by Lon Williams
Phelinus, displeased, moved up. His voice clucked. He yelled, “Go! Stop!” Maudie drew, fanned his gun hammer, and five bullets kicked dust, one where Socrates had crouched, two where he made his first side landing, two where he made his first forward contact with earth. A sixth sped harmlessly toward outer space. Socrates perched on Maudie’s right shoulder, unharmed. His landings had been between bullets. He had hit Persistent Maudie’s shoulder with a jar. He clung there growling, his teeth sunk into Maudie’s right ear. Winters could not tell whether Socrates had fudged or not. When Phelinus said “go”, Socrates had moved faster than thought. Maybe he had stopped when told to stop. Again, maybe he hadn’t.
“Down!” yelled Phelinus.
Socrates let go and sprang down.
Persistent Maudie wore an expression of fierce wrath. “Your cat fudged, Phelinus Purr. He didn’t stop when you said stop.”
Seeds of strife were about to be sown. Spartacus Jones stepped forward. “Let Winters try his luck again.”
“It’s no use,” said Winters.
“Winters!” Gunstock hurried up and whispered to Winters. “Better try it, Winters. I warned you.”
“All right,” said Winters, becoming angry.
On his second try he drew, had his gun up, his finger and thumb in position. But Socrates was too speedy. He perched on Winters’ shoulder, as before, snarling and spitting.
“Down!” yelled Phelinus.
Socrates backed more reluctantly than before. In leaping off, he viciously, treacherously swiped Winters’ right cheek with his left paw. Slightly protruding claws left bloody streaks.
Winters was furious. He looked around, gave his watchers a defiant challenge. “Want me to try it again?”
Hostility leaped to their eyes. “Sure,” said they all.
“Get set!” yelled Phelinus.
Gunstock hurriedly whispered to Winters. “You made a mistake there, Winters. If you don’t show speed this time, they’ll use you for target practice next.”
Winters faced his target, tensed. “Let him come!”
* * * *
Phelinus had fudged. He was much closer to Socrates than to Winters. But Winters did not protest. He had been a gun-fanner in his better days. He’d show these insolent fellows a thing or two.
Phelinus clucked and instantly afterwards cried, “Go-stop!”
Winters had observed one thing in particular. Socrates had come forward as something that followed a fixed groove. On his final leap there was an instant when he was in mid-air on a line with a hip-level gun, a gun slightly elevated.
Socrates leaped to one side, forward, to one side again, then for his final landing. Winters’ first bullet caught him, sent him spinning back and up. He was an easy target as he spun, and five more bullets pelted into him.
“Stop!” Phelinus screamed.
Winters kicked out his spent shells, deliberately reloaded. A terrible silence had settled around him.
Gunstock whispered, “Don’t say anything. You’ve scared them stiff, but they’re murderous now. Socrates has only two lives left, and that will drive Phelinus to near insanity.”
Winters kept his gun ready.
Persistent Maudie said icily, “Good shooting, Winters.”
Gunstock shrugged. “Well, men, it’s time to go.”
Spartacus Jones brought four horses. Phelinus put Socrates in his cage. Socrates backed into a far corner and glared at Winters. Gunstock and his friends mounted, and Gunstock lifted a hand in parting salute.
“Goodby, Winters, and good luck,” Gunstock said.
“Till we meet again,” said Maudie, menace in word and look.
Other words drifted back, but they came vaguely, distantly. In no time at all, so it seemed to Winters, they had disappeared into Alkali Flat’s silence and starlit gloom.
Winters stood alone, squeezed his aching forehead, palmed his eyes. After an indeterminate time, he became aware of Cannon Ban close by, head alert, reins down. Winters blinked several times and swung aboard. Alkali Flat, deserted and lonely, stretched away in its primeval desolation and terrifying ghostliness.
* * * *
In Forlorn Gap, Doc Bogannon had put back his last glass and reached to pun down his bar lamp. His batwings swung in slowly.
“Winters!”
Bogie let go of his lamp. His eyes grew wide. Winters had not come forward with his usual confident stride. Instead, he stood just inside and stared around, as if this might have been a strange place to him.
“Winters, what’s wrong? You’re in Doc Bogannon’s place. I’m Doc, Winters.”
