren't butchered. They were still alive. They were just inside out. I could see their hearts and lungs and stomachs and such, plain as day, just dangling there. It was so cold, big clouds of steam rose up off of them and they were real warm to the touch. Of course, their eyes were on the inside now, so they were scurrying all around, bumping into things. Their intestines were getting stretched out every which way and covered in mud. Oh, it was a mess. I swear it took me the better part of the day to get their guts untangled."
"It should have made slaughtering somewhat easier." Clausen felt vaguely nauseated, but still invigorated by the extraordinary sincerity with which Wickerman related these lies.
"No, sir. They were no good for dressing. They smelled real bad, like they'd spoiled. I ended up killing them anyway. After a few days all they could do was just lay there and squeal. I just got tired of hearing it all day and night."
Clausen tentatively placed one foot on the edge of his desktop. "Mr. Wickerman, do you have any theory as to how these hogs were turned inside out?"
"No, sir. Like I said, I didn't see it happen."
Clausen swiveled his chair from side to side almost playfully. "That's quite a litany of woe. Anything else?"
"Nothing worth mentioning."
"I see. So you are maintaining that you have suffered a downturn in farm income because of these various..,um...events. Correct?"
Deadlands: For a Few Dead Guys More Page 5
