On several previous Halloweens, the other shades of the damned souls buried in Boot Hill had discussed Injun Joe’s case. They all wondered how he had ended up a ghost, given his lack of serious crimes while alive. As Injun Joe explained it, he had been shot as a result of a misunderstanding with a bartender who thought he was attempting to take a bottle of whisky from the bar without paying for it. According to Injun Joe, he had been drunk at the time because of several drinks given him by other bar patrons anxious to see how many drinks were needed to get an Indian drunk. As a result of his inebrieation, he admitted, he might have inadvertently not paid the right price for the bottle or indeed anything at all.
Remembering the Indian’s sad story, Black Jack handed him a cigarette. “Thamk you,” said Injun Joe, “I can really use a smoke,” before realizing he had inadvertently stepped out of character. He relaxed when he saw that the others had apparently not noticed his slip. All three sat on their tombstones silently smoking. It was no longer fun, Black Jack thought, to be sprung from Boot Hill every Halloween and walk the earth. Living people no longer believed in ghosts. If anyone saw him from a distance, they thought he was a child in costume collecting his treat or trick candy. Up close, when they could see he was an adult, they would assume him to be someone going to a Halloween masquerade party.
Black Jack’s sad reflections were interrupted by a flash of light and the appearance of a figure before him. It was a man, wearing a white robe, with a halo above his head and wings. In his left hand, he held a harp.
“Am I speaking to Black Jack McBride?” he asked politely.
“That’s me,” came back the answer. “Who are you?”
Permit me to introduce myself,” the man said. “I am the angel Mordecai. I come to you with a very important message.”
“What is it?” Black Jack asked. He was startled to think that an angel would have a message for him.
“You probably are not aware of it, being in Boot Hill that we are computerizing our records in Heaven. While imputing your information into the computer, it was discovered that an unfortunate administrative error was made. Instead of the fourteen individuals you are credited with killing, the correct number is four, and two of them were apparently cases of justifiable self defense.”
“Does that mean I can get out of here?” Black Jack asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid not,” came back the answer. “The error was purely an administrative one, not one of substance. “Still,” the angel continued, we do feel we owe you a sincere expression of regret.”
A lot of good that does me, Black Jack thought to himself. Then he was heartened when he heard Mordecai continue. “As a concrete token of our regret, henceforth your supply of cigarettes will automatically replenish itself.”
“For a long time?” Black Jack asked eagerly.
“Oh, for all eternity.”
There was another flash of light and the angel departed skyward. Black Jack reached into his pocket and gave Hollister and Injun Joe each another cigarette. They sat there smoking without speaking. Then Black Jack broke the silence, speaking more to himself than to the others. “For a shade living in Boot Hill,” he said, “It’s rather a nice present.” The others nodded in agreement. It was the most pleasant Halloween any of them had had for a long time.
STRANGE SCIENCE FICTION AND FANTASY OMNIBUS Page 20