“Yes, I know,” said Winters. He moved slowly to a chair, sat down. “Just wanted to make sure of it, Doc.”
Winters rubbed his hands along table edges, over chairs. He tapped lightly with a boot-toe and listened for sound. Gradually surroundings assumed acceptable shape and color.
Bogannon brought glasses and wine. He sat opposite Winters and stared in perplexity. Bogie’s huge, handsome strength merely emphasized his expression of bewilderment and futility. “Winters, have you gone cuckoo?”
Winters rubbed his eyes. “I think so, Doc. But you might pour me a drink. If wine still tastes like wine, there’s hope, I’d say.”
Bogie filled two glasses. He swallowed copiously, put down his glass. “Winters, I’ve seen you act a bit odd before, but never like this. Are you hurt?” Winters breathed deeply, exhaled with a long sigh. He drank, looked at his hands, stared around for things to identify. Wine stimulated him quickly. Familiarity resumed its pleasant role. “Doc, I’ve had a long ride, and I’m feeling somewhat beat, that’s all.”
“You look as if you’d seen a ghost,” said Bogie.
Winters shook his head. “No, Doc, I ain’t seen no ghost. That’s something I don’t believe in.”
Bogie finished his drink. He stared at Winters, stared as if he were seeing a ghost in Winters. “That blood on your face, Winters? Those scratches?”
Winters put a hand to his right cheek. His fingers came away bloody. He drew a quick breath. He stared at Bogie, whose face wore a distant, ashen look. Winters’ dry, cold smile spread slowly into lines of amusement. He chuckled softly. “Doc, want to know what brought that blood? Well, I’ll tell you. I was scratched by a wampus cat.”
Bogie sat back, Winters’ attempt at humor unappreciated. “All right,” he said, mildly sympathetic and somewhat peeved. “That explains it, Winters. That explains everything.”
Winters was beginning to feel about normal. He held his glass for a refill. “That’s right, Doc. That explains it. If ever you get mixed up with one of them critters, you’ll know exactly what I mean.”
GOLDEN CITY
Real Western Stories, December 1954
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters, skittish, superstitious lawman of Forlorn Gap, rode leisurely down one of that semi-ghost town’s dusty, deserted streets. His mind was occupied by fears and misgivings concerning his future. He was about through with being a deputy marshal, about ready to preempt some land and settle down. What he needed was a good quitting-place—an eventuality that seemed never to arrive.
Even now a gunshot echoed distantly. Winters touched his six-gun, ascertained its readiness for a quick draw. According to pattern, some killer should soon be riding hell-bent from town, primed to shoot his way out, if necessary. But no such pattern formed in this instance.
However, a few minutes later he did see a rider approaching, unhurried, unperturbed. Advance was at an amazingly slow trot. There was no perceptible up-and-down movement, only a rise and fall of hoofs and beating, drum-like sounds. Thump! Thump! Thump!
Never before had Winters seen a horse so broad and fat. Yet he must have been tremendously muscular, for earth-tremors attended his hoof beats, and all four hoofs pounded as one. Thump! Thump! Thump!
Cannon Ball eased nervously to right, and Winters saw close at hand a smooth, twisted face and round, staring eyes under a small black hat.
Thump! Thump! Thump! �
��Howdy, Winters.” Thump! Thump!
“Howdy, Shad.”
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Winters, startled, reined up and looked back. How had he known who that was? Shad! Who was Shad?
Shad, too, looked back. Upon discovery that he was watched, he turned south toward Alkali Flat. Thump! Thump! Thump! Seconds later he had disappeared behind deserted houses.
Winters spurred to Doc Bogannon’s saloon.
Inside, he found an awesome sight. Seven or eight men stood in a half-circle; a dead man lay before them, a forty-five nearby.
“Winters!” gasped Doc Bogannon. “Am I glad you’ve come!” Bogie was a large man, with dark hair, distinguished-looking head and face, a friendly, understanding countenance. But just now he was pale and scared.
Winters was puzzled that men should look so horrified at a mere corpse. “What happened?”
Bogannon swabbed his face with a handkerchief. “Winters, we were here; nothing unusual was going on. Men had dropped in for morning drinks.” He glanced down. “Roane Corfeld, that corpse there, had just set his empty glass up when those batwings swung in and stood apart, as if held back by an invisible man. Corfeld screamed, Shadrach Bogus, whipped up his gun, fired one shot and fell dead.” As Winters knelt to examine Corfeld, Bogie added, “Yes, he’s dead, Winters. Look at those staring eyes.”
Winters glanced up, puzzled. “No blood, Doc.”
“Heart failure, I figured,” said Doc.
“And he screamed Shadrach Bogus?”
Bogannon nodded vigorously. “He did, Winters.” The lawman looked at Doc’s customers; they, too, nodded.
Winters straightened, tugged at his gun belt, lifted and lowered his gun. “Doc, if there ever was a wanted monkey, Shad Bogus is it. He’s supposed to’ve been killed years ago, but I just saw him with my own eyes.” Winters smacked down a coin. “Wine, Doc.”
Bogie poured a large drink. “Winters, I was never one to meddle too much in your affairs, but this time—”
“Bogus is my man,” declared Winters. “I’m going after him.”
Bogannon followed him out. “Winters!”
But Winters swung up and headed out.
* * * *
He had no trouble picking up Shad’s trail. It led onto Alkali Flat; there it stretched away south-westward, a line of hoof prints as plain as an ink mark. At their farther end rode Shad on his fat horse, still at a trot. Overtaking that fat plug would be no job at all for a big, rangy horse like Cannon Ball.
But Winters and Cannon Ball did not overtake Shad and his fat horse; by some inexplicable magic, fugitive horse and rider managed to stay ahead. Beyond Alkali Flat, they passed from sight, but they left tracks, and from hour to hour Winters heard that ghostly sound. Thump! Thump! Thump! He was led through wild canyons, across hazy Terre des Revenantes—land of ghosts—over high, rugged mountains; along dizzy precipices; down into dark forests of pine; and at last, near sundown, into a land of nowhere, a region of shadow and cliff, where tracks and sounds played out and there was emptiness and great silence.
He realized then what he had done. All day he had pursued something that had no reality. Thinking back to Forlorn Gap, Winters knew now that he had experienced an hallucination. Pursuit of gun-monkeys, deadly shoot-outs with killers had frayed his nerves, so that he saw objects with no existence outside his befuddled mind. It was time to go home and rest. It was time to quit, whether he had come to a good quitting-place or not.
He turned back.
In a lonely canyon, a few miles eastward, there was a creek he knew—or thought he knew. Once there, his horse could find his way home, even though Winters himself was lost.
He came by moonlight and shadow to this creek an hour later. At its edge Cannon Ball stopped, alert and trembling. Opposite them a campfire glow spread upward from a cove. That he was about to find his wanted monkey after all, was Winters’ immediate thought.
Gun-hand ready, he splashed across. “Hands up!”
He saw his mistake and relaxed. What he found was no round-eyed fugitive, but a scrawny, bearded little prospector who squatted by a sizzling fish supper and pot of steaming coffee.
He glanced up pertly. “Howdy, Winters.” Winters started slightly. “Don’t believe I remember you, neighbor.”
“I be Tuckahoe Jonas, Winters.” Jonas rose hospitably. “Get down and have a bite, if you’re so minded.”
An eeriness was here that Winters did not like; Jonas looked more spooky than human. But Winters swung down.
“You’ve little enough to eat, it seems, but I’ll drink with you. Then you might direct me to Elkhorn Road. What creek is this?”
Jonas darted a crafty glance at his visitor. “This is Banshee Creek. To get to Elkhorn Road from here— Well, to be honest, Winters, you oughtn’t to come here; this country is full of banshees.”
Winters gulped.
“Yes, sir, Winters, they’re here.”
“Maybe you’re one yourself?”
“Now, Winters, let’s not get into arguments. To reach Elkhorn Road—” He paused, snapped impatiently, “Are you listening, Winters?”
Winters attempted a dry swallow. “Yeah, I’m listening.” In fact, he thought nervously, he was listening in every direction.
“To reach Elkhorn Road, Winters, you go upstream. You take to left, to right, left, right, and right, and you go up that which be knowed as Little Banshee until you hear a waterfall. A sandbar’s thereabouts, which used to be an island; it was called Dead Man’s Island in them days. It linked up with dry land in time, and its dead men went ashore. You can ride out there and take up a gulch to high ground. After that, if you don’t run afoul of banshees, and don’t stop or get lost, you’ll reach Elkhorn Road in two hours flat.”
While he talked, Tuckahoe Jonas had poured coffee and passed it to Winters. He now stopped, waited.
Winters had expected to find his drink unbearably hot; to his surprise, he found it just right. But when he’d downed it, its temperature rose suddenly to what he’d originally expected it to be. Scalding inside, he threw himself face down and drank a quart of creek water.
He got up, his brain in a whirl. “That was a dirty stinking trick, Jonas; I’ll have no more truck with you.”
Jonas moved about his cooking. “Suit yourself, Winters.”
Winters swung onto Cannon Ball and headed upstream. His brain cooled into a sense of exhilaration; his initial fear of banshees dissipated.
* * * *
By full moonlight, Banshee Creek was revealed for hundreds of yards whooping and dancing down a wild gorge. Winters came to a tributary stream that leaped into Banshee from his right. Jonas had given directions, but Winters remembered none of them; he kept left.
It was then that excitement filled his surroundings, then that exaggerated noises set in. Sound of each splashing hoof was strangely magnified. Iron shoes striking underwater stones clattered and banged. Certainly this was haunted country, but Winters wiped his face defiantly and rode on.
Other tributaries skipped and tumbled into Banshee, but as trails they were all impossible. He kept to Banshee, at last came to a broad sandbar. Also, he heard a waterfall. Of his own volition, Cannon Ball left Banshee there and trudged into a northward-curving gulch. Guided by his own instincts still—or by a ghost—he swung left onto higher and higher ground. As if he had known it was there, he leveled off onto a well-marked trail. Minutes later he rounded a projecting cliff and halted before a scene that sent Winters’ right hand slapping down.
But a friendly, gruff, voice stayed his draw. “Well, well! Howdy, Winters. Light and hitch.”
Before Winters stood an old log house made of two cabins joined by a dogtrot porch. Upon this porch, lighted by a hanging lamp, six as odd, rough characters as he’d ever seen sat around a circular table. Apparently they’d just sat down to supper; their table was piled with meats, vegetables and pots of steaming liquids.
Forming a second and concentric circle were a dozen hounds. They
sat on their haunches, faced inward, their tails lifted. Those tails formed a third circle.
Winters said, “Howdy, people.”
“Aw, Winters,” grumbled a blond, mustached giant, “don’t act like a stranger; get off that big horse and have supper.”
Winters’ instincts screamed against it, but he yielded to ravenous, gnawing hunger, swung down and left Cannon Ball ground-hitched. “Don’t mind if I do eat a bite. Looks like I’ll be late getting home anyhow.”
“Sure, and why hurry? It’s been a time since a flesh and blood outsider came our way.”
Winters’ guardian angel warned him to hightail it while he could, but he nerved himself and ascended four creaky steps to a creaky floor. Two men slid apart to make table-room. A spare plate was set.
“Dogs,” said he who acted as host, “put your dang tails down so Winters can find a place to set.” Down went their tails; they went up again as soon as Winters had straddled over a circular bench and sat down.
Winters glanced around in neighborly fashion. “I reckon I don’t know you men, though you do seem to know me.”
“Sure, we all know you, Winters. You’re famous hereabouts.” Winters’ host pointed with a finger. “That long, leathery one-eared gent over there is One-ear Jenkins; he’s English. His losing that ear caused a war between England and Spain in his time. Next is handsome Marco Polo, gentleman fortune-hunter and traveler of bygone days. Him next, with a nose like a pig’s, is Rufus Hiloe, coachman of King George’s time. That big, long-armed gent with a downspout nose is Sir Craggie Hornsworth of Craggiehorn, a mighty poacher of old Scotland in Shakespeare’s day. This pert and positive little frog-face here is Guy Fawkes, who got mixed up in a gunpowder plot some time back. And I— Well, sir, I am Orion Steepledore, master of horse to Sir Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, at Waterloo. Maybe you wonder what we’re doing here?”
Winters tried a dry swallow. “Yeah, what are you doing here?”
